by Jon Katz
The Dogs of Bedlam Farm John Katz
TO ANTHONY ARMSTRONG
A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature. Ralph Waldo Emerson
Prologue
THE JULY SUN WAS BEATING DOWN ON THE PASTURE ON A STICKY afternoon. Flies and gnats swarmed all over me; the smell of poop was pungent; and Carolyn Wilkis usually compliant sheep were getting grumpy, tired of being chased around and eager to leave their fenced enclosure-which contained dozens of them, along with me and my troubled and complex border collie. Lie down! I was saying again and again, louder each time, to no particular effect and in a voice I vaguely and distastefully recognized but couldnt quite identify. My dog Orson, like many of his breed, had his own agenda, which bore little resemblance to mine. He was tearing around the sheep, crashing into them, grabbing mouthfuls of wool. I waved my crook menacingly; if hed held still long enough, I might have clobbered him. I wasnt enjoying this. This wasnt like the Discovery Channel. I was soaked in sweat and covered with bites and welts and caked with unspeakable stuff. Worse, my dog had not lain down, not even once. Orsons notion of herding didnt involve the fabled, exquisite interplay with the herder-shepherd. His idea was to grab the biggest sheep and drag it around a bit. Carolyn, the trainer whod pulled this dog and me back from the abyss, chugged over to me on her all-terrain vehicle. She owned this Pennsylvania farm, and she was a formidable presence as always in her slouch hat, which she wore in all weather, and flapping cape. Leash up your dog, she ordered in a displeased tone, and leave the pen. Carolyn had become a close friend; we yakked and squabbled endlessly about life and dogs. Like many professionals in the dog world-vets, breeders, rescue workers, trainers-shed lost some of her capacity to be tactful or optimistic about the way people handle their dogs. Look, Katz, Carolyn snapped. That wasnt good dog training in there. Youre getting angry, talking too much, being too reactive. Face it: if you want to have a better dog, you will just have to be a better goddamned human. I was surprised; that wasnt what I wanted or expected to hear from a dog trainer. But what she was saying struck home, deeply. She was talking about anger, impatience, impulsiveness, frustration, an inability to watch and listen-enormous problems all my life, still not easy to vanquish in my mid-fifties. Only my helpless love for this screwy dog could cause me to undertake such an overhaul. Two years after that hot and bothered afternoon in Pennsylvania, though I cant say whether Im a better human-Im still working on it, and ultimately, its something for others to decide-I do have a better dog. Carolyn was right, perhaps more than she imagined. Ive come to see my dogs as a reflection of my willingness to try to improve, as well as an unsparing measure of my frequent failure to do so. Orson is a different dog than the frantic, matted, and terrified creature who arrived in a crate at Newark Airport several years ago. He is calmer, more responsive, more loving-the result, Im convinced, of my struggle to learn and grow and to be more patient, less angry. For better or worse, I see Orsons progress-and that of my other two dogs-as a mirror of my own humanity, a benchmark of my progress. Or lack thereof. SOMETIMES IT ONLY BECOMES CLEAR WHAT A BOOK IS REALLY about later on, after its published, when readers and time and life and memory have done their filtering and perspective brings things into focus. Its only now, for example, that I realize that two of my books-Running to the Mountain and A Dog Year-are, despite their differences, about the same thing: trying to become a better human. For me, this lifelong struggle has become enmeshed with dogs, almost inseparable from them. There are many other means, and I didnt particularly choose this path. The dogs, I think, chose me. When Carolyn yelled that day in the pasture, she wasnt attacking me, just giving voice to a powerful idea: dogs are blameless, devoid of calculation, neither blessed nor cursed with human motives. Insofar as they