by Jon Katz
Working with her, I became fascinated by the spiritual nature of training a dog. Two species trying to communicate with each other—it was a strange but powerful and alluring challenge. I also came to love the rhythms and satisfactions of farm life.
Before long, I began writing about dogs. I met and befriended scholars, breeders, behaviorists, vets, and dog lovers by the thousands, in person and online.
A researcher bombarded me with studies, surveys, and academic journal articles on dog behavior, genetics, and the human-animal bond. I was invited to training and veterinary conferences.
My own dog life had changed radically, continuously. After Julius and Stanley, the two Labs who’d lived so amiably with me when Orson arrived, had died, Homer had entered the household, but he was still struggling to coexist with so dominant a brother as Orson. Now, just before we decamped to the farm, another border collie, named Rose, had joined us—a configuration that, in the way of life with dogs, did not last long.
I’d named this place in honor of West Hebron’s main intersection, known as Bedlam Corners, home to its only retail establishment, the Bedlam Corners Variety Store. Bedlam Farm.
A century ago, Hebron was so busy it was hard to cross the road; the intersection deserved its moniker. (The word bedlam evolved from the name of the world’s first insane asylum in seventeenth-century London.) Now you could sit on a lawn chair for a half hour and not see much activity at that intersection, but Bedlam seemed a particularly apt name for Orson and me.
Three months earlier, we’d left the cabin I owned in nearby Cambridge, New York, where I’d written several books, and set out, drawn by mysterious impulses and instincts, to explore Hebron, an out-of-the-way, economically struggling mill town near the Vermont border.
“Hebron?” my neighbor in Cambridge had sniffed. “That’s really the sticks. Nobody goes out there.”
Hebron was, in fact, on the way to nowhere, but was reportedly beautiful, a sort of fading Brigadoon. As the locals put it, it was as country as dirt.
As we drove down Route 30, Orson rode in his customary position, sitting in the backseat of the truck, his head on my right shoulder, navigating. We passed a faded sign on the edge of the village: HEBRON 1786. Unless you were looking for Hebron, you had no real reason to visit or travel through it. But if you did, you couldn’t help being drawn to it.
Like almost all agricultural areas upstate, Hebron was poor. Family farming was dying out, and no industry had replaced it. People undertook long commutes to Vermont or Saratoga Springs for work. The young pulled up stakes altogether. New York City weekenders were beginning to show up and make retreats out of bankrupt dairy farms, but they were few.
I gazed around at the stately old farmhouses, soft green pastures bounded by rolling hills, ponds, and lakes—and felt I’d somehow come home.
I noticed cows tied up in some backyards, chickens crisscrossing the road, a dog strolling down the middle of Route30. The town clerk, it appeared, was also the town barber and beautician. Farmhouses with acreage still cost less than a two-car garage in New Jersey.
I could see the town’s sadder attributes, too, the grinding poverty of trailers and cabins nestled in the woods without plumbing. Winters, I already knew, were brutal here, the winds screeching through these valleys, the hilly roads steep and slick. Stopping at the Variety Store for a soda, I heard that a huge bear had been spotted out on Chamberlin Mills Road.
I called a real estate agent on my cell phone.
I understood viscerally that this trip was more than a house-hunting expedition. It was one of those fliers you take if you are fortunate, crazy, and determined not to do what’s expected, which is to settle into the final leg of your life quietly and without complaint. I still craved change. I believed that before that death when the body gives out for one reason or another, there was another, more insidious one—the death of your sense of possibilities, a rusting of the hinges and closing of the doors inside your mind. That was the one I most feared.
And though I’d never said so aloud, I’d come to believe that Orson had appeared in my life to make sure that didn’t happen. Somehow, this crazy dog next to me had become my scout. Together, we were headed somewhere.
From the crossroads at Bedlam Corners, I looked up at a hillside and saw a regal farmhouse tucked behind old trees, surrounded by faded barns and unmowed fields. From a broad front porch with rocking chairs, it had an unobstructed view of sweeping farmland and wooded valleys that rolled all the way to Vermont. I reached for the phone again.
