A Dog Year

by Jon Katz

  Of the three of us, Julius was by far the most spiritual, reflective, at peace with himself and the world. He embodied the code and personality I wanted to possess but didn’t: Think no ill, do no harm, spread love and happiness.

  Down at the foot of the meadow a parade of wildlife passed by—rabbits, red foxes, raccoons. Julius watched them appreciatively. He was the Ferdinand of Labradors, never chasing any of his undomesticated colleagues. When deer bounded out of the woods fifteen feet away from him, he looked amazed. Sometimes the fur on his back stood up and he whoofed quietly, a sop to appearances. Usually, he just watched them graze.

  It was upstate where Stanley learned to love chasing balls and to swim. I’d toss a ball down into the meadow and Stanley would roar off in pursuit, catch up with it, turn, and bound back up the hillside.

  After fifteen minutes of this, especially in warm weather, he’d be spent, panting heavily. He’d drop the ball, settle next to Julius, and go to sleep. After a long bout of contemplative staring, Julius would doze off, too. He loved his spot, and I cleared away some of the brush and planted some grass seed so it would be more comfortable for him. I christened it Julius’s Pew.

  If I came out to sit, read, watch, or eat, Julius would amble over and sit next to me. Among his many gifts was a lack of intrusiveness. He knew how to be with you without bugging you. He was content to simply be there, a reassuring, comforting presence.

  Stanley was more mischievous, a fun-loving dog, not a contemplative one. The great joy of his life was plowing into the Battenkill River or a nearby lake to chase his retriever toy—a floating rubber ball with a short length of nylon rope attached.

  If he couldn’t be an oceangoing Lab, he was prince of the ponds. I’d toss the water toy as far as I could, and Stanley would paddle out like a stately frigate. As he chugged along, you could see flashes of the Lab’s amazing amphibian construction—head above the water, tail acting like a rudder, strong lungs powering the strokes, sleek, oily hair slicing through the water.

  He would keep his eye on the floating ball, make a wide circle to come around behind it, chomp down on the yellow cord, and steam toward shore. He was undeterrable, resolute, and I was proud of him.

  We did have some hair-raising aquatic and rural adventures, however.

  There was the late-winter afternoon when Stanley ran out onto the frozen lake in pursuit of a ball and fell through the ice. He struggled to clamber out of the water but couldn’t get any purchase with his front paws. After a couple of minutes of shouting encouragement, I saw that he was getting frenzied and tired. I was afraid he’d slip under and drown.

  I couldn’t watch. I pulled off my shoes, ran onto the ice, slid toward him on my stomach, calling out reassuringly—and fell through as well.

  Fortunately, the water was shallow enough for me to stand in. I could pull Stanley out onto solid ice and climb out myself. But the half-mile back to the car was the longest of my life; I was sure we were seconds from frostbite.

  That was less dramatic, though, than the time I brought the dogs to the Battenkill after a raging nor’easter to see the flooded river, surging at least a dozen feet over its banks. Stanley wanted, as always, to chase the ball, and I stupidly tossed it for him, not quite realizing how deep and fast the swollen river had become.

  He dashed in, got caught in the unexpected current, and tangled in some vines and brush that would normally have been growing harmlessly on the bank. He was being pulled steadily out to midstream, where the water was churning. I plunged in up to my chest—the river was bitterly, icily, bone-crunchingly cold—slipped on the muddy bottom, and fell forward, tangled in the same undergrowth of uprooted roots and vines below the surface.

  Given a chance to reflect calmly on this practice of submerging myself in frigid waters to rescue Stanley, I’m sure that like most half-bright people, I’d conclude that the risks were too high. But on the spot, I couldn’t endure the sight of Stanley being pulled under, the innocent victim of his playful instincts and my thoughtlessness.

  In the water, Stanley was struggling, looking frightened. I grabbed him, then found I couldn’t move. My legs were quickly turning numb, and even a few feet from shore the torrent was alarmingly strong. Stanley was paddling to stay afloat but not, it seemed to me, very powerfully. I held him while trying to free my ensnared feet. I couldn’t manage it.