have problems, except for genetics or unusual circumstances, its usually because we either inflict them or fail to correct them. They cant really be held responsible for what they do. But we can. Dogs have their own identities and personalities, certainly, but theyre also living and breathing testaments to our pasts, our families, our strengths and frustrations. They have their own traits and instincts, but to a considerable degree they are what we make them, what we teach them to be. Dogs that we raise from puppyhood reflect our willingness to know and love and train them properly. Dogs we rescue or inherit are often more complex, and can challenge us even more. In either case, we are profoundly responsible for them. Its become increasingly fashionable to see dogs as human substitutes, childlike equals, or even, in some cases, superiors. I see our extraordinary relationship with them differently: they are voiceless, so we must be their advocates, their stewards. Staring in shock that July day at my traumatized border collie, who was frantically trying to please me and to make sense of my confusing commands, I recognized that I had a lot more work to do on myself, though I already had done plenty. What a different life its been since that revelation. I can hardly believe to what degree Orson (formerly named Devon) has altered my existence. My two beloved yellow Labs are gone, one of cancer, the other of heart disease, replaced by three creatures who are in most respects at the other end of the animal spectrum: three border collies-Orson, Homer, Rose. The cabin about which I wrote a book (Running to the Mountain) is gone, sold and then replaced by an aging farmhouse fifteen miles north, with four decrepit barns, a milk house, and forty-two acres of pasture and woods. My work is completely different-I write about dogs now. I have new and wonderful friends, and have begun the terrifying and painstaking work of reconnecting with my original family, especially my dear sister, with whom Id been out of touch for years. And all of it is the result, directly or indirectly, of acquiring this dog-an animal I briefly had the conceit of thinking I had rescued, but who now seems to have done a businesslike job of rescuing me. I am his rescue human, I like to joke, even as Ive come to understand that its no joke at all. I have to credit a retired English professor for some of the ideas in this book. Last year, Orson and Homer joined me on a three-month book tour, in a sojourn that took us from New England to Kentucky and into the Midwest. One spring night in Brookfield, Wisconsin, an elegant, bookish-looking woman approached me after a signing. She loved books even more than dogs, she said, and therefore had no questions about puppies, poop, or excessive barking. She just liked my books and offered a brief but knowledgeable critique of several. After we talked a little and she was preparing to leave, she asked, I assume youll write about dogs again? I nodded; I wanted to write about dogs and the people who owned them until I dropped. Then I have a favor, she said, assuming it doesnt violate your ethics. Write a book in which no dog dies. At my age, it really matters. She shook my hand and walked off. I smiled most of the way back to my hotel. So I can safely say a number of things about this book. It is about how several dogs led me to confront my own sense of humanity and challenged me to try to be a better human being. Its about the startling degree to which dogs can enter and alter a human life. Its about a mean winter I spent on increasingly rebellious legs, in manure-caked boots, on a remote, windswept hillside in upstate New York, with a few lifesaving friends, the usual various ugly ghosts from the past, and more livestock than any suburban rookie should attempt to manage. Its also about the fact that crisis and mystery are, as always, around the corner, rushing toward me. Finally, and with gratitude to Professor Chernowitz, I am happy to say what while no truthful book about any life is without loss or suffering, no dogs die in this book.
JON KATZ Bedlam Farm West Hebron, N.Y.
Chapter One
CITY OF GOD
BEDLAM: a place, scene, or state of uproar and confusion Columbia Encyclopedia F AR IN THE DISTANCE, AS THE MORNING MISTS BEGAN TO CLEAR, I could see a livestock trailer heading west on Route 30 from Salem toward the hamlet of West Hebron. From this hill behind my new house, I could spot visitors approaching from miles away. There were plenty of farms around this quadrant of upstate New York, lots of places livestock haulers might be going, but my guess was that this was Wilbur Price of Bethel, Pennsylvania, delivering a ram named Nesbitt and the ladies, fifteen dog-broke ewes. Which meant it was time to walk down the hill. Change was just around the corner, big change. For three border collies, there could be no more meaningful event than the arrival of sheep in their backyard. For me, the change was more complex, but a big transition nonetheless, another midlife crapshoot. I was stepping out of one existence and into another, a shift inexorably linked to these three dogs. We all clambered down the hill as the trailer descended into town. In a few minutes, this farm, known around the county as the old Keyes place-somehow I doubted it would ever be known as the old Katz place-with its listing and peeling dairy barn, an even more askew pig barn, an overgrown chicken pen, and several other outbuildings, would be home once again to livestock. Everyone in the tiny village could look up the hill and see animals grazing, as they had for generations. I was no farmer, and this place wouldnt really qualify as a working farm. I am a dog lover and writer, and this would be, in part, a dog-centric adventure with my border collies. Even before the animals arrived, in the few weeks since Id moved in and begun preparations, I could hardly believe the amount of work involved just in overseeing forty-two acres and a Civil War-era farmhouse. I could only imagine how difficult and relentless real farmwork was, particularly in brutal winter. My work would be fractional in comparison, and I wouldnt rely on the farm to provide my familys livelihood-an enormous difference. Wilbur, a garrulous man in a giant baseball cap and overalls, was indeed waiting at the gravel driveway with his noisy cargo. We shook hands and chatted about the weather and the drive and his dicey encounters with fog en route. Wilbur, I realized, drove sheep and cows around all day and didnt want to pass up the chance for a more satisfying conversation. I, on the other hand, was eager to populate my farm and get it rolling. After considerable effort and dismaying expense, I had fences up, hay and straw in the barn, and corn and feed stashed in critter-proof containers all over. I was as ready as somebody like me was ever going to be. But Id learned that country talk cant be rushed. It had to have been a long and lonely ride up from Raspberry Ridge, my friend Carolyns sheep farm and dog-training center. These ewes were loaners from her much larger flock. We knew these sheep. My elder dogs and I, frequent visitors and herding students at Raspberry Ridge, had taken them to graze in the pasture countless times in rain and sunshine, in deep night and bright day, heat and cold. Wed moved them around during herding trials, chased them during our lessons, retrieved them from the woods when they wandered, midwifed a few of their lambs. We also knew-and were appropriately wary of-Nesbitt, whod sent me flying more than once. I could hear them all shifting and bleating in the trailer, probably hungry and thirsty. I heard an asthmatic-sounding bray, too, which meant that at the last minute Carolyn had decided to send the donkey along with the rest of the crew. The donkey lived alone in a pasture, and Carolyn thought she might have a better quality of life at my new encampment. Carol, the donkey, was a sweetheart, whose affections Id won with gifts of apples; I wondered if shed recognize me in this strange new environment. Wilbur finally sensed that it was time to get moving. He slowly backed the truck a few feet inside the barnyard gate and slipped the latches that opened his trailer. Carol the Lonely Donkey hee-hawed again, looked around, snarfed down the donkey cookie I was holding out for her, and trotted down the ramp. She did seem to remember me, and in any case appreciated the cookie. Behind her, fifteen sheep and Nesbitt came charging past me, headed for the lush grass that covered the hill, and immediately started crunching away. Unlike dogs, sheep are not complex in their attachments. Grass is good. Grass is always good. I shook Wilburs hand and wrote out a check on the cab of his truck. Bedlam Farm was in business. My dogs, corralled in their own spacious fenced enclosure a few yards away, sat frozen; they seemed shocked, wide-eyed, ears and tails at the alert. One rarely sees a more focused look on any creature than I saw on the faces of Orson, Homer, and Rose. The autumn wind was sharp, parting the mists on the hill. I looked up to see a small flock of sheep and a donkey grazing near an old apple tree. I could hardly believe it myself; they looked as if they had grown out of the ground and had been there forever. Wilbur declined coffee and other amenities, saying he wanted to be home for dinner, and after much rattling, banging, and slamming, the truck rumbled off down the dirt road into town, back to the world. It was one thing to drive out and work with Carolyns sheep once or twice a week from suburban New Jersey, where much of the time my dogs and I lived an ordinary-looking life with my wife. It was quite another to be responsible for sheep living just outside my kitchen window. They would need shots and worming and medical certificates from a vet. They would need to be shorn, to have their hooves trimmed. Theyd need corn to build up calories for the winter, vitamin supplements when the ewes got pregnant, straw to lie on, and hay to eat once the grass withered in the first hard frost. They needed a continuous supply of fresh water, even in sub-zero weather. In a few months, their newborn lambs would need to be located instantly, dried, and placed under heating lamps, separate from the rest of the flock. Lambs often required special supplements, and theyd need to be tagged and registered and have their tails docked. And everyone would need shelter from the vicious winter storms that would be arriving in just a few weeks. All of these things had to be provided when the ice was packed a foot deep on the ground amid waist-high mounds of snow. And I had to-wanted to-take care of almost all those things myself. When we bought this place, my wife, Paula, had set down three ironclad conditions: no firearms; no farm or other heavy machinery; and the gargantuan 1982 Chevy Silverado pickup Id bought for hauling hay and other farm chores was not to be driven more than five miles in any direction. She was convinced that it would break down at inconvenient times; I had to be able to walk home. Anybody who knew me understood the wisdom of these conditions. So while I would need help with barn repairs, drainage ditches, anything involving heavy machinery, the work was otherwise mine to do. So as Wilbur drove out of sight and I waved goodbye, I was elated but also unnerved. There was no going back. OUR DAY HAD BEGUN MUCH EARLIER, AROUND FIVE A.M., WITH our new morning routine. Orson, Homer, and the puppy, Rose, had labored up the steep hill behind the house with me, the wind whipping around us, tearing leaves off the trees at the top of the ridge. Even in the forbidding predawn, I could scarcely believe I owned such a beautiful tract of countryside. I could hear the occasional yip-yip of coyotes-coy dogs, the locals call them-and wondered how soon they would be circling my soon-to-arrive sheep. To be honest, I was the only one laboring up the hill, heading for two Adirondack chairs placed at the crest. The dogs were racing and gliding effortlessly, zipping around in enthusiastic circles the way border collies go everywhere-back and forth, round and round, always somehow keeping me in the center. Id become used to walking in this odd way, aware vaguely that I was being herded. The two adults, Orson and Homer, had plenty of energy, but Rose positively zoomed, galloping from one corner of the pasture to the other in the time it took me to go a few steps. Every dog has a story, but Orsons is better known than some. A breeder in Texas had retrieved him from someone she deemed an unsuitable owner, then sent him to me after reading one of my books, in which I talked about my late, beloved yellow Labs. Orson, then named Devon, was a dog in trouble. He was anxious, confused, apt to jump onto passing minivans, herd school buses, raid the refrigerator and jump through windows; we brawled until I found a great trainer-Carolyn-who helped turn our lives around. He was followed by Homer, as sweet and submissive as Orson was difficult, but a dog who presented challenges of his own. Then a few months ago, our p
ack had been joined by Rose, the nuclear-powered puppy with strong herding lines who made the other two seem like stone statues. People ask me why I got a third border collie, and the truth is I hardly know. I still cant quite explain why I got the first one. Guys, this will be a great day for you, I announced. Soon there will be fifteen ewes in this field, along with a grumpy ram named Nesbitt and maybe a donkey. Youve got to watch out for Nesbitt. Hell nail me. It had only been a couple of months since I had put my cherished mountaintop retreat-a cabin where Id written three books and found more peace and beauty than Id ever known-up for sale. I wanted to buy an old farmhouse with a porch, some land, maybe a barn. Through a series of flukes, Id gotten more than Id bargained for, more acreage, a lovelier house, more barns in more advanced stages of decay, along with coyotes, hawks and songbirds, yellow jackets and fleas, feral cats, rats and mice (despite the feral cats), raccoons, chipmunks, foxes, loads of deer, and unconfirmed rumors of two moose and a mountain lion. I also had a sweeping view of a lush valley checkered with pastures, cornfields, and barns. The classic white Greek revival farmhouse had seen a lot of history. It sat on a hillside above a tiny hamlet of thirty or forty houses, two lovely old churches, and a general store-Bedlams Corner. The name mesmerized me from the moment I first drove by. My earlier cabin, a half hour south of Hebron, was a getaway, a private corner for a writers internal life. I worked there, read, hiked with the dogs. Apart from my wife and daughter and two or three friends, hardly anyone else had ever seen it. That was part of the problem; it was my place and only my place. As much as Id loved it, as important as it had become, the cabin had also defeated me in a way. It was so small that there was barely enough space for the dogs and me; it felt crowded when my wife visited, let alone my daughter Emma. I had come to want not a retreat for me, but a rural home for us, with places for Paula to work and Emma to stay, with space for friends-a place for liveliness more than solitary contemplation. I felt ready for a fuller existence, though I had no inkling just how full it was about to get. I was conscious, as I try always to be, of entering another phase, of marking the transition and pondering how I was going to deal with it. Id just turned fifty-six. How many more houses would I be buying? How many more dogs could I ever own? How much more time did Paula and I have to be together in a place like this? I couldnt really afford the farm any more than I could the cabin that preceded it, but I couldnt really afford to wait, either. For several years, especially since the terrorist attacks on New York City, Id seen people assessing their lives, making changes, seeking property upstate. In another five years I doubted Id be able to buy acreage. My little cabin, forlorn and ungainly at the time, had been on the market for two years when I bought it. It sold in less than a week, once I put it on the market. Driving me around the town of Hebron as I looked for the replacement I had in mind, the real estate agent had looked up at the hillside as we passed and pointed at the white farmhouse. Theres the house you want, she said ruefully. But it isnt for sale. Three weeks later, it suddenly was. Sometimes houses, like dogs, find you. What better place to test my notions about dogs and humans than here, with border collies and a bunch of sheep? Could they become happier dogs and more useful partners? Could I learn to be a better human? The four of us and our little band of animals, tucked away on a hillside through a glorious fall, the bitter upstate winter, and a cold, muddy spring filled with lambing, could probably find out. Two months later, I was here, unpacking boxes and dealing with hay supplies, cranky barn doors, monosyllabic Vermont fence builders, and more. It seemed I had compressed years of activities into weeks and days-selling a beloved home, buying a more complex one, moving out and in, arranging the endless details that would make it possible for me and my assorted livestock to live here. In a few hours, I told the dogs, as we puffed uphill in the dark, there would be sheep right out the back door. The announcement wasnt as loopy as it seemed: every mention of the word sheep got three heads swiveling. Even little Rose, whod visited Raspberry Ridge just a few times, was already hooked and showing quite a bit of herding style. I bought the place for my family and me, but my wife pointed out what I privately conceded-I bought it for the dogs, as well. Owning land you could barely see the end of was wonderful, but owning property that could give dogs a chance to do and perfect what they most loved, what their breed had done for hundreds of years, that was still another dimension. Perhaps I could finish the difficult and painstaking work I had begun with Orson years ago and finally show him how to make sense of the world. Perhaps I could resolve my long-standing concerns and bring the good-hearted but anxious Homer into the mainstream of our family. Perhaps I could take advantage of the opportunity presented by the astoundingly energetic Rose and, applying what Id learned researching and writing about dogs for the past few years, not screw up this remarkable puppy. As our odd little group made its way up the hill, I was leaning on a walking stick to guard against my bad ankle giving out. Id filled a travel mug with hot coffee to ward off the winds chill. I was also carrying a copy of Saint Augustines City of God, which I planned to read aloud to sort of bless the farm and our adventure together, officially about to begin. The early Christian writers were spiritual ancestors to me-born a Jew, a convert to Quakerism, still struggling with religious conviction. Saint Augustine and his colleagues also grappled valiantly to make sense of their world, and City of God was his brave effort to explain the fall of Rome and the worlds plunge into the Dark Ages. Though Ive always struggled with religion, Ive never given up on spirituality. Its not always an easy distinction, and Im not sure the saints would approve of my applying the word spiritual to the profoundly loving and complicated relationships that people like me have with their dogs. I dont see dogs as psychic or telepathic. Nor do I believe that we will meet them in the afterlife, or that mediums can channel their deepest thoughts. But I do believe the human-dog relationship can be deeply meaningful. Dogs have a remarkable gift for entering our lives at particular times and weaving themselves in. It is one of their most endearing traits, a key part of their impressive adaptability. This morning held that promise. The early walk up the hill had become a ritual for me in West Hebron-navigating the steep and rocky rise with the dogs to watch the sun appear. Was there any finer way to start a day? Afterwards I could fire up the woodstove in my study and have a few good hours to work while the dogs rested from their romp and waited for their shot at sheep. In their own way, experts that they are at reading their humans, my dogs seemed to grasp the ritual as well. They couldnt literally understand what I was doing, of course, but they sensed that something important was happening. This morning I could see an eerily beautiful dawn about to break after the classic dark and stormy night, with gusting winds left behind by the weakening and retreating Hurricane Isabel. The mountains that stretch all the way to Vermont were shrouded in mist as the light began to creep up. Living in cities and crowded suburbs most of my life, I could never take the sight of such beauty for granted. I almost felt it lifting me up, soothing and healing and inspiring. Even my dogs paused in their circling and tilted their heads, noses in the air to pick up strange scents, perhaps brought on the wind from far-away places. Panting and sore, I made it to the hilltop chairs and flopped into one. Orson hopped onto the other. Homer and Rose chased each other across the field. Orson growled, jumped off his perch, and began to move toward them-he discourages any kind of enthusiasm or horseplay-but I reached out to put my hand on his head, a calming gesture. Relax, pal, I said. Let the kids have their fun. What do you say us old farts sit up and read from this book? He relented, putting his head on my lap. Orson and I have been together for less than four years, but its hard to describe all the two of us have been through, how difficult and rewarding and complicated our relationship is, how much weve come to mean to each other. This dog came out of nowhere to challenge my very nature and alter my life; I think I have returned the favor. Look what youve done, pal, I said to this intense and complex creature. All this because of you. It was true: my work, this farm, many of my friend
s, much of my life, all were different because of him and the unexpected directions in which hed led me. If not for this dog, would I have been sitting atop a hill, overlooking a tiny town, waiting for sheep and perhaps a donkey? Would I own this place? Or see this beautiful valley brighten as the sun rose after a passing storm? I cradled Orsons head in my lap, stroking the side of his nose. He seemed as peaceful as it was possible for him to be. The animal ethicist James Serpell has written that the human-canine relationship is as close as humans ever come to a dialogue with another species, and Orson and I were engaged in that dialogue this morning. I took in the sight, sat back in the chair, sipped from the coffee mug, and tried to accustom myself to this new, still strange setting. Orsons presence made it less odd, more familiar, part of the continuum of our lives together. I felt as if we had crossed a portal, entered a serene and beautiful space, strolled together into Augustines City of God. My friends often chuckle knowingly when I tell them that Id decided to read aloud from Saint Augustine to mark the occasion. I had no illusions that Orson understands such weighty prose, but he does love it when I read aloud to him, watching my face for clues, listening to my tone. Probably hes wondering how long it will take me to stop droning on and reach into my pocket for a biscuit. Still, it was a beautiful moment. I loved reading about the City of God. Id carried a worn copy of the book all over the country, reading it in airports and hotel rooms. The City of God wasnt the sphere I usually occupied, sadly, but the place we all strived to reach. Augustine believed there were two realms, the earthly and the heavenly, and the City of God was the heavenly part, a holy place of rivers, streams, and mountains-just the sort of place I was seeing at that moment, as the light began to glow in the distance. Augustine was a religious man; my own vision of the City of God was different from his, more a state of mind, a place of serenity we rarely found in our overstressed lives. Since, then, the supreme good of the City of God is perfect and eternal peace, not such as mortals pass into and out of by birth and death, but the peace of freedom from all evil, in which the immortals ever abide, who can deny that that future life is most blessed? I read