by Jon Katz
I nearly forgot I’d ditched my truck, I was so frantic.
I got home, spattered with mud, hobbling on my bad leg, and got my Ford Explorer out of the other barn. I hadn’t wanted to bother my neighbor Adam. But he was direct and action-oriented, at home in these environs. A hunter and snowmobiler, he’d know back roads and paths. And his truck, a huge Dodge, was equipped for everything from plowing snow to hauling wrecks. I needed him. Rose needed him.
I called Adam’s cell phone and left a message, trying not to sound overdramatic. Then I drove up the steep driveway to his house, on top of the hill above mine, and knocked on his door. No truck and no answer. He must have been away. It was so late by now that I felt there was little point in calling Anthony or anyone else.
Besides, what could anybody see or hear on this dank night that I couldn’t? Orson seemed frantic, whining and sniffing in circles, but if he didn’t pick up any scent, how could I? I would keep walking and shouting through the night, then call for help in a few more hours, when it grew light.
But I was losing hope. Even if Rose had chased an animal, she shouldn’t have been gone for three hours. She would have made her way back by now.
Suddenly my driveway lit up. Adam pulled in, his truck roaring—the Hebron Marine Corps. “Get in,” he said, as always a man of few words. I left Orson in the house and we headed off. It was shocking, when his headlights picked up my truck, to see it tilted over nearly on its side. Adam hitched a nylon towline to my rear bumper, which miraculously stayed attached to the body as he pulled the truck out. It took maybe five minutes. Then we both drove back down the road.
If only finding Rose could be so simple. After this long winter, after all she’d done for me and with me, she was lost.
Which wasn’t like being lost in New Jersey, where somebody would be sure to spot her and call the police or a shelter or me. She was wearing a bright red collar with my cell-phone number written large, plus several tags engraved with every number I had. But who would notice her out in the dark? She could be out there for days, bleeding from an injury or starving to death.
My house was lit up like an ocean liner, all the floodlights and porch lights blazing. As my resuscitated truck brought me back down the hill, I saw a nearly motionless dark creature by the garden in front of the house. At first I thought it was a skunk or raccoon. But as we got closer, I saw, with a flood of relief, that it was Rose, lying eerily still. She was shaking and panting, even though it was cool and dark, her tongue hanging. She looked spent.
I jumped out of the truck and called to her and she came flying into my arms, licking my face and neck. But she was trembling. I brought her inside, and she rushed into the kitchen and gulped down half a bowl of water, then lay down beside me. I massaged her back, held her, talked to her. “It’s okay, girl, it’s okay. You’re okay now.” But something bad had happened. She ran into her crate, then out, then in again, and finally settled down and dropped into sleep. I called Paula, then sat down on the floor and hugged Orson for many minutes.
When I finally staggered off to bed, Rose roused herself, came upstairs and curled up on the pillow next to me. When I fell asleep, she was still shaking.
I didn’t sleep much. In the morning, Rose still lying beside me, I saw a little blood on the bed cover. I couldn’t find any deep wounds, but we hastened over to Mary Menard, our vet in Salem. Some scabs, a few small puncture wounds, Mary said, examining the still-quiet Rose; nothing major. Most of the blood, she thought, was not Rose’s.
She did appear exhausted, though, Mary said. Sometimes such trembling occurred when a dog’s blood sugar has dropped. Running for hours might explain why she was so exhausted; I’d never seen Rose so subdued. It appeared Rose had been running for a long time from something that had frightened her a lot, and from which she’d had to fight her way free.
Her confidence and ebullient energy were absent for a while. She stuck to my side as if taped there. Her confidence and constant motion were such integral parts of her that this seemed a different dog. It took Rose several more hours of sleep—and an unusual amount of time in her crate—to recover.
Rose was a sweet dog, but her usual priorities were clear: If you didn’t have fleece, you were just taking up space that could be put to better use. But for the next couple of days she would impulsively rush over to me, lick me frantically, then curl up at my feet. Maybe the experience had left both of us even more appreciative of the other.