  The numbness was spreading, and it was nearly time to make a horrible decision—let him go or freeze. Maybe I’d let him go and I’d still freeze. I wondered what Paula and my friends would make of such a death. She’d probably know that it involved my doing something dumb with the dogs.

  Was I really willing never to see my family again because of a yellow Lab? But I didn’t let go.

  While I frantically kicked to free myself and clung to Stanley, who was starting to panic, I felt a huge splash and a weight against my head and shoulders, followed by painful scratching and flailing. Julius had been watching from the shore and had jumped in, landing almost on top of me. It was the only time I’d ever seen him dive into water.

  If his less-than-graceful landing on my head hurt, it also did the trick, knocking me clear of the vegetation. I was able to pull Stanley out of the current and toward the shore until, with a push, he could swim out onto the bank. Julius turned and swam out like a beaver himself. You fraud, I thought, you could swim all this time!

  Up ahead, on a bridge a hundred or so yards downstream, normally high over the river but at this point only a few feet above its surface, I saw people pointing and waving. They were yelling, pantomiming phone calls—they were going to get help.

  It was so bitterly cold that I ran up to the car. As the dogs shook themselves, I pulled off all my clothes and stood naked and shivering behind an unoccupied wood-frame building. Julius, still concerned, hovered worriedly. Stanley was coughing up water.

  I had a duffel bag in the car—I had packed it for the drive home to New Jersey after our walk—and put on dry clothes and used my spare underwear to dry the dogs. I piled all the muddy, soggy garments on the floor of the Trooper, emptied the water and crud out of my hiking boots, let the dogs in the back, and took off, driving in my socks.

  How could I possibly explain this to a cop, or a friend, or anybody? Would I confess that I’d thrown a ball into a flooded river to amuse my Labrador, then jumped in and nearly drowned trying to pull him out? It was too ridiculous.

  Driving down the road, I passed a county sheriff’s cruiser and a volunteer ambulance, lights flashing and sirens shrieking, racing in the opposite direction. Could they be coming for me? I didn’t wait around to find out.

  When we got home to New Jersey hours later—I was still shivering—Paula helped me unload and looked incredulously at the pile of filthy, soaked clothing.

  “What on earth . . . ?” she asked. I just said I’d fallen. She didn’t buy it; I refused to elaborate. She had her secrets, I had mine.

  Even before that, during our first summer weeks on the mountain, our little trio shared plenty of misadventures. We got caught outside in crackling thunderstorms. Our mountain road was sealed off during a forest fire and we spent much of one night huddled by the roadside below, waiting for the all clear.

  One gorgeous afternoon, I went for a long walk with the boys along a supposedly abandoned railroad track. Midway across a rusty trestle bridge, forty feet above ground, we all heard a sudden whistle. We barely escaped with our skins.

  Another afternoon, toward sunset, I got lost in the overgrown woods behind the cabin. I hoped Julius and Stanley would rescue me—“Take me home, boys!” I commanded—but they just looked at me mutely. They didn’t want to sleep outside. When it grew darker, I gathered some leaves and twigs and made myself an extremely uncomfortable bed, thinking we’d have to spend the night outside. Instead, listening for road noise and walking toward it, we emerged—and I realized that we were never more than a few yards from the house.

  One of these episodes didn’t reach such a happy resolu
tion. Walking our usual route on a midwinter morning, snow blowing horizontally into our faces, we headed down a steep incline into a field down the road. Ready to head back a little while later, I started to climb back up the incline, stumbled, and fell. Slippery ground, I figured, and tried again. And then again.

  I don’t know why it took me so long—denial, probably—to realize that my left leg wasn’t working. It wouldn’t respond; I couldn’t put weight on it.

  I had brought my cell phone—a safety precaution during rural winters—and wondered if I should call my friend Jeff, who lived ten minutes away. But to say what? That I couldn’t stand?

  I’ve always taken my legs for granted. The sudden discovery that one of them wasn’t functioning the way it had for a half-century was frightening.

  I felt a warm nuzzle against my face. Julius put his great and beautiful head next to mine. I patted him, suddenly aware that I was near tears. What was happening to my body? I loved walking; it was my sport, my recreation, my way of being able to think things through.