to Orson, to whom peace was generally an alien concept. Or that, in comparison with it, this life which now we live is most wretched, be it filled with all blessings of body and soul and external things? And yet, if any man uses this life with a reference to that other which he ardently loves and confidently hopes for, he may well be called even now blessed, though not in reality as much as in hope. The wind was pushing the clouds across the hills at a quick pace now, and the morning light had filled the valley. I closed my book to watch for the first glimmers of the sun itself. Homer and Rose, tongues dragging, came over and collapsed. Orsons eyes were closed, his head still in my lap as I scratched his ears. In a busy suburb or on a busy-and-getting-busier farm, moments like this are rare. Soon Id be yelling at Orson or Homer to stay away from the road. Id be ordering feed, checking my answering machine, my e-mail and my voicemail. Soon the world would, as it should, begin its inexorable intrusion. Soon Wilbur Price would be here. The places a dog can take you, I thought. Look where mine had brought me. BUT SAINT AUGUSTINE WAS NOT A SHEPHERD. A few days later came a lovely night with a quarter moon. The sparse lights of West Hebron twinkled below. The sheep, settling into Bedlam Farm, seemed happy, crunching away up in the pasture even after a full days grazing. I shined my powerful new flashlight-purchased to help me spot circling coyotes-up the hill and saw their eyes reflected in the light. I had to duck into the pig barn for a second to hook up a hose. It seemed safe enough to leave the pasture gate briefly unlatched. The sheep and Carol, crunching along with them, had plenty to eat, and Id only be a second. As I walked into the barn-just twenty feet from the gate-I heard the sound of hooves thundering behind me. My new flock went flying past before I could move, racing down the dirt driveway alongside the house and across the dirt road toward an unfenced meadow. I remember feeling something between shock and panic. There were lots of woods-and coyotes-across that road, and beyond that, miles of thickets and fields. What a dumb way to invite catastrophe. What was I thinking? But I would learn many times in the coming weeks that panic is useless in Bedlam, where catastrophes are not rare shocks but an integral part of life. You either learn how to handle them, or you pack up and head back to the Flatlands. Theres no dialing 911 up here, unless youre about to be murdered. Help is too far away. A volunteer firefighter visiting me soon after I moved in had offered some advice: Put some of your valuables in one of the barns, because if theres a fire, your house will burn down before we can get here. Were mostly basement-savers. So it was me and the dogs. I ran into the house to get them. I couldnt see the sheep, but I could hear them. I had belled two of them, so the clang would warn me if they were running from predators at night. They hadnt gone far. I had limited options, though. Orson was too excitable to send out. Hed tear after the flock, and the sheep would just take off and scatter. He hadnt yet mastered the difference between herding and chasing. Homer sometimes got excited and gripped the sheep-took mouthfuls of wool-but he had considerable experience taking flocks out to graze. He was my best shot. Rose was much too young. Id brought her near Carolyns sheep a few times, and shed stared at them hypnotically, but the sheep barely paid attention. She was only five months old, and it was risky to work her much; if Nesbitt charged or the ewes stomped her, she could be traumatized for good. Border collie puppies, if pushed too fast or too far, sometimes became too skittish to work sheep at all. So I grabbed Homer and we headed out. Homer, find me sheep, I commanded, and he dashed across the road into the meadow. Hed been trained to do an outrun, to circle the sheep, urging them back to me. But Nesbitt emerged from the mist and charged him, and Homer lost it and broke into a full run, right into the middle of the flock. I heard them gallop still farther into the darkness, spooked by the charging dog and strange environment-or maybe by something I hadnt seen. They were headed for the deep woods. We were really in trouble now. I called the panting, wild-eyed Homer back to me and hustled him back to the house. He was just too cranked to help, perhaps in too strange an environment himself. This was not the gentle grazing wed done in Pennsylvania, where the sheep were so familiar with the path that they practically herded themselves. I could hear the coyotes yip-yipping somewhere in the distance, perhaps telegraphing the joyous news that dinner was racing their way. I felt I had no choice but to turn to Rose. She might not be able to turn the sheep back, but I didnt think shed freak out. Rose was not lacking in confidence. She already dominated poor Homer and took no guff from the possessive and iron-willed Orson, either. She was lean and fast and had some chance at catching up with the flock. But it was