But sleep and sheep were powerful restoratives. I took her out with me for animal chores the next morning, and she shot through the open gate, ready for battle with any rebellious ewe.
I loved the resiliency of these creatures, how they hewed so faithfully to the routines and rhythms of their lives, adapting to change, trauma, and confusion. Things regularly happened to them—fights, accidents, late-night mysteries—that would level me for weeks. Fortunately for us, dogs don’t hold grudges or dwell on bad memories.
The sheep were her work and focus, her grounding. I would probably never know what happened to Rose that long night. If you love dogs, loss and risk are never all that far away.
I kicked it around a hundred times in my mind, wondering if I had been neglectful or mistaken, had forgotten to take some obvious precaution. One friend insisted that Rose should only be walked on a leash from now on. Another suggested a radio receiver attached to her collar. Our culture, built on alarm and liability, likes to guard against all possible dangers.
But I came to a different conclusion. Rose was such a spectacular animal in part because she had been allowed to live the life she’d been bred for, roaming the farm, a working dog. My faith in her was the cornerstone of our work together, and she reciprocated by obeying and watching out for me.
In fact, when I thought about my time with Rose on the mountain, I figured there were two things I’d actually done right.
One was positive-reinforcement training. Rose was the first dog I’d trained entirely positively (okay, being human and being me, I’d lost it more than once, but not too often). She was the first dog I ever had who grew up with virtually no experience of being shouted at, subjected to the jangle of a thrown chain, menaced, or reprimanded. What she did came from affection, encouragement, and reward, not coercion, bullying, or “showing her who’s boss.”
I created situations where she couldn’t fail. When she lay down, I said, “Good lie down!” When I held up a treat and she sat to look at it, I praised her for sitting. I’d worked relentlessly on rewarding and praising her for making eye contact. It was the antithesis of much that had happened to Orson, before me and even with me, and it worked. Rose was the keenest, most responsive and easy-to-train dog I ever had. Our relationship was almost entirely without conflict. I will never train a dog any other way.
The second idea that lodged in my mind came from my Irish border collie trainer Wink. “Trust the dog,” he would say to me, on the phone or in e-mail, day after day. It was his mantra. “She knows how to herd sheep. Respect what she knows and trust her. If you give her the chance to solve problems and succeed, she will.” So I had trusted Rose and it had paid off in so many ways, even as I understood and accepted that it involved some risk. I had rigorously street-trained Rose and did daily run-throughs of all the basic commands, but her life came with no guarantees.
I can’t be sure that a ewe or ram won’t catch her from the wrong angle and injure her, or that she won’t rip a ligament or muscle as she tears across a field, or that she won’t follow her great, intense instincts and tear off one day—or night—to the wrong place after the wrong thing.
I will watch her and train her and love her—more every day—but I won’t ask her to live a life that undercuts the very instincts and traits that give her (and me) so much joy and satisfaction. Within reason and boundaries, she will be a working dog.
SOON AFTER, I DROVE HOME TO NEW JERSEY—FOR THE FIRST time since a two-day New Year’s Eve visit—to be with Paula. I missed my wife. I needed to see my
house, visit with my daughter, do some business. And I needed to see my former dog’s sweet face. I understood Homer wasn’t my dog any longer. But I had to see for myself that his new home was working out.
I had gotten some neighborhood reports that he’d been seen walking about with his new family, and was getting a bit plump. When I called, concerned, Sharon and Hank said they were aware of his weight gain and had already taken steps to change his diet and crank up his exercise. Otherwise, they said, everything was swell and the love affair continued unabated.
As it happened, I’d barely arrived and was unloading in the driveway when Sharon brought Homer over. He came skittering around the front of the truck, waggling furiously, squealing with glee, slurping all over my face. I was very happy to see him. The two of us rolled around on the ground, wrestling, exchanging hugs. He had gained some weight but not as much as I had feared.