  Jules’s sudden howl was chilling, a piercing, mournful keening that I’d never heard before. He pointed his head to the sky and wailed. Whatever was happening, he’d grasped its import. Stanley, alarmed, came running over to lick my face.

  I managed to roll over onto my side and crawl to my feet, using the wire that anchored a utility pole for support. Julius walked by my side every step of the way back to the house.

  I wear two braces now, one placed in my shoe, one strapped around my ankle. My tendon is shot, an orthopedist tells me, probably from an old and unnoticed injury, and the bones in my ankle have been collapsing for years. It hurts. But I keep walking and hiking, and when I fall, I hear Julius’s mournful cry. He knew.

  Most of the time, though, our days on the mountain were less eventful. In winter, we spent a lot of time in front of the big brick fireplace, trying to stay warm. Most summer nights were cool, and whenever I woke up, I found two big white Labs curled up in bed with me, sleeping peacefully. I rather liked the company and appreciated the warmth. Some mornings, we’d watch the sun come over the Green Mountains together, sitting outside in the dew, I with a steaming cup of coffee, the lads with an extra large lite biscuit, as a chorus of songbirds trilled.

  Nearly every day we went for a hike together, usually through the Merck Forest in Vermont, a preserve we all treasured.

  I’d find a log to sit on, take out a Thermos and sandwich and a supply of treats and rawhide, and we’d have a peaceful lunch mid-tramp.

  Always, we were in it together, three loyal musketeers.

  Returning to this spot with our latest recruit, we had some good times the first couple of days. Devon took to the quiet hillsides, chased chipmunks, learned the country roads and paths. There was scarcely room in the cramped cabin for one more dog bed, but otherwise Devon seemed to fit right in. As a concession to his peculiar tastes, however, I found space in the vast local school playground where he could burn off some energy by tearing off after trucks, as usual, with a fence between them and him.

  Then came the morning that I had to make a run to the county dump. I left Devon outside with the Labs, who often sat keeping an eye on the mountain while I ran short errands. Knowing that everything with Devon became a chess match, and that he would without question cause trouble over this, I left the dogs, gave several elaborate “stay” commands complete with hand signals, and drove down the driveway.

  Then I turned off the Trooper’s ignition, crept out, and crawled up the slope that runs alongside the driveway. The scene was still for several minutes until, crawling right above me out of the bushes, moving slowly and silently, came Devon. My trap had worked.

  I sprang out at him, throwing sticks, hollering, “No! Bad dog! Stay! Get back!” along with some choice curses. He tore back toward the house. I ran after him down the driveway, shouting. The Labs appeared, tails wagging, bewildered. Devon ran to the side of the house and cowered. “I know you, you little son of a bitch,” I roared. “I told you to stay, and goddamnit, you’d better stay.”

  I tried this strategy twice more, turning the ignition off and waiting. No sign of the Helldog. When I drove back into the driveway, he was right where I’d left him. Progress.

  Pleased, I drove the few miles to the dump. I wasn’t gone for more than ten minutes, then headed home. My cabin sits at the top of a mountain, up a steep mile-long road bounded by meadows, houses, and woods. I had just turned up the road, when a sleek head peered furtively out behind the barn to my right. Devon. He’d waited until I’d sprung my silly traps, then hauled ass down the entire mountain in the direction my car had gone.

  I slammed on the brakes and pulled over, jumping out of the car. He saw me and vanished. “Devon!” I roared. “Come here now!”

  A flash of movement behind the barn. I glimpsed a blur of black and white moving up the mountain, disappearing quickly into the tall grass and trees.

  I charged up the mountain as fast as the old Trooper could go in second gear, leaving clouds of dust behind me as I veered into the driveway leading to my cabin. I figured I’d have to walk all over the damned mountain to find him.

  But Devon was sitting right out on the grass near the porch, between Julius and Stanley. All three tails were wagging. Only Devon was panting.

