by Jon Katz
The “images” Lesley was receiving—somehow—made me picture some of the worst herding and obedience competitions I’d attended. I could picture Orson in a show ring, entering and leaving through gates, aroused by the applause, growing frenzied—and then distracted. He hated almost all direct commands, even from me. Before he got his new name, he cowered, winced, and panted—almost every avoidant behavior a dog can show when confronted with something fearful or strange.
A Nazi parade. It gave me a bit of a jolt.
I appreciated that Lesley wasn’t claiming to hear Orson’s voice, but rather felt she was picking up images that helped explain him. Behaviorists argue that dogs don’t have language and cannot think in human terms. Some behaviorists believe that dogs’ thoughts consist of sensory ideas, which take the place of words. Other scientists use phrases like “movies of the mind” when they try to interpret dogs’ mental abilities; images drawn from experience substitute for words in their canine heads.
There’s a long, rich history of humans who have special gifts that enable them to understand and receive information from animals. This therapeutic communication with the spirit world often comes through dreams or visions, even hallucinations, during which animal spirits explain the sources of their problems and provide guidance for finding a cure.
Certain individuals are believed to possess such unusual visionary powers that they can enter the spirit world at will. For thousands of years, these people have been known as shamans. They’re credited with having an unusual affinity with the spirits of animals. I’d heard of such people and read about them.
Lesley might have been one of them. If you accept the concept of dogs thinking in sensory images—movies of the mind—and that some people might have unusual receptivity to such images, then her work didn’t seem so outlandish.
For whatever reason, I felt she’d read Orson accurately and grasped the complex nature of our relationship.
Like many dog lovers, I am extraordinarily attuned to my three. I usually know if they’re in pain, aroused, fearful, or uneasy. I often anticipate their behaviors—from upchucking to barking—as they do mine. I’ve had a number of dreams about Orson, no doubt linked to difficult parts of my own past, as well as to the animal parts of myself. On occasions, when I’m with him, images of fear and pain have flashed through my mind quickly, a kind of waking vision.
So perhaps Lesley just took these instincts further, somehow. Since I didn’t really believe I could literally read Orson’s or my other dogs’ minds, I’d never really tried. But I kept in mind my midlife motto: Learn and grow.
I didn’t quite grasp the notion of soul retrieval, or how Lesley’s dowsing around the grounds could help matters. But what I believed was less important than what helped the dog. This whole excursion into strange new territory wasn’t about me, but him.
Lesley had good, solid ideas about helping Orson: keeping him with me more when I wrote, keeping him out of the yard when I wasn’t there, sprinkling the gates with food and beef jerky each morning so that, over time, he would come to see them as less dangerous. Equally important, she reminded me to make certain he was given the opportunity to succeed and be praised, for his battered canine ego to be strengthened, even rebuilt. Her counsel was both apt and utilitarian, something I could translate into practical action.
She felt a positive connection with me, she said, and felt she had a good grip on the dog. A bit to my surprise, I wanted to stay in touch with her. Of my dogs, Lesley said, only Orson had broken pieces of his soul floating around out there. At least, only Orson was damaged to the extent that she received powerful imagery from him. Which was interesting, because he was the only dog I hadn’t raised from puppyhood.
So we agreed to talk by phone in a few weeks, to see what else she might glean.
By this point I felt as if I were living in a movie, a story full of ghosts and spirits, dim flashbacks and unearthed secrets.
The script called for me to accept the communicators and shamans and move, along with my dog, to a higher level of consciousness. Some friends were delighted, praising my open-mindedness; others clearly thought I’d lost my marbles.
What Orson needed was to be treated appropriately for his physical ailments and to be trained—still more—for his behavioral problems. Anything else was just letting myself off too easy.
But how tempting. How I wished he could talk to me, tell me what had happened to him, why he felt so anxious and unsafe, how I could help. What wouldn’t I pay for the glue that would put his broken parts back together, and give him contentment for his remaining years? He had done so much for me, I would be happy to return the favor. If Orson had taught me anything, it was that he isn’t like me, doesn’t reason like me, and, sadly, can’t talk to me. He was an instinctive and wounded animal, not a four-legged human waiting for a therapist—or spiritual advisor—to tap into his childhood.
Ultimately, though, what these communicators told me, regardless of how they received the information, was something I already knew but needed to hear again and again: I had more work to do with this dog.
It would be interesting to have a personal shaman, I told Orson. “When you’ve got problems, send signals to her,” I advised him. “Don’t nip at people.”
As it happened, relief for Orson was definitely on the way, but it didn’t come from the land of extrasensory perception. The thing that brought Orson the most delight that year was an expensive gadget, a farm implement, something with an internal-combustion engine.
Several weeks after Lesley’s visit, John Sweenor—mechanic, friend, neighbor, a member of our strange and growing little tribe at Bedlam—came by and saw me hobbling. I’d had a bad left ankle for years, and wore orthotics and a leg brace to keep from falling. Sometimes, walking as much as I did around the farm was painful.
By that spring, however, I’d developed worsening, almost blinding pain in my right leg—the supposedly good one. The diagnosis was a torn quadricep, probably caused by climbing the steep hills around the farm, hauling lambs and supplies up and down the slopes. The pain was relentless, exhausting, dispiriting.
The injury would take weeks to heal, the doctor said, and would heal only if I stayed off those hills and off my leg. This was both difficult and uncomfortable. I loved walking; the dogs and I strolled for hours around the farm and through the adjacent woods. And I loved sheepherding, which also involved a lot of movement. Even a quiet visit with donkeys required making my way up a steep incline.
Anthony and John had been badgering me ever since I arrived to buy an ATV, an all-terrain vehicle—or four-wheeler, as they’re called upstate. ