by Jon Katz
Chapter Seven
THE GOOD DOG ROSE WAS STILL TOO YOUNG TO WORK SHEEP REGULARLY-THE conventional wisdom said she was a year or two away from serious herding-and Orson too excitable. So in the days after the livestock arrived I usually took Homer, my most experienced herding dog, into the pasture. He needed more training, but I expected him to help me get by until I sorted things out. It was odd having my own sheep; as with my dogs, I felt ferociously protective of them. I was vigilant about their welfare, tossing out more feed and hay than they really needed, scanning the horizon for enemies, checking the fences daily. I evaluated everything around me-bugs, animals, weather-as either good for the flock or not. I had belled two of the ewes, so if the flock started running for any reason, day or night, Id hear the noise and check things out. At Carolyns, she and her horde of herding dogs were always around to provide backup. Here we were on our own. Homer, whod spent the most time around sheep, seemed my best shot as a helper. I planned to train Rose to herd by myself, a long and complex process that would require more research, patience, and experimentation than I could usually muster for a task. I respected trainers, and had gotten much help from several, but I wanted to see what Id learned. Come spring, Rose would either be learning to herd sheep, or not. My own frustration and anger were my worst enemies. To a great extent, Homer had already paid the price. He had his own problems and issues, but my barked commands and short temper had made him anxious and confused. When a border collie gets anxious around sheep, bad things happen. Rose, I had sworn, would have a different history. If she could learn to herd well, I would know Id made progress. If I could make it fun for her, if I could encourage her gifts, shed do fine and would teach me much more than I could teach her. But that could take years, and meanwhile Bedlam Farm was up and running-a shocking reality, considering the very idea was just a few months old. I had limited needs for herding, initially. Mostly, I had to move the sheep from one paddock to another, and to keep them at bay while I put down corn and feed. But with a testy ram and two donkeys roaming around-and all these creatures always hungry-things could quickly get chaotic and, if you werent paying attention, dangerous. The peaceable ewes turned avaricious when a bucket of corn appeared, and their table manners were not refined. They could stampede. In fact, if they could knock you over and grab the bucket from your hands, they would. A dog was also necessary to drive the sheep out of the corners of the barn or the training pen for vet visits and other maintenance-hoof-trimming, worming, shearing. People who watch the process on cable dont realize how predatory the relationship really is between dogs and sheep. To a young border collie, sheep are lunch, writ large. The dogs therefore do a lot of racing around and lunging early on, whereas a border collie who knows his stuff will glide easily around the sheep and turn them quickly. Thats why developing a calm, practiced herding instinct and the ability to work with a herder takes so much patience, endless repetition. The dogs are so intense, with such drive and energy, it often seems theyll never slow down enough to listen. That had been my problem with Homer. From the first, though, Rose had watched me like a hawk and moved gracefully and professionally around the sheep. The contrast was confusing. Had I screwed Homer up? Or was he just a different dog? Perhaps some of each. Still, I thought Homer could handle most of our rudimentary farm tasks, especially if I continued our training. He had a pretty good recall (meaning, he usually came when called) but he got excited quickly. And because he was square and low to the ground, he couldnt move as quickly as some border collies could. So he sometimes compensated by running and gripping, using his mouth to move the sheep, rather than his eye or body movement. I was determined to do better by Homer here. With sheep out the back door, we could learn and improve together. Wed begun going out for short runs around the training pen. But then came that crisp day when Homer drove a ewe into a fencepost, necessitating emergency surgery in a freezing drizzle. Experienced border collies are always aware of where the herder is, eager to keep the sheep between themselves and the shepherd. At its best, herding is a beautiful, synchronistic ballet. A herder should be able to walk with his sheep for miles without even turning around, knowing that theyre right behind him, with the dog trotting right behind them. But Homer had been so aroused that day, he seemed to have forgotten I was there at all. Wild-eyed, hed been moving too quickly, more like a missile than a sheepdog making a curved outrun, ignoring my commands, grabbing the errant ewe by her left knee until, in a panic, she shook him off-only to run straight into the post. I was startled and horrified, screaming at Homer, who was far too aroused to hear me. This wasnt how Id wanted to treat any of my animals, not how Id wanted to begin life at the farm. Homer was here to move and protect the sheep, not to attack them. How could a border collie not know that? As his ears went flat back and he backed away, abashed, the answer was as simple as it was unpleasant: he had not been trained properly. It was an unhappy reminder of my continuing conflicts with Homer: we had been herding together for two years, and despite all our lovely afternoons grazing Carolyns flock, I still couldnt get him