A Dog Year

by Jon Katz

  When I left him inside, I’d find other signals that he was unimpressed with my authority: cabinets opened, shoes piled up neatly, loaves of bread still in their wrappings taken upstairs and deposited on the bed. None of these things was damaged, just intended as a message: Every time I left him, I would pay. It was his refrain, his work.

  Once or twice, just to let me know he could, he simply hopped right over the fence as I left and was sitting calmly on the sidewalk when I returned. I know this only because a neighbor was watching and ratted him out.

  Over the next few weeks, I came to realize, in my bovine way—I am not descended from Old Hemp—that Devon could get out of the yard any time he really wanted to, in a variety of known and as-yet-unexplored ways. The only way he would stop was if he wanted to.

  He was as determined a rebel as Robert E. Lee, as iron-willed. But Lee faced a powerful army, and had eventually surrendered. I wasn’t sure that Devon, who faced only me, ever would.

  Four

  Manic Panic

  * * *

  If you were sketching a walk with Julius and Stanley, you’d draw two long straight lines hewing more or less to the sidewalk. One for me, as I ambled along with my hands in my pockets, mulling over an article or book I was writing. One for Julius, veering off just a bit for extended sniffs of bushes, roots, or other mysterious lures; he liked to take his time. A third line, Stanley’s, would have spikes off to the right, indicating joyous dashes after the blue ball he always wanted me to toss, but between fetches, he, too, stuck to the sidewalk.

  A sketch of Devon’s walk would resemble the diagram of a complicated NFL play, with all sorts of crazy circles and arrows shooting out in every direction. He’d trot a few feet ahead, then circle me a couple of times before heading off the other way. He turned into every driveway and walkway to investigate, and loped around every bush, perhaps in search of stray sheep. He never paced alongside me, but instead darted ahead and returned in long loops. At first I was constantly shouting at him to stop or come. But I soon realized that he was herding me, and would always keep me in sight. He never strayed too far; he also never stopped moving, panting, rushing, lunging.

  Equal parts manic and panic, Devon had the look in his eyes you see in movies when a horse comes across a rattlesnake: lots of white.

  My hastily improvised strategy—try to establish a bond so I could undertake real training—involved a brush. One of my books suggested that border collies loved to be brushed.

  One morning, with the Labs safely ensconced in the yard chewing on peanut butter–flavored rawhide, Devon and I headed out to a nearby park. We found a bench in a secluded corner—no dogs, kids, cars, or vans to distract us—and I offered him a few biscuits, which he sniffed and ignored. Then I sat down and, pulling a metal-toothed brush from my jacket pocket, gave him a slow and gentle once-over. As I leaned over and brushed him in long strokes, down his back, along his haunches, down his chest, he grew nearly relaxed. His tail swished slowly back and forth. There was a whiff of contentment about him for the first time. He liked feeling cared for.

  It was revealing evidence that he was not entirely a wild creature, but a sweetie, a cream puff beneath the jangled nerves and inexhaustible energy. After the first couple of days, he’d put his paws up on my shoulders after we’d finished brushing, a kind of hug, and I’d hug him back. “It’s okay, boy,” I’d say over and over, as if repeating it might make him believe it. “It’s okay now.”

  Pretty soon I could say, “Come on, Devon, let’s go get brushed.” He’d glance over at the brush, then dart to the back door, understanding exactly where we were going.

  On the way to the park, I noticed, he didn’t circle, chase, or herd. He walked right alongside me, immensely pleased with himself, perhaps because he’d found a perfect sap for an owner.

  In these moments, we felt the first genuine stirrings of affection for each other. He knew I was going to take care of him; he appreciated it. I, who would have had fifteen kids if medical circumstances permitted (and if I’d married an heiress), loved caring for things.

  Julius and Stanley now took care of themselves, pretty much. I had no more elementary-school car pools to pilot. But this guy Devon needed me, and I was ready to work hard at winning him back from the dark side.