The reunion packed more punch than I expected. It hurt. I could tell myself that I was feeling easier about him, and in most respects I was, but a piece of me will always live with Homer, and vice versa.
I brought him into the yard to visit everyone. He rushed up to greet Paula, and before she could plant a kiss on the top of his head, Orson was on him, backing him into a corner of the fence. When I called Orson off, Rose, wanting to play, dashed up with a rope toy. Homer hesitated, and Rose grabbed him by the tail and began pulling him around. Homer flashed me that old nervous “save me” look.
Sharon, watching the tussle from outside the gate, had just been telling me how crazy she was about Homer, how much Hank and the kids adored him. He got everybody up in the morning with licks and barks, walked each kid to the school-bus stop, and went along to soccer games. My former dog, herding partner, and book-tour companion was living a different kind of life than I could give him.
It seemed clear that he was fulfilling his particular canine destiny. Where Rose was largely uninterested in humans, Homer loved them. Orson eyed strangers warily, barking and circling them; Homer greeted every stranger as if this were his long-lost cousin. Being with people was his work, every bit as meaningful as herding or tracking or anything else. And he was meant to be an only dog, to get the attention he needed and deserved without having to fight for it.
“Let’s go home, Homer,” Sharon said as Homer edged toward the gate. He was more than ready and raced across the street with her, rushing down the block toward his new house and family.
I maintained visitation rights, though. A couple of weeks later, I came back to New Jersey for a medical appointment, leaving Orson and Rose kenneled upstate. I’d acquired an infection, and I needed to rest and be with Paula and see some doctors.
Almost the first thing I did when I got back was to ask Sharon and Hank if I could take Homer for a stroll. They agreed, graciously and enthusiastically. Homer had bonded strongly with his new family; nobody was feeling insecure about it.
I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been alone with Homer—probably at Christmas, when we’d gone herding together.
Homer was happy to see me, as always, squealing and wriggling. I thought I saw a look of expectation in his eyes: Are we going to herd sheep? To the park to chase geese? Or to the ocean to chase waves? For all our frustrations, we’d had many good times, and I believed both of us remembered them.
And we no longer had anything at stake, none of the tensions that can sometimes arise between dogs and owners. Homer seemed tickled to head out with me, and I was happy to have him. We had several walks over the next few days, around the neighborhood, down to the high school field, past familiar landmarks. Alone together, without my perpetual scolding, his remarkable sweetness emerged. Dropping him off one day, I turned around and saw him staring plaintively through the storm door at me. I know better than to try to guess what a dog is thinking, but it seemed to me that we felt some mutual regret.
He was clearly happy in his new home, as I was with my remaining two dogs. But if my relationship with Orson and Rose reflected a capacity to grow, relocating Homer was a potent—and painful—reminder of my failures. Fortunately, I’d realized that in time to rectify it.
On the street one afternoon, a neighbor and dog lover who’d known us for several years hesitantly asked if he could pose a personal question.
“Sure,” I said, guessing what it would be.
“I saw how much you and Homer loved each other. I know what a great dog he is. Tell me, how could you bear to give away a sweet dog like that?”
I smiled and shrugged and said nothing much. But I thought, How could I not?
SOMETIMES I THINK THAT SOON AFTER ORSON ENTERED MY life that night at Newark Airport, he developed a confidential strategy for dealing with the curious stranger he suddenly found himself keeping company with. His past troubles may have prevented him from herding sheep the way border collies are supposed to, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a working dog. I believe his work became: me. He was as focused on me as Rose is on sheep.
Sometimes while I sat reading in the living room, he hopped up onto a rocking recliner chair, rested his head on one arm, and, rocking slightly, watched me for hours.
This guy is a mess, he must have thought when he landed in New Jersey, and perhaps still did. Few friends, no hobbies, rarely gets outside except to walk those slowpoke Labradors. Not writing about the stuff he ought to be writing about. Not living where he ought to be living. Not in touch with anyone from his family.