to come, lie down, or stay when I needed him to. I understood all too well that this said much more about me than him, but still, it said a lot. I was frustrated and disappointed, in myself and in him, in what we still hadnt been able to accomplish together. WHEN TRAINERS GATHER AT TRIALS AND SHOWS TO JOKE AND banter among themselves-they have volumes of you-wont-believe-this tales-among the stories they most love to share are the tales of the good dog, the sweet one, the dog introduced invariably as the model citizen. The good dog is usually presented in sharp contrast to a troublemaker peer. Unlike the problem dog-ironically, often the most loved, to whom his or her owners are most attached-the good dog does whats expected. He or she is obedient, appropriate with people and other dogs, causes no trouble. Invariably, this is the dog the trainers keep a cautious eyes on. Whenever I hear somebody tell me about their good dog, I think, Uh-oh, a trainer friend told me. The problems of the bad dog are obvious, much described. The good dog flies under the radar. Since he demands no attention, he usually gets little. He either has troubles nobody notices, or he causes troubles other dogs get blamed for. The good dog is the one nobodys paying attention to, that people have forgotten about, my friend said. But more often than not, sooner or later theres a problem. Id come to understand that. On the farm, I was playing out the drama of the good dog. Homer was my good dog, and everyone elses, too. Hes one of those dogs-unlike Orson-who fits most peoples image of what a great pet should be. He doesnt chew things he isnt supposed to chew or mount strange canine females. He isnt overly needy or intrusive, doesnt jump or slobber. In other words, he does few of the things that most dogs naturally love to do. Submissive, wary, and good-natured, he was sent to me in the first place because his breeder believed him to be one of the few dogs who could live peaceably with his temptestuous housemate. This turned out to be true, but it cost Homer a lot. Studies of submissive dogs show that they often adapt by becoming background pets, living on the periphery, staying out of the way, waiting to edge toward the food bowl, or daring to chew their biscuits. They do what they need to do to stay out of trouble. This is what Homer had learned, what I had allowed to happen. Trainers and behaviorists know, of course, that the good dog (like the bad dog) is a myth. Dogs are neither good nor bad; they are shaped by all sorts of factors: their mothers feeding and nurturing habits, life in the litter with their siblings, their first few months in the world, their owners instructional methods. They adapt to their environments depending on training and circumstances and on varying degrees of luck, instinct, and skill on the part of human beings. Good and bad are human constructs with relatively little meaning to dogs. As people come to see animals as part of their families, however, it follows that they begin measuring them in human terms of being obedient, well behaved. I didnt want to do this to Homer. This wasnt a case of his being good or bad, but of how well Id taught him to live in our world, or hadnt. Like the shy, awkward kid growing up in the shadow of a more charismatic older sibli
ng, Homer lived entirely in Orsons shadow. Orson was the hero of my first dog book. Orson was the one about whom a movie would be made. You couldnt help loving Homer, of course. A profoundly amiable creature, he would collapse with joy at the sight of the mailman, his favorite UPS driver, and every other kid getting off a school bus. Each morning, he braved Orsons possessive wrath to hop onto our bed and wrap himself around Paulas head for a snuggle. He and Paula were crazy about each other, seeing in each other the stability, predictability, and sanity so often missing around them. Unlike Orson, a pest in his affections who never knew when to quit, Homer was gentle and discreet, crawling up to offer a few licks, then skittering away. While I did love Homer dearly, Id known for a while that in some ways our relationship was incomplete, troubled. Although it is heresy to say so, we dont love all our dogs the same way, any more than we love all people equally. Nor do dogs love us in the uniform, unwavering way often depicted in dog lore. When I first picked Homer up at the Albany airport, he cringed and backed away from me. Wed gotten much closer, but Id never completely shaken a sense that he didnt really know what to make of me. Its a feeling Ive experienced many times, though usually with humans. Perhaps because we know that we are supposed to, we pretend, even to ourselves, that we do love all our dogs the same. In such cases, dogs lives grow even more complicated, since the problems-like the elephant in the living room-are rarely acknowledged and thus rarely addressed. I should have paid more attention to certain idiosyncracies. Homer was the first dog I ever had, for instance, who rarely stayed in the same room with me. When I was working in my basement study, Orson was always Velcroed to my leg. Rose, more independent and less needy, came and went, but continually touched base and checked up on me. Homer usually went upstairs to doze until the next walk or meal. When I sat on the family-room sofa, I often had to elbow Rose or Orson aside. But Homer almost never hopped up alongside me. Some of this, I knew, was the result of our chaotic years with Orson, who for a while had glared and glowered whenever Homer came near me. Orson was a powerful, dominant, and possessive creature, Homer a