  I couldn’t spend my days brushing him, but, inaugurating the next stage of my campaign, I began praising him extravagantly for just about everything: if he walked ten yards in a straight line, if he finished his own dog food and left the Labs’ bowls alone, if he came when I called, if he just sat quietly looking gorgeous. “Good boy, Devon, good, good boy,” became the mantra, repeated endlessly.

  Though you really didn’t have to say things two hundred times to a dog this smart, a couple of days of encouragement made a startling, visible difference. His ears stood up, his chest stood out. Initially so hunched and ratty, he seemed taller, his paintbrush tail held high.

  His black coat took on a lustrous sheen after all that brushing. The first signs of mischievous glint occasionally appeared in his eyes. And he looked great. He was a magnificent dog, I was a bit surprised to discover, and when we walked, people began pulling over in their cars to admire him, as they often did with the Labs.

  Perhaps Devon just never had what Julius and Stanley took for granted—attention, approval, and companionship. Maybe we’d made a start at trust.

  Border collies dislike nothing so much as enforced idleness. They need to come along, to see things and go places, chew stuff, run around, dig holes, keep a close eye on all comings and goings. They have intellects, and in the absence of something that interests them, they’ll find unfortunate hobbies. Devon could already open cabinets and doors almost at will, and dig a bomb-sized crater in minutes. If I couldn’t come up with tasks for him, he’d grow neurotic and destructive, and then my wife might, too.

  Devon also had the powerful herding and chasing instinct he’d inherited from Old Hemp. When a truck or noisy car passed us on our walks, he’d bolt after it, pulling me so powerfully he nearly ripped the leash from my hand or pulled me over, half-strangling himself in the process. He seemed to love big, loud things in particular; a sanitation truck was irresistible.

  It was a fine line to walk—training him while simultaneously building up his confidence. He wanted to work, but how to herd in suburban New Jersey? I couldn’t let Devon chase anything that took his fancy.

  Whenever he lunged after a car or truck on my street, I’d yell or throw the pooper-scooper on the sidewalk (dogs hate metallic noises, Ralph had taught me). I made a huge noise—“doing the bear,” I called it. It was something I believed you had to do once in the life of every dog, and more than once with some. With my voice and body language, I was telling Devon that I was more powerful than he was, that there were forces on the planet greater than his need to herd.

  Once or twice, I even whacked him on the butt. This was one of those dog battles you couldn’t lose. I don’t hit dogs, but with Devon, overcoming his attention-deficit disorder was a huge battle. Getting his acquiescence was another. His life depended on this, as well as his ability to stay with us and join our family. There could be give-and-take on many of the issues we faced, but not on running into the street after cars and trucks. Otherwise, I’d have to call Deanne and send him back, or visit one of those border collie Web sites I’d been haunting to locate somebody with a pasture and a few sheep.

  Beyond that, we had to establish an understanding. We could be great pals (he could already tell I would spoil him rotten) but ours wasn’t an egalitarian relationship. As a Boomer parent in a child-centric town, I’d spent years watching people struggle to say no to their kids and their dogs.

  But the foundation of a good relationship with any dog is a clear line of authority. They’re pack animals. You have to help a dog understand exactly where he or she ranks in the pack, and the dog can never be number one. If you don’t establish your dominance, you’re not making life easier for the dog, you’re condem
ning him to a life of confusion, disappointment, and destructive behavior.

  That Devon was already two years old made things a lot harder. This was the border collie equivalent of peak adolescence, Deanne cautioned, under the best of circumstances a period of testing and tussling. Puppies can be taught how to behave from the beginning. Devon, who hadn’t even been neutered until a few weeks before Deanne had shipped him east, had probably been trained to hone the very instincts I was trying to control, or at least channel.

  I thought Julius and Stanley would both keel over in shock and horror at my noisy battles with this new arrival. Such outbursts had never been necessary with the Labs, and sometimes they couldn’t distinguish my anger and frustration at Devon from disapproval of their own faultless behavior. Plus, they sensed my tension and frustration. When I shouted or threw a choke chain in Devon’s direction (another metallic noise) they both dropped to the ground, their ears back, tails wagging, wondering how they’d screwed up. They were getting nervous; there was a lot of yelling, too much.