  Next day, I felt secure about allowing the three of them to spend the pleasant morning outdoors. I often worked for hours without a break, and didn’t want to keep the dogs cooped up the whole time, especially in spring sunshine. They could sleep, stroll around the meadow, meditate, or chase chipmunks as their distinctive natures dictated. Since I wasn’t leaving, Devon would have no car to chase, no reason to run.

  After ten minutes, I came out and checked on the trio. He was gone. Julius and Stanley looked a bit relieved. I yelled; he didn’t come. I patrolled along the driveway and the meadow; no sign of him. Getting that familiar, Devon-inspired, heart-thumping panic, I ran back and forth in the woods shouting his name. No answer.

  I called the sheriff, the local animal warden, and the nearest vet to report him missing. Then I went out looking, driving up and down the mountain, yelling out the Trooper’s window in a voice that was growing hoarse.

  An hour later, panicky and frazzled, I returned to the cabin to wait by the phone for news that I feared might never come. A frightened dog could go a long way in this sparsely settled countryside without encountering a person or a house. He’d be traumatized. God, what an idiot I was. When was I going to get it?

  I remember literally wringing my hands, I was so overwrought. Devon had been through so much, come so far, only to be lost in the woods. By nightfall he’d be scared to death and completely alone. Wasn’t this his worst fear? Why hadn’t I tethered him or kept him inside? I kept calling the neighbors and making sweeps up and down the road. I was a wreck.

  Two hours later, I went outside and called his name for the umpteenth time. I heard a rustle in the woods and out he exploded, covered with burrs, bristles, and mud. He was as happy as I’d yet seen him, as overjoyed to find me again as I was to see him. His tail wagged furiously, and he kept leaping into the air to lick my face, whining and barking. I hugged him fiercely, too relieved to scold. He was relieved as well and rushed over to lick Julius and Stanley (who ignored him), then jumped back into my arms.

  He didn’t leave my side for the rest of the day. Sometimes you have to run off to figure out what home means. Having come all this way, it was clear to both of us that we didn’t want to lose each other now. And though this wasn’t the way I’d planned or hoped, we seemed to have bonded after all.

  I believed at that moment that I could never send him back. It would destroy him and devastate me. I had to make this work. The alternative was hard work and patience. I had to find a way to do better.

  Six

  Showdown in New Jersey

  * * *

  “Some border collies just don’t really work out,” said Ralph Fabbo, the ace trainer who had worked so s
uccessfully with Julius and Stanley. I was seeking his counsel, somewhat abashed because he’d cautioned me against having three dogs (Why mess up a good thing? he asked), and had pointed out that border collies can sometimes be too hyper and unstable to train for domestic life. He would undertake the job, he said, but it probably wasn’t necessary. “You know what to do.”

  Did I? I called Deanne, too, to report on the troubles I was still having with Devon. Back home in New Jersey, he was attached to me, increasingly affectionate—but still jumping on tables, knocking things over.

  One afternoon, he threw himself against one of the leaded-glass panels that framed the front door—perhaps our only elegant bit of household architecture—and shattered it with such force that the lead bent and contorted.

  He showed little interest in his food, but sometimes he went after Stanley’s or Julius’s. He grabbed Stanley’s bed, his rawhide chews, his favorite spot in the living room. It was especially troubling because Stanley wouldn’t defend his turf. He didn’t seem to have the heart to resist Devon’s incursions. Nor did he have the energy. He seemed fatigued lately, lagging behind on our walks. Maybe just watching Devon was tiring him out.

  In fact, walking the three of them together had become impossible. Dev turned around frequently while we walked to see where Jules was. At Devon’s pace, we soon were strung out over a hundred yards, Devon lunging on the leash and pulling ahead, Julius sniffing behind us, Stanley panting even farther to the rear. This was dangerous: I couldn’t really keep a careful eye on all three, and I worried about children racing by on bikes, or cars backing hurriedly out of driveways.

  Our easygoing walks had become decidedly unpleasant, given my constant shouting at Devon to slow down or the Labs to hurry up. It was just the kind of life with dogs I didn’t want to have.

  My progress report to Deanne wasn’t completely discouraging. Devon was coming to love Julius—though to be honest, there is no being, human or canine, who doesn’t love Julius.