docile, submissive, and cautious one. Some of it, I was repeatedly told by trainers, was the result of my inadequate or haphazard training. But some of it, I also believed, belonged to that peculiar realm of chemistry. At the core, I was no longer sure I was really the best owner for Homer; I also wondered if he was the right dog for me. My other dogs and I seemed almost eerily in tune. Things didnt always go smoothly, but there were few places I wanted to go that didnt involve Orson and Rose, and vice versa. How ironic, given that Homer had generally behaved impeccably. Orson raided the refrigerator, opened screen doors, jumped through windows. He roared off after long-haired shaggy dogs he thought were sheep. He herded bicyclists and skateboarders and scarfed food from babies strollers. He escaped over, under, and through fences. I love him beyond words. Homer did none of those things, yet our relationship seemed a struggle. Increasingly, Homer lagged behind on walks, left a room if Orson and I were in it, and showed poor name recognition and eye contact, despite hundreds of dollars spent on beef and liver treats. He did not seem-something that only someone who knows and loves a dog well can see-a happy dog. Since Homer so rarely misbehaved, there hadnt been reason to pay close attention to him, so I hadnt. For a long time, I didnt focus on the fact that Homer couldnt really distinguish between my yelling at Orson and my yelling at him. Bit by bit, hed detached himself from this raucous process, which he correctly judged had little to do with him. He grew up a dog apart, without a leading role in the main drama. Orson went berserk if left alone in our early years, and he never permitted Homer to play with me. At the sight of a ball or tug toy, he would give Homer the border collie eye and Homer would retreat to the corner of the yard. Could I have trained our way out of this? Sure, especially knowing what I now know. But I didnt then. Orson took too much time; or perhaps I wasnt motivated enough. HERDING WAS THE THING HE MOST LOVED, AND THERE WAS NO more companionable grazing dog. Homer quivered with excitement whenever we pulled into Raspberry Ridge. When I said, Lets go get the sheep, Homer exploded with glee and rushed to the barnyard fence. Wed walk Carolyns two hundred sheep down a forested path to the pasture-they knew the way so well a stuffed dog could have moved them-where Homer and I would sit for hours listening to the herds munching. Wed take the flock out late at night, in the predawn hours, in the heat of the day. Sitting with Homer and the sheep, I came to understand why there were domesticated dogs in the first place, why wed invited them into our caves and tents millennia ago. Homer had little instinct for actual herding-he was always prone more to chasing-but he did take to keeping watch. He would never quit on a job, digging sheep out of the woods for hours, inefficiently but energetically, then panting in the hot sun while they grazed. At times, his instincts were nothing less than heroic. One spring evening a ewe broke off from the herd and ran into the woods-strange behavior. Homer followed her, and when I located them, a newborn lamb was nuzzling the startled Homer and the ewe had taken off to rejoin the flock. It took the better part of an hour to identify the proper ewe and bring her and her baby back into the barn for nursing and warmth. Meanwhile, the lamb had imprinted on Homer and tailed him for weeks. Homer looked unnerved, but kept an eye on the little guy. Wed shared another sheep adventure the previous winter. Carolyn was sick, so I was staying at Raspberry Ridge with the dogs to help out. A blizzard blew in one night, earlier than predicted, trapping the sheep far out in the pasture. Suddenly faced with bitter temperatures, howling winds, and thigh-high snowdrifts, I feared for the vulnerable lambs who might be born in such harsh conditions, but when I ventured out to check on the flock, shrieking winds drove the freezing ice and snow into my eyes and the dogs. Orson tried to plow through the snowdrifts, but he soon began limping, as balls of ice formed on his legs, feet, and belly, weighing him down and making it hard to walk. I had to bring him back inside. It was up to me and Homer, who went to work with a purpose and focus that could never come from training, only from instinct. He knew where the sheep were and made a beeline for them. I had to stop every few minutes to scrape the ice off his coat and free his eyes, which were nearly frosted shut with ice and snow. He ploughed over and under drifts, often disappearing from sight, only to pop up fifty yards ahead of me. Even in a furious storm, I could see his tongue hanging out; he gobbled snow to keep from dehydrating. I worried this was too much for a sweet little dog. But we were out all night, Homer and I, and he located every ewe and every lamb, and helped me dig them free. He barked and nipped until the half-frozen animals started walking toward the barn. Two lambs had already died, frozen to the ground, by the time we found them. But we finally marched all the others back to the barn, put the ewes and lambs in their heated stalls, working for hours to make sure that all the right moms and lambs were together. I thought more than once what his effort would have meant to a farmer a century ago. Away from sheep, however, our troubles persisted. AT SOME POINT IN THE SUCCESSFUL TRAINING OF A SHEEPDOG, the dog and herder understand that they are doing this work together, a team working in harmony. Thats the beauty of sheepherding; thats what had happened with Rose and me almost from the first day. While Homer loved to be around sheep, we struggled to do it together, to stay in sync. The sheep excited him so much that our training problems seemed to worsen. Out in the pasture, he paid even less attention. Carolyn had pointed out many times that my good dog had problems. When I called his name, Homer often didnt respond. It took three or four shouts to get him to focus on even basic commands. It sometimes seemed almost as if I were invisible to him. Looking back with distress, I now understood that that was precisely how Id trained him to behave. Yet it was easy to overlook these problems most of the time, because we had such nice experiences together. I drove to Sandy Hook some weekends and beamed while Homer diligently herded the Atlantic waves for hours. He brought me to herding. And in those moments when I crated Orson or left him outside, Homer and I could almost furtively play and cuddle. Unlike Orson, Homer was not a dog who would fight for attenti
on or affection. Paula was his champion, his safe place. At night, while she read or watched TV in her favorite chair, Homer crept alongside and hunkered down. They were sweet moments, but also sad, with the aura of a dog seeking comfort and protection, not pleasure. At readings, while Orson barked and scouted for biscuits and stuck his paw and head in everybodys lap, Homer was often dozing quietly behind the podium. Without really acknowledging it, I had given up on the idea that this would change. The notion that Homer was off in his own world was quietly becoming ingrained in all of us. ONE REASON I DECIDED TO GET ANOTHER PUPPY WAS TO GIVE Homer a playmate. Orson didnt really play much; he just wanted to be with me. He needed to learn to be calm, to see a crate as a safe place of rest, and to relearn every obedience command there was. Rose, I reasoned, could lighten Homers load, give him a companion to play with and his own submissive dog to push around while Orson got more time to hang around with me. Everybody would be happy. It was-as Carolyn had warned me-a mistake, at least for Homer. I was getting another dog before I had resolved the problems with one I had, a common and classic blunder. Carolyn had urged me to set aside three months to train Homer for an hour each day, working on name recognition and basic obedience, generally strengthening our relationship. She believed any dog could be trained through its problems. Though I did eventually undertake more intensive training with him, Id also increased the pressure on this docile creature by falling for the easy and pleasurable solution-get a puppy. And this puppy was not about to take orders from her elder brothers. Rose dragged Homer all over the yard by his ruff, trying to induce him to play. Sometimes when he did, Orson-now possessive of this new female as well as of me-would jump in and intimidate him into stopping. Rose was an extraordinary dog-smart as a whip, confident, possessed of boundless energy and instinct. Training her was almost irresistible, pure joy, free of all the distractions, errors, and irritations that plagued my work with Homer. She seemed to soak up work and responsibility, looking for tasks to do, taking them on. She had little interest in meeting people or cuddling-she even found mealtimes an almost annoying intrusion into her work. But she had an intense interest in any job. Was my infatuation with her yet another obstacle for Homer, another thing to come between us? Despite my idea that I was getting Rose in part for Homer, she wound up connecting with Orson more. She was completely unfazed by his neediness and intensity, ignoring him or just dashing out of reach. Now poor Homer found himself with two dominant dogs to take his toys, filch his food, and muscle him away from me. At some point Id begun to enter the murky area where the boundary between the humans issues and the dogs troubles blur. I became increasingly annoyed with Homer, his avoidance, his lagging, his sniffing at every bush and tree, and, yes, his rejection. I found myself scolding him, urging him to hurry up on walks, to pay attention. Cmon, cmon, Id hiss in a voice I never used with any of my other dogs. Lets go, lets get going. Orson caused vastly more problems-still-but I found his antics endearing, almost appealing. The more of a nightmare he was, the closer we drew. And our training was paying off; hed grown calmer, saner, more responsive. We were working well together. Rose didnt need any urging to work with me; she seemed to live for it. Homer was different: he was withdrawing, and his withdrawal tested my patience, which probably made him withdraw further. Many people advised me to stop worrying about Homer. Look, hes just a dog, and hes living a better life than 99.9 percent of the dogs on the planet. Life doesnt have to be perfect, even for dogs. You do the best you can, and hes fine. For a number of reasons, that doesnt work for me. Does that philosophy really serve the dog, or is it designed to make the human feel better? My duty went deeper than that, I thought. The day I took on this dog, I accepted responsibility for his care. I hadnt done right by him. AS THE EMOTIONAL INTENSITY BETWEEN PEOPLE AND DOGS continues to grow, this notion has taken hold in many sectors of the dog world: once you acquire a dog, its yours forever. To give it to another home or, God forbid, a shelter is a breach of faith, even an act of cold-hearted betrayal. As weve come to see dogs more as members of our families and less as wonderful animals, notions that theyre human-like have grown. Youd never give a child away; how could you relinquish a dog? Yet I often saw and met dogs I believed would be happier elsewhere. Some simply couldnt cope with other pets, or didnt relate to their owners, or didnt have room to run. Some needed to work. Others were violent or aggressive and needed more isolation. Some bit passersby and deliverymen, terrified neighbors, or attacked smaller dogs. In this country alone, more than 400,000 a year bit children seriously enough to require hospital treatment. Such animals, through no fault of their own, were causing conflict of many kinds. Sometimes their owners got sued. Houses were wrecked, insurance got canceled, police were called. Or the dogs ended up on antidepressants and other powerful medications, or confined by electronic collars. When I suggested that such a dog might simply be happier in a different environment, the answer was almost always the same: Oh, I could never give her up. She couldnt live without me. Ill never quit on her. My own sense of canine ethics is different. Our responsibility to these creatures is clear and powerful: we have to speak for them and protect them, since they have no voices. Turning our heads from their problems, binding them to us for life because we can, isnt, to my mind, necessarily loving. Its an abrogation of responsibility. My job is to make my dogs as happy and comfortable as is reasonable and possible. If I cant manage that, then its my responsibility to help them find better lives. To do otherwise, it seems to me, is the crueler path. I had messed up in so many ways. There simply are few dogs better than Homer in disposition or breeding. He was beautiful, good-hearted, and bright. He did seem to me less grounded than Orson or Rose, more easily undone. Things they could ignore-claps of thunder, cars backfiring, my losing my temper-rattled Homer, sent him retreating to his crate or scurrying into another room. Was he happy? I wasnt sure. Was he as happy as he deserved to be? I didnt think so. Was he getting the attention he craved? Did he feel calm and safe? No. I found it particularly chilling when a psychiatrist friend who has studied human-animal attachment offered an observation based on my laments about Homer: You sound exactly the way you describe your father talking to you when you were a boy. Its almost as if your fathers voice is coming out of your mouth. There could be few more disturbing words for me to hear. But she was right. You cant live with Orson without shouting once in a while, and I make no apologies for that. He scarcely notices. Rose has been the kind of dog I never want to yell at, one who has benefited from my many previous screwups. But Homer upset me in a particular way, not through spectacular disasters-as when Orson went flying through our lovely leaded-glass window-but from more mundane and everyday annoyances: the way he walked (haltingly), ate (reluctantly), obeyed (intermittently). He didnt seem mine, somehow, and it amazed me to realize that I probably annoyed my father for many of the same reasons. My father and I had been estranged since I was eleven. He was continually frustrated with my sister and me, criticizing her for being overweight and difficult, exhorting me to become more athletic and confident. Impatient and judgmental, he alternately branded me a quitter or a sissy. Although he lived into his eighties, the two of us could never patch up our damaged relationship, overcome the anger we felt. It was into this minefield-some of the most tortured parts of my past-that poor Homer had wandered. My friend was telling a shattering but obvious truth: somehow Homer had become me, and I my father, a nightmare straight out of attachment theory. On some level Id concluded Homer wasnt good enough. He wasnt as adventurous as the other two dogs, nor as resilient. He didnt walk as fast, react as quickly, herd competently. Poor guy, I thought. No wonder he slept in another room. Ruminating over how to help him, I heard from a friend in Vermont that the gamekeeper of a forest preserve was looking for a border collie to help with its small flock of resident sheep. I knew the preserve and had often walked there with my dogs; in fact, Homer loved to run there. The gamekeeper had her own house on the grounds. Homer would be an only dog with sheep in his backyard, sheep that merely needed
to be moved once or twice a day from one pasture to the other. Beyond the farmstead were thousands of acres of forests and streams. A steady trickle of hikers and tourists would keep any sociable dog happy. I was going back and forth between New Jersey and Bedlam at this point in early fall, readying the grounds, waiting for and then welcoming our own flock. From New Jersey, I called the gamekeeper for the first of what turned out to be a dozen conversations. She would love to have Homer she said; he was just what she was looking for. Shed keep him by her side all day, every day. I can only describe the next few days as a sort of dog-related breakdown. The Homer situation had unleashed old demons. I couldnt bear the thought of giving him up but wasnt sure I could justify keeping him. All sorts of ghosts popped up-my father, the frightened kid I had been, the one who himself often felt abandoned. Lots of people, I knew, would be shocked if I sent him off to another home. That was his appealing face on the cover of my first dog book, A Dog Year. He and Orson and I had just spent months traveling the country on a book tour. Yet I couldnt shake the impulse that I needed to do something for him. Sometimes, I thought, you love a dog by letting him go. I told the gamekeeper Id drive up the next