And then she lost him, gone in the seas of blue lights, colors, and the mist into which he seemed to melt.
And just like that, he was gone.
Rose opened her eyes and looked out at the pasture, and felt the wind. She raised her nose in the air, catching the stories the wind brought, and knew all she needed to know.
She saw that the old dog’s eyes were open, but he had stopped breathing; his spirit had whirled up into the sky. She sniffed his snout, and then his forehead, and then sat back up and looked out over the sheep, and the farm.
The sheep called softly to one another, and looked away.
And she heard a door slam down below. Rose saw Sam coming up the hill, a shovel in one hand. She’d heard him earlier calling for Flash, seen him looking out the window. He too must have known what the dog was doing up in the pasture, why he had gone there. Sam had left them alone until he saw the birds circling overhead.
And she saw now that he was looking down at the ground, his face oddly contorted.
She came slowly down to meet him, to walk with him back up the hill.
It was all she could do.
It was enough.
THE FARM was well into the dog days.
Sam had decided to breed Rose, and she was pregnant. The sire was a purebred border collie from Manchester, Vermont. She was calm and ripe, as Sam liked to put it, and he was like a proud and expectant dad.
Rose’s pups, he told his friends, had to be special dogs. Other farmers should have them, and Sam wasn’t shy about thinking about the money they might bring. The vet said $2,000 a pup would not be unreasonable, perhaps even more, given Rose’s spreading reputation. For Sam, for any farmer, that was serious money. Her work in the storm had already become local legend, and some people had even driven by the farm to get a look at her. Sam usually shooed them off.
Sam meant to keep one of the males for himself. To help out on the farm, to ride with him into town. He missed Flash more than he would have imagined or admitted to anyone.
Rose was, in fact, different, although Sam could not say precisely how. Sam thought she seemed somehow calmer, more contemplative, if you could use such a word to describe a dog.
Something about her seemed more settled, almost peaceful, apart from her limp, a reminder of those awful days in the storm. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know, Sam thought.
AS THE SUMMER PROGRESSED, Rose’s belly began to swell. With each day that passed she was growing quieter and rounder. She lazed in the hot days of summer in a way she never had before.
One afternoon, when Sam had gone off in the truck and the farm shimmered in the hazy sun, the animals settled and quiet, Rose felt something stir inside of her. Slowly she made her way down the hill, away from the sheep onto the path, and out to Katie’s stump.
She took her time, pausing to smell rabbit holes and scat and listen to mice and chipmunks and bees. She felt a sense of great expectancy.
Rose loved these walks through the woods, the mishmash of smells and sounds and colors that awakened her, and sharpened her senses. The stories of her world were dancing in her head. She could hardly keep up with them, and she felt like spinning for joy.
She felt strong, alive.
And she felt, for the first time in her consciousness, light and free.
And not alone.
When she got to the stump, she lay down.
There was a long pause, and Rose imagined Katie. The two listened to the sound of the creek rushing through the forest, the leaves rustling in the breeze, the birds in the trees, the animals running along the ground and in burrows. They smelled flowers and took in the news of the wind, the changing shadows.
Tell me, Katie asked, was there really a wolf?
Rose glanced up into Katie’s eyes, and the two looked into each other’s souls. Rose did not understand the words, but tilted her head to try to catch the tone, and picked up the wonder, the admiration, the love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I thank Jennifer Hershey for her extraordinary hard work and vision in shaping this challenging book and assisting my return to fiction. And Jen Smith.
I also thank Bruce Tracy, Andy Barzvi, Richard Abate, Emma Span, Jane Richter, Brian McLendon, Courtney Moran, Elizabeth Stein, and Maria Wulf.
I appreciate my wonderful dogs—Rose, Izzy, Lenore, and Frieda—who inspire my work and my photography every day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JON KATZ has written nineteen books—seven novels and twelve works of nonfiction—including Soul of a Dog, Izzy & Lenore, Dog Days, A Good Dog, and The Dogs of Bedlam Farm. He has written for The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Slate, Rolling Stone, Wired, and the AKC Gazette. He has worked for CBS News, The Boston Globe, The Washington Post, and The Philadelphia Inquirer. Katz is also a photographer, and the author of a children’s book, Meet the Dogs of Bedlam Farm. He lives on Bedlam Farm in upstate New York with the artist Maria Wulf; his dogs, Rose, Izzy, Lenore, and Frieda; his donkeys, Lulu and Fanny; and his barn cats, Mother and Minnie.
www.bedlamfarm.com
Jon Katz Page 19