“I like that place up on the hill,” I told the Realtor.
“It’s not for sale,” she said.
A few weeks later, Paula and Emma and I and the dogs were vacationing on Cape Cod and the agent called. “You know your dream farm? It’s on the market.”
And now Orson and I were waiting for the moving van. He was drawn—obsessively, as usual—to the chipmunks darting in and out of the barn.
Along with the truck carrying the contents of our little cabin, another cargo would soon arrive: fifteen of Carolyn’s ewes, because they were “dog broke,” familiar with herding dogs. When the farm transport trailer pulled up, Carol the Lonely Donkey would trot off, too.
Well, I told myself, I no longer felt stuck in the rut of suburban midlife. Quite the opposite: I was terrified. “What have you done?” I asked Orson. He just tore after another chipmunk.
Orson was one of those dogs who gave unqualified love to only one living thing: me. He was also very attached to Paula and Emma and a few select people (like Carolyn), but by and large he didn’t really warm to other animals or people.
He didn’t often tolerate their coming near me or our house. He’d fling himself against doors, gates, and car windows to ward off intruders; his standard greeting to another dog was to charge.
Orson was fond of little Rose, but he bullied poor Homer. He wouldn’t let him come within three feet of me, glowered at Homer while he ate until he abandoned his bowl and fled the room, stole his toys and bones. Homer generally took refuge in any room where Orson wasn’t.
But he had surprising amounts of affection, too, sometimes reserved for the oddest of recipients.
Our second spring on Bedlam Farm, a new friend offered me a rooster named Winston and three hens, so that I would have fresh eggs. I’d been impressed by the industrious, businesslike nature of her own flock of chickens.
And Winston had a dramatic backstory, for a rooster. Speckled black and white, with a Patton-like authority, he had a bad leg, acquired in an epic battle defending his flock from a hawk. Two hens had been lost in the mayhem, but a mangled Winston had bought the others enough time to hustle inside their henhouse. He deserved an honorable retirement, and since I also limped on a bad left leg, we seemed a good fit.
When the chickens arrived, Orson—thinking lunch all the way—took off after them. But I’d anticipated this welcome, so I had him on a long lead. And after a few days, filled with many treats, lectures, and screams from me, he understood that these were cohabitants, not random prey. It helped that I made a point of scattering liver treats on the ground whenever we came near the chickens.
So I was surprised and horrified to look out my office window one afternoon and see Winston commandeer the front lawn and hobble, with purpose and dignity, right toward Orson, napping in the sun. I didn’t have time to get outside and intercept Winston, so I stood watching tensely from the window. I saw Orson’s eye open like one of those cartoon foxes or cats when a tempting mouse strolls by. Border collies are genetically close to wolves, and Orson had lots of wolf in him. He’d chase not only chipmunks and field mice, but deer and wild turkeys. I knocked frantically on the window glass, hoping either to distract him or scare Winston off.
But the rooster marched straight up the slope like Pickett at Gettysburg—or his British namesake. If he’d had a sword, it would have been drawn. Into the valley of the shadow, I thought.
Orson sat up suddenly, but Winston kept com
ing. He’s gone, I thought, rushing toward the front door. It took me only a few seconds, but when I got out onto the porch, I saw Winston seat himself next to Orson, who was now staring at the rooster in amazement. Orson’s ears were up, and his tail was twitching, neither of which I took to be a good sign. Still, Winston was alive.
Orson looked at me; I made what I hoped were soothing noises. Then he sighed, lay back down, and resumed his snooze.
I could hardly believe it. But over the next few days, there was no doubt: an inexplicable friendship was born.
When Orson and I came into the barn, Orson sniffed Winston, even gave him a lick once in a while. When Orson was out in the yard, Winston limped over to visit, clucking and puffing. The two pals napped together on sunny afternoons.