One by one, these realities changed. I could imagine him checking them off on a list only he could see. If working with him had improved me in some ways, simply living with him had profoundly altered my life, for the better. I often wondered what else he had in store for me.
On an April morning back at Bedlam after one of our Jersey visits, Rose and I fed the sheep and donkeys and mucked out the barn. Then it was time for the daily herding lesson with Orson.
Our lessons were now conducted mostly in silence. Not only did I not yell at him about donkey leavings, I didn’t speak to him much at all. My voice was arousing and distracting for him, I’d decided; his own herding instincts would either emerge and develop, or not.
I put aside my own agenda. He was the herding dog, and he would either keep going at it or let it go—his choice. Orson liked the new drill. And it was generating more rapid and dramatic change than years of my previous training, so much more vocal and more stressful.
I opened the pasture gate and the two of us walked inside. Orson rushed past two steaming piles of donkey dung and, glancing over his shoulder at me, took off for the sheep at the top of the slope.
While I watched, startled—this was usually the point where he spun around like a pinwheel, barked and panted, rushed back toward me, or all of the above—he loped gracefully up to the fence, curved alongside it, and came up behind the ewes and lambs. As always when Orson appeared, they started rapidly down the hill, straight for me. As always, his authority and presence were impressive. What a herding dog he could have been, and might yet be.
I held up my hand—the “stay” command—and to my further surprise, Orson actually stopped. The sheep rushed toward the barn. I ran up to my dog and dropped to my knees to greet him, his signal to rush up and lick me. We walked out of the pasture together.
Then, on impulse, I turned back and brought him back in. He broke into that beautiful but seldom-seen outrun, gliding once more around the sheep, who turned and ran in my direction. I unlatched the gate, checking first for traffic up and down the road.
The sheep hustled across the road and into the greening meadow below, Orson cantering behind them. I closed my eyes and said nothing. If I were a religious man, I would have prayed.
When I looked, I couldn’t see sheep or dog. But when I walked across the road, there they were behind the small barn, the sheep grazing, Orson sitting behind them, looking particularly pleased with himself, as if to say, “See? You thought I couldn’t do this?”
A couple of the neighbors drove by and honked, then slowed so
their kids could see the dog and sheep and lambs. “Beautiful dog,” yelled one of the mothers.
Yes, I thought, he is. After ten minutes or so, I walked back across the road, yelled, “Get me sheep,” and stood back as ewes, lambs, and dog came flying back into the pasture.
A herding trial judge would have knocked off points for all sorts of things—Orson ran too fast, got too close, didn’t respond quickly enough to some commands. But it was the most beautiful sheepherding I had ever seen.
ON A WARM SUNDAY AFTERNOON, IT SEEMED THAT HALF THE hamlet had driven up with their kids to see the new lambs, watch the dogs at work, bring carrots and apples for the donkeys, who were delighted to have their fuzzy noses scratched in return. At one point, there were five or six pickups in the driveway and more than a dozen people milling about. At my more solitary mountain cabin, this influx would have driven me mad. Here, I was pleased that my creatures were giving people so much pleasure—and to no one more than me.
We’d had so many visitors by now that we’d developed our own drill. Orson, whose interest in sheep never extended much beyond working with me, moved from one dog lover to another, working the crowd, wolfing down biscuits, offering kisses and receiving hugs and scratches.
Meanwhile, Rose, showing her usual marginal interest in things that were not sheep, put on a show, moving the herd into the training pen, up the hill, down into the paddock and back. Orson loved all the cooing and cries of admiration; Rose hardly seemed to notice.
When she grew tired and I called her off, she would lie off to the side, staring at the sheep until I released her. If somebody came over to pet her, she’d be polite, give a wag, but it was clear where her loyalties lay.
It was fascinating to see these two border collies evolve in such different ways. Orson vastly preferred cuddling and food to the rigors of herding; Rose only wanted to work.