day to leave Homer with her for perhaps two weeks; then wed see what happened. She was thrilled. And I could picture him cavorting in the woods, chasing sheep whenever he wanted. Hed be free of my impatience and the bad job Id done training and protecting him. Hed get to start over with a new human, one-on-one. But two things derailed this plan. First, Paula came into my study in tears. You cant give Homer away, she said. This is too fast. We need to talk more about it. Maybe theres something else we can try. He loves us and we love him. Paula kept some distance from the canine part of my life. She loved our dogs but left the walking and herding to me. Unless I was out of town, dog care was my thing, not hers. But she cherished Homer. That same morning, my friend Ray Smith checked in. Id met Ray and his wife, Joanne, at a reading in Vermont; wed become instant friends. While I was trekking upstate to look at the farm and make preparations, Ray and Joanne had generously lent me their guest cabin. Dog lovers with their own sheep and a border collie, transplants from a Connecticut suburb, we had lots to talk about. Ray, a landscape architect, was the kind of friend who dispensed advice rarely, but when he did it counted all the more. Id e-mailed my plans for Homer and he sensed something disturbed and impulsive about the way I was pursuing it. Jon, I normally dont interfere in other peoples decisions, he said on the phone. But I feel I have to tell you that this doesnt feel right to me. Im afraid youll regret this if you do it so quickly. You dont even know this person youre bringing Homer to; you havent even met her. I can picture how youll feel dropping him off and driving away. Paulas reaction and Rays counsel pulled me up short. I called the gamekeeper, with whom Id now had hours of discussion, to cancel the meeting. Im sure she thought me quite mad. Actually, she was right. But people I trusted were warning me that I was being precipitous. A few weeks later, when I called to update the gamekeeper, I learned that shed quit her job at the preserve and gone elsewhere. My heart nearly dropped through my stomach. I owed Ray Smith a lot; so does Homer. The next call was to Carolyn, who suggested a tough, daily regimen to repair our relationship. She wanted me to say Homers name a hundred times a day while offering food. She wanted me-using more food-to work through a series of other grounding exercises that encourage a dog to pay attention, to see his name and commands as positive, and to experience training as a source of good things rather than yelling and disapproval. If I could make and reinforce eye contact, convey clarity in language, keep our training positive and rewarding, then over time, Homer and I might forge a new partnership. So every morning for two months-first in New Jersey and then on the farm-I got up before dawn to take Homer outside alone for an hour, working through these exercises. Then I put him inside and trained Rose. Then I took all three dogs for the first-though certainly not the last-walk of the day. It was exhausting. Over time, Orson was getting steadily calmer and Rose enthusiastically obedient. But Homer didnt seem to change much, at least not yet. One of my strategies for Homer was to start plotting activities for just the two of us. We began to leave Rose and Orson behind several times a day, something I should have done much earlier: at dawn, when we trained; then late morning, when we went out to chase balls and Frisbees; and again in the late afternoon, when I began what I called the school-bus ritual. It was a neat idea, better than I first realized. Homer loved school buses, mostly because kids came pouring off of them, and he loved kids. He was especially fond of one of our neighbors, Max, a sweet ten-year-old with a shy but easygoing nature. In a funny way, he was much like Homer, which is perhaps why the two connected. Homer adored Max from the first, and vice versa, so I thought it would be nice for him to greet Max at the bus stop. At 3:30 P.M. the bus pulled up to the corner across from our house and a gaggle of kids came thundering out. Homer waited, and then went into his patented wriggle when Max disembarked; Max beamed and looked for Homer, knelt down to say hello, gave him a hug. Then Max and Homer would walk the half-block to his house. By the third day, all I had to say was Lets go see Max and Homer would go nuts, as happy as if there were sheep outside. The other schoolkids loved Homer, too, and he was nearly drunk with joy from all the attention. The first day or two, he looked nervously around, perhaps waiting for Orson to appear and order him away. But he soon realized that greeting Maxs bus was his daily task, his moment, another form of work but without competition from his siblings or scolding and criticism from me. There was no part of this task that Homer could fail at, and it was delightful to see these two guys fall in love. It occurred to me, after only a few days, that this was the kind of relationship Homer would thrive on, and the kind I couldnt provide. Maxs family was dog-starved. He had a younger sister, Eva. His mother, Sharon, an education specialist, worked at home. His father, Hank, a magazine editor, worked grueling hours in the city but was at home several days during the week. Everybody in the family wanted a dog and talked incessantly about taking one to soccer games and playing with one in the backyard. In fact, Max asked if Homer could come over and play. So one sunny afternoon, shortly before I was due to head back to Hebron semipermanently, I brought Homer to Maxs house. I