Maybe pals was an exaggeration; Winston never looked directly at Orson, just settled down comfortably beside him; Orson didn’t seek Winston out, but accepted his presence. I often glanced out the living room window and marveled at the sight of these two creatures, both staring out over the valley, each seemingly lost in his own thoughts but content to ponder things together. Orson was not a meditative creature by nature. This friendship—or whatever it was—was good for him, I decided.
The relationship only ripened. When a stray dog came running up the road after the chickens, Orson rushed protectively in front of Winston and, barking furiously, drove the rattled intruder off. When Orson and I took walks up into the pasture, Winston often started up the hill with us. Like me, he couldn’t go far or fast, so he rarely made it up to the crest of the hill in time. But once in a while, if we stayed up there long enough, he joined us. I had some happy moments sitting up there in an Adirondack chair with my strange dog and his new buddy, all of us taking in the sunshine and the scenery.
It’s healthy to remember, dealing with dogs and other animals, that we are largely ignorant. There were parts to this dog that I would never understand.
For instance:
If Orson could befriend, or at least tolerate, a grumpy rooster, why was he so hostile to gentle, enthusiastic service and therapy dogs? It seems an odd thing to say, but over time, it simply became clear: He didn’t like exuberant, social dogs like Labs and golden retrievers. He didn’t like Seeing Eye dogs. He didn’t like puppies. Almost any dog that made people go “awwww” just set him off.
The strange thing about this trait was, I loved him for it. Service and therapy dogs and their owners do great work; they deserve praise and appreciation. But in the same way the official class bad boy often resents the overachievers, Orson disliked nice dogs, particularly if they wore one of those stenciled vests that said “Therapy.” When I was in an anthropomorphic mood, I reasoned that he disdained dogs whose circumstances allowed them to be nicer than he was. Perhaps they were the dogs he wished he could be.
One Sunday afternoon I took him to a reading in Saratoga. He loved the attention he got at book events, although applause would sometimes arouse him and spark a spate of barking.
At this store, a blind woman showed up with Maggie, her beloved Seeing Eye dog, a true sweetheart. In seconds, while I was distracted by conversation, Orson slipped his collar and was running Maggie down the aisles. I could hear barking and yelping at the far end of the store. Maggie’s owner looked bewildered, calling to her dog, saying over and over, “She never runs off. Where could she be?”
Hurrying to the store entrance, I saw that Orson had chased Maggie right out the front door—while it was held open by a customer, apparently—and under a car in the mall parking lot. Maggie looked traumatized. Orson, barking and circling, appeared to be having a good time. I was mortified. What kind of miserable creature goes after a Seeing Eye dog?
“They’re out here,” I yelled back into the store. “They’re just playing.”
Then, cursing, I kneeled down and grabbed Maggie’s halter. Orson, chastened by my tongue-lashing, slithered along the ground. Maggie looked rattled but eager to get back to her post; owner and dog were happily reunited. Orson, after numerous muttered death threats, lay down next to me while I read and talked and signed. But he never took his eyes off Maggie.
How do you love a dog like that? And, more interesting, why?
People who love dogs often talk about a “lifetime” dog. I’d heard the phrase a hundred times before I came to recognize its significance.
Lifetime dogs intersect with our lives with particular impact; they’re dogs we love in especially powerful, sometimes inexplicable, ways. While we may cherish other pets, we may never feel that particular kind of connection with any of the rest. For lack of a better term, they are dogs we fall in love with, and for whom we often invent complex emotional histories.
You could argue that until the end of one’s life with dogs, it isn’t possible to say which was your once-in-a-lifetime dog. In my experience, though, people do usually know, if they’re fortunate enough to have one.
People often need to see their dogs as guarding or healing or loving them and them alone—as in the dog that pines for its owner for years, or crawls hundreds of miles across the moors to get home. I’ve always resisted that idea. I want my dogs to love and feel safe with others besides me. I suspect that when dogs can’t, we’ve mistaken anxiety and confusion for love. It’s not unusual for us to encourage and reinforce the behaviors we want in our dogs, then attribute our own needs and motives to them. The lifetime dog, I suspect, is an unconscious, maybe even unwilling, partner in this process.