  Fortunately, we came to an ingenious, if unorthdox, solution to the need-to-work problem.

  The park where we went for brushing had a fence that ran parallel to a moderately busy street. We’d take up position about a hundred yards back from the fence. When a truck or car whizzed up, Devon would drop into the border collie herding crouch, tail down, eyes locked on me for some ancient command.

  I didn’t know exactly what signal cranked up Old Kep, but as a vehicle hoved into sight, I yelled, “Go get ’em, Dev.” It was important to sound excited, I figured, or he wouldn’t feel truly useful. The dog would shoot toward the fence like a rocket, then veer right to run parallel to the car or truck, keeping the fence between them.

  The fence, a tall and sturdy chain-link, ran for a hundred yards or so, and Devon would run to the very end, barking, then race back toward me in a long arc. He couldn’t be deterred or distracted. He didn’t want to stop, even when his tongue was dangling.

  After half a dozen dashes, spit caked the fur around his mouth and his chest was heaving. But he was nearly grinning and afterwards was so calm that he seemed to enter a trancelike state. He even began dozing in the spring sun in the backyard for brief stretches, just like the Labs.

  Drivers, city workers, commuters, kids, and other dog owners started wandering over to watch. Sometimes in the evening, we’d find a cluster of kids gathered to see “that dog that runs so fast.” One kid dubbed him Speedy, and brought a stopwatch.

  Julius and Stanley were happy to accompany us. They sniffed around, went over to lick whatever kids were at hand, received many pats, hugs, and plaudits, then stretched out to nap in the grass and feel the setting sun on their white backs. Stanley never saw the point of dashing around if there wasn’t a ball to chase. Julius never saw the point at all.

  But Devon got the idea quickly and loved it, as he did all chores. As long as he stayed safely behind a fence, he could chase and herd without threatening or endangering anyone, including himself. I began to understand how smart he was, too.

  Devon instantly grasped that he could chase his prey here in the park but not anywhere else, and he stopped trying.

  This “work” was a breakthrough. It strengthened the bond between us, as Devon turned to me for my dopey but effective signals. It permitted the release of a powerful, potentially explosive, energy. Herding, suburban style. It might not make the covers of the border collie magazines, or shows on the Discovery Channel, but we were making do.

  Border collie breeders fret continually about over-domesticating these dogs, erasing the working abilities for which they’ve been so long prized. But maybe I didn’t have to; maybe I could find a series of tasks that satisfied his instinctual needs, even without sheep.

  But it was difficult to find the time and energy to sustain this rehab work. Devon had only been with us for a week, but I was exhausted, dog-walking four times as much and five times as fast as I had before he arrived. The equilibrium of my house, my Labs, and my work had been disrupted. We had a lot of training to do, and we hadn’t even really begun. I wasn’t yet sure that this dog truly belonged with us, or would be happy here, or that I was equal to the demands.

  It had taken a couple of years for Devon to become a nervous wreck; how long would it take to reclaim him? Was it even really possible?

  It was time to head for upstate New York, to my cabin, where dogs could indeed roam freely, where Julius had honed his Zen-like concentration to new levels, where Stanley could chase balls and toys right into lakes and streams with wild glee. We’d have male-bonding time together, the four of us.

  Getting ready for the long drive, I put Devon in my ten-year-old Trooper and drove to the neighborhood shopping area for provisions: bread, milk, cash, a sandwich so I could eat lunch at a New York State Thruway rest stop without leaving the dogs in a hot car. Devon liked sticking his head out of the Trooper’s window and watching the shoppers come and go.

  He also, I discovered a couple of hours later, had carefully nosed his way into the paper bag on the front seat, somehow unwrapped the contents and extracted the ham from my sandwich, leaving the cheese and bread untouched.