sat on the back porch with Hank, who sensed that there was more to this encounter than an interspecies playdate, but I didnt tell him what was on my mind. In a week or two I would head north for the winter for good. I didnt plan on coming back till after our lambs were born; Paula was arranging her schedule so that she could come upstate several times. Whatever was going to happen with Homer had to happen soon or else wait for months. I wanted, mindful of the Vermont disaster, to be careful this time. I needed to talk to Paula. She had come to see that Homer was struggling in our household but hated the idea of giving him up. And I had to think it through myself. Homer and I had been through a lot; he was like a limb or organ, an integral part of my life. Sitting on the porch, Hank said only how much they all loved Homer, and what a great dog he was. In the yard in front of me, Max and Homer were lying down face-to-face. Max was throwing a ball over Homers shoulder; hed rush to grab the ball, lope back to Max, and slurp his nose. Homer was having a blast, running in circles, tearing around the yard, smooching Max in between. Im sure Hank noticed that I was affected by the sight, although I didnt say why. The reason was that Id rarely seen Homer so uncomplicatedly happy. The next few days unraveled me. I knew where this was heading, yet it brought up awful pain and anger, much of it having nothing to do with Homer. The experience of being criticized, abandoned, frightened-all feelings I was thinking about subjecting Homer to or already had-resurfaced in me. I couldnt sleep. Not even Paula could quite grasp what was happening to me. So I called the only person I knew who would completely understand: my sister. Of course I understand that this is unbearable for you, she said. You think youre about to send Homer to the hell we grew up in. Yet as a veteran dog rescuer, she also understood the animal nature of dogs. Hell be happier. Hell adapt. And hell be close enough so that you and Paula can watch an
d make sure. The family I was describing was every dog rescuers dream, she pointed out: somebody at home almost all the time, everyone eager for a dog, young kids with energy, always somebody to play with and cuddle. Hes had a great life with you, she told me. But if he cant get what he wants with you and you cant get what you want with him, its okay to let him go. Youre not doing to him what was done to us. Its different, and its all right. An astounding thing, I thought. Finally, we were acting like a brother and sister, each helping the other out, with dogs as the vehicle. KEEPING CLOSE WATCH ON HOMER OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I could see that Jane was right. Maxs whole family lined up to snuggle and play with him. Homer could give these people everything that was expected from a pet and more, and he could get all the affection he needed without having to fight for it. No frustrated owner issuing herding commands, no dominant big brother, no obnoxious puppy. I asked Hank if he would be willing to have Homer stay there for a few days; if it went well, I said, we could talk about extending the visit further. Theyd all love it, he said. I decided to drop Homer off, then take the other two dogs upstate. If things worked out, I would bring Homer up at Christmastime so our family could say its proper farewells. If things didnt, Id drive down in a few days and take Homer back. We agreed that Paula would come by to check on things, and that Hank or Sharon and I would talk regularly, as long as necessary for us all to feel at ease and reach a mutual decision. That night Paula and I sat in stone-faced silence and took turns hugging and stroking Homer. I was truly heartsick, going over the choices again and again. Homer would do better as an only dog. He needed a less frenetic life than I lived on Bedlam Farm with the sheep and two other crazy border collies. He needed to be the focus of love and attention. He was powerfully connected to Max, who would probably live at home for most of the rest of Homers life. Everyone in the family was aching for a dog, and everyone loved Homer. It made enormous sense, yet it felt utterly wrenching. The next morning, Homer hopped into bed and snuggled with me more affectionately than I could remember. We went for a long walk together before sunrise. Then I left him in the backyard with Orson and Rose, and took his crate to Maxs house down the street, along with a carton of bones, treats, and food. Inside the house, I silently reassembled the crate, lined with his favorite sheepskin and quilt. Then I put Homer on a leash, and Paula and I walked him to what might be his new home. When I handed the leash to Sharon, Homer looked at me nervously; he started to follow me out, then stopped, restrained by the leash. Walking home, I could hear him barking all the way down the block. That night, on my late-evening walk with Orson and Rose, I saw a dog on a leash coming around the corner. Rose went wild, and Orson began thumping his tail. It was Homer. The sight of somebody else walking my dog, a creature I had loved for several years but had failed, struck deep and hard. Is it okay? yelled Sharon, trying to be sensitive. Sure, I said. Homer came running over to us, tail wagging, excited and confused. Goodbye, boy, I said, at first walking past him, then turning back to lean down, stroke his head, and kiss him on the nose. He seemed anxious and bewildered, started to follow me, yelped in alarm when Sharon drew him away. His yelps sliced through me like bullets. I turned away and kept walking, feeling as if Id left a part of myself behind. And of course, I had. The next morning, we returned to Bedlam. TWO MONTHS LATER, HOMER CAME UP FOR CHRISTMAS WEEK with Paula and Emma. I didnt think this sort of reunion was something we should do too often. Homer had earned his new life, and returning to ours had to be confusing and difficult for him. Dogs are not like people; they dont miss what theyve left behind. They figure out the new rules, check out the food and the folks, and set out to do what they do best-adapt. The reports from New Jersey had been encouragingly effusive. Everybody loved Homer. Nobody could believe how well-trained he was. Max was in heaven; Homer walked him to the school bus and was waiting for him when he got home. He lay next to Sharon all day as she worked in her home office; he dozed on the couch next to Hank while they watched basketball games. He availed himself of a number of sleeping options-sometimes with Hank and Sharon, sometimes with Max, once in a while with Eva. Max and his friends tossed Frisbees and balls for Homer in the yard, and he was the sensation of Maxs soccer team. Paula saw him from time to time and said he appeared at ease, wagging as he walked along. From the phone calls I could tell he was much loved: for weeks, wed been discussing his diet, coat, emotional state, bowel movements. Over time, as it became clearer that everybody felt very comfortable about Homer-except me-Id stopped calling. When Paula pulled up at Christmas with Homer in the backseat, both Orson and Rose pounced happily on him, and he and I had a joyous reunion. Life quickly grew complex for him, of course. Orson went after his bones, and Rose mercilessly taunted him to play. Within a few hours, he looked beleaguered and wary again. Over the next few days, though, things sorted themselves out. Rose was more interested in the sheep, Homer was happy to tear through the woods after chipmunks, and Orson generally ignored him. In the early morning, Homer crept up onto our bed as he always had, to bestow a series of quick licks and enjoy a cuddle before retreating-under Orsons glare-onto the dog bed on the floor. On the last day of his visit, I took him for what I imagined might be his last adventure with sheep, no small event in the life of a border collie. I had no doubt now that he was a happier dog, that Id made the right decision. Nor did I have any doubt that this sad turn was my responsibility, not due to any fault or shortcoming of his. I may sometimes speak with my fathers voice but I will not knowingly make my fathers mistakes. When I opened the gate, Homer tore into the pasture, racing for the ewes. When I called for him to stop, he slowed down. I ran up to be near him, to make sure nobody got hurt this time. But hed lost a step or two in his cushy suburban lifestyle, and the ewes kept their distance. By the time he caught up with them, he was winded. I came up next to him, put him in a lie-down, and sat scratching his ears while the sheep crunched peacefully on the hillside. He settled down. Thanks for everything, boy, I said. Im so sorry. Youre a wonderful dog. You deserved better. Homer licked my hand and stared at the sheep. It was probably, I thought, the last time wed spend together like this, for both our sakes. I was grateful for it. Maybe he was, too. At the end of the week, he drove off with Paula, his head propped on the rear window ledge of her car. He was looking back at me. ITS AMAZING, THIS EMOTIONAL AURA THAT ENVELOPS US AND our dogs. The pain of Homers leaving has dulled, but it hasnt vanished. It still feels as if some part of me has gone astray. I worry about him sometimes, especially at night. How do I really know if he is happy? Is he pining for us? Sometimes I think I see him, waiting by the back door to go to the sheep, or sniffing the woodpile for chipmunks. His is a spectral presence, invoking not only my dog, but the things the dog reminded me of, the demons he unknowingly unleashed. He was with us for three years, and the memories-his adorable puppyhood, his herding of waves and sheep, our travels across the country-dont leave just because he did. They are woven into my neural system, forever part of my life with dogs. Rose and Orson and I have a bountiful love affair, but I know they are not nearly as good-natured. The neighborhood UPS and Fed-Ex drivers dont love them the same way, and vice versa. Rose is a working girl, through and through, impossible to distract from her mission, the Queen of Bedlam Farm. And Orson, placid and loving though he has become, will always be an idiosyncratic grump. Hes the only dog I know who hates defenseless puppies. His only wish is to be within a few feet of me for as long as possible, a wish Ive happily granted. As much as I love these two-and boy, do I-Ill always miss Homers affectionate heart. How did it come to this, I sometimes wonder. But while I regret much about Homer, I dont regret sending him off to Max and Eva and Sharon and Hank. Things didnt work out as Id planned, but at least I didnt condemn him to the peripheries of love. Because he couldnt speak, I spoke for him. What I said was: I cant give you what you need, but I can find you somebody who will. In this, I kept faith with him. One bitter January night, Hank checked in for the first time in a few weeks, thanking me for the hundredth time for bringing Homer into their lives.
Grandparents, neighbors, schoolmates-everyone was crazy about him. A friend came by and fell in love with Homer, Hank told me. He told me how lucky we were to have such a sweet, easygoing dog. I cant say enough about Homer. Hes such a truly good dog.