Yet there’s no denying the degree to which Orson and I bonded. He was always with me, when he could be. And I always had him with me, when I could. I even took him halfway across the country when I taught at the University of Minnesota one fall.
I worried about Orson all the time. It pained me greatly when he suffered, and I was exhilarated when he seemed happy. It felt like a pure relationship of unquestioned love, unbreakable loyalty, and the absence of judgment. Who knows whether he felt anything like this? But because he couldn’t speak, I could speak for him, imagine a personality for him, whether it was accurate or not.
His spirit seemed parallel to mine. There was a link, a connection, that I couldn’t explain. But I felt it nonetheless.
So when I sensed that something central in my life had changed since Orson arrived, I was right and wrong.
As I’d settled into a suburban white-collar life, almost unthinkingly, I’d drifted away from a part of myself. When Orson arrived, he began reconnecting me to that other self; it was obvious as soon as I set foot on the farm and felt such joy, fulfillment, and contentment. I doubt he did this by design. It’s less awkward to speak in terms of his sparking something within me that was long dormant. Yet no other dog I ever loved could have done this, or could do it again. Orson’s pain touched me; his plight inspired me; his love comforted me. When I came home and he threw himself upon me, my heart rose up. Sometimes I was so moved, I wanted to cry.
Without Orson, I would not be here. The happy and unhappy truths inherent in that realization will intrigue, plague, and haunt me to the end of my time.
On the early fall day the trailer from Pennsylvania arrived, and the sheep and donkey rushed out into the pasture toward the lush green grass, Orson and I soon followed. He was on a long leash, but when he looked at the sheep, that old gleam showed in his eyes.
“Hey,” I hissed at him, not wanting the moment to be spoiled. “Settle down.”
I walked him up the hill—perhaps a quarter of a mile—and then we turned and looked out over the sprawling valley below us. Hawks circled vigilantly overhead. Carol the donkey was gnawing happily on the bark of an old apple tree below, and the sheep had begun serious grazing, the trauma and discomfort of a long journey already forgotten. I leaned back into one of the Adirondack chairs I’d perched at the crest of the hill, savoring the sight.
Orson put his paw on my knee, and licked my face. I slipped the leash from his collar. He looked at me expectantly for directions, but I had none to give. I was suffused with gratitud
e for his having led me to this unimaginably beautiful place, the rumpled, balding grandson of impoverished Russian immigrants sitting atop an expanse that had sustained farmers decades before the first battles of the Civil War.
“You’re free,” I said. He froze for a moment, stared at me, then took off.
Animals free to move in their natural environments are a beautiful and rare sight. There’s little in the animal world to compare with the graceful lope of a border collie with work to do and lots of room to do it.
When border collies approach sheep, they’re supposed to break wide of the flock, circling behind them to push them toward the shepherd. Orson was more prone to dashing right at the sheep, scattering them in a melee of fear and confusion. In nearly two years of trekking out to Carolyn’s farm, in hundreds of contacts with sheep, he’d never managed that classic semicircular “outrun” behind them, except in empty fields away from sheep. Sometimes he would begin, but always, something inside him would snap. He’d turn directly toward the sheep, so that herding became chasing. It was Orson’s plight, really: He could never quite escape himself, any more than I could.
But certain animals in certain situations can sense an occasion and enter the spirit of the moment, especially if they know and read their human companions well.
I was feeling exhilarated that day. Walking to the top of the hill—my hill—and looking down at the farm—my farm, with my newly arrived livestock—was a landmark moment. Could a dog as attached to me as Orson was fail to sense that?
Freed, he broke to the right and began a beautiful, bounding run far wide of the sheep, almost as if we were swept up in the pride and accomplishment of the moment—his moment as much as mine—and were determined to honor it.
A classic outrun, Discovery Channel stuff. I rose to my feet to see it better. He didn’t look back at me, as he usually did. I kept my mouth shut, as I often don’t.