a long shot. I worried about Nesbitt charging again, about Rose getting lost. The idea of my puppy wandering the countryside at night was even more disturbing than worrying about the sheep, who at least had one another. But I decided to try. Even at her tender age, Rose exuded a feistiness that made me trust her. She was bred to be a working dog. If I were going to make it on this farm, I had to handle situations like this. And Rose would have to help me. I took her across the road on a leash, peering out into the inky blackness. Clouds had drifted across the moon, making the night even more impenetrable. All I could see in the flashlights beam were tree trunks. I couldnt hear the sheeps bells or bleats any longer. They could by now be miles away. I took the leash off, understanding that I was probably violating every rule of sound herding training. But my instinct was to trust this dog. Rose, I said softly, can you find the sheep? Rose spun around and looked at me uncertainly. She knew the word sheep from our previous encounters and remembered it. She looked up the hill toward the barn, then across the meadow, so intense I thought shed lift off the ground. She wasnt sure what she was being asked to do, but she was ready to do something. I raised my voice. Rose, girl, I said, a bit desperately. Youre free. Go get the sheep! Find the sheep! She paused for another moment, and I stayed quiet to give her a chance to think things over. Who knew what her genes might cause to bubble up? Then she took off
like a rabbit into the meadow, moving so quickly I couldnt keep the flashlight beam on her. Within minutes, my anxiety had grown to terror. Now there was no sign of her or the sheep. Had I lost my dog as well as my herd? It seemed I had compounded one idiotic mistake with another. I ran off in the direction Id seen her go, finding a trail at the edge of the meadow. I stumbled over holes, stumps, and undergrowth, my clothes jabbed by thorns and branches as I plunged down the path, yelling her name. I was frightened and tired. I heard all sorts of strange sounds in the dark that I couldnt identify. After five minutes of running, I was gasping and had to lean over, wheezing and puffing, to get my wind back. Should I go get my truck and drive up the road, or call a neighbor for help? But what, exactly, could I ask anybody to do? And the road led in the opposite direction from Rose and the sheep. Suddenly I heard some faint barking ahead. I started forward, calling Roses name while swatting branches away from my face. In a minute, I entered a small clearing. The sheep were bunched right in front of me, their eyes reflecting the light. Nesbitt was out in the front, trying to butt Rose. She was standing her ground, not intimidated in the least, barking and nipping at Nesbitts nose, backing up, charging and nipping again. He looked ticked off but also a little rattled. It was quite a spectacle, this twenty-pound pup holding all these three-hundred-pound animals in a tight clump while staring down an enormous belligerent ram. Between nips, she circled the ewes, keeping them together, bobbing and weaving in a manner that would have made Muhammad Ali proud. Nesbitt tried a few more feints, then retreated back into the herd. It was great that Rose had found the sheep, and miraculous that shed held them for me, but now we had to walk nearly a half-mile and ease them back into their fenced pasture. I wasnt entirely sure how to proceed, but I knew the nervous sheep would move toward the safest thing. Of this pair, I was preferable to the ferociously focused dog stalking them. Keeping a close watch on Nesbitt-I clunked him on the head with the flashlight for good measure-I turned and began walking back up the trail. Rose kept circling, but when I held up my hand and yelled, Get back, she dropped to the rear, keeping the group moving toward me. Instinctively, she began wearing-shuttling back and forth behind the flock, a move Homer hadnt mastered in two years of training. But Rose seemed to grasp the technique without ever having been taught. She kept the sheep trotting along while I walked ahead with the flashlight. After a while, I could see the farmhouse lights ahead and recovered my bearings. We didnt proceed in a direct line-the herd zigged and zagged-but we kept moving steadily back toward the house. It took us about fifteen minutes to reach the road. I started walking backward and holding up my hand as Rose circled the herd like a bumblebee. She had a big bark for a little dog. When the sheep saw the open gate, they broke for the pasture as maniacally as theyd left it, Rose in pursuit. She chased them to the top of the hill, then turned and came racing down to me, her tail wagging wildly. There cant be too many dogs whove ever gotten more joyous or heartfelt praise from a grateful owner. Great girl, great dog, thank you! I burbled, as she slurped at my face and squirmed all over. She seemed quite proud of herself, and she was entitled to. So much for serenity. We headed back into the house. Welcome to Bedlam, I told her.