  Five

  On the Mountain

  * * *

  The prescription called for some time off and emotional connections—between Devon and me, Devon and the Labs, Devon and the mountain. What we needed was trust and affection, both of which had to form before training would work. We also needed a place without cars, trucks, buses, or fences, a place where a border collie could relax and I wouldn’t have to be screaming at him, where we could both catch our breath and take the measure of each other.

  It wouldn’t hurt, either, if it were a place already so ramshackle that the presence of a lively two-year-old border collie, two big yellow Labs that shed, and me could only improve it, and so remote that no amount of mayhem would be noticed.

  That meant my shag-carpeted, weed-strangled, bug-and-mice-infested hideaway on the top of a mountain. The house was run-down, but the view was fit for royalty—the cabin looks out over a valley of farms and meadows that stretches all the way to Vermont’s Green Mountains.

  The mountain had a rich history for the Labs and me. Julius, Stanley, and I had retreated there for much of a brutal winter, had undergone a number of dramas and happy experiences there.

  Dogs roved all over up there, along with all manner of other creatures. It would be the perfect place for Devon to get to know all of us and to chill a bit.

  So I piled everybody into the Trooper, along with a new dog bed and sacks of chewbones and biscuits. On the drive north, I put the Labs in the rear section, where they slept during the entire four-hour trek. Devon took the backseat, where he paced furiously for two hours straight until I opened a rear window and he, delighted, popped his head out.

  Dog owners are constantly—and for good reason—warned not to allow dogs to stick their heads out of windows while cars are speeding along; bugs and other debris can hit their faces and eyes and, in extreme circumstances, a car or truck passing too close can injure them.

  Despite this sensible rule, there is nothing I find more pleasing than a dog peering out of a cruising car, the wind flattening his ears, a look of almost sensual contentment on his face. Maybe it conjures up ancestral memories of standing on a Welsh moor dotted with sheep.

  Looking in my rearview mirror as we steamed up the Thruway, I caught sight of Devon’s handsome head just outside the window, his nose toward the wind like the prow of an icebreaker slicing through Arctic seas. He loved it.

  My smile froze quickly when I heard frantic clawing behind me and learned how wise the anti-window rule was. In the mirror, I saw that Devon had lunged halfway through the narrow opening toward the trucks rumbling past in the other direction and was scrambling to get back inside. Steering with one hand, I reached behind me, grabbed his tail, and maneuvered him into the car, then found his collar and eased him back onto the seat. Heart pounding, I then clo
sed the window for the remainder of the drive.

  I couldn’t imagine the mountain without Julius and Stanley. They were as much a part of it as the view or the trees and streams. In a way, the mountain retreat had saved my life. As with Devon, I’d bought it over the mild objections of Paula, who pointed out that we were having enough trouble maintaining one decrepit house.

  But as it turned out, I desperately needed that house and still do. A restless, anxious personality, I needed the peace. I was turning fifty then, struggling with my work, sending my adored daughter off to college, feeling trapped and worn in my New Jersey life. The Labs and I arrived in l997 to rent and then buy the cabin, to fix it up a bit, to weather summer thunderstorms and winter blizzards, all of us blissfully unfamiliar with the outdoors.

  I had arrived in midsummer and, with the help of some stalwart locals, scrambled to get it habitable for the winter. We encountered plumbing and wiring nightmares; mice, raccoons, and squirrels; mosquitoes, vicious flies, and other plagues.

  From the first day, though, Julius found a spot right at the top of the mountain, just beyond the porch. He would bound out of the car, head for his spot, circle, and plop down. His head was immediately surrounded by clouds of flies, mosquitoes, and no-see-ums, the torturous little bugs that fly up your nose and into your eyes and ears, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He was crazy about this vantage point. He could focus on Mount Equinox fifteen or twenty miles away, and stare hypnotically at the hawks circling the valley below the house. I think most of all he loved the fact that absolutely nothing was expected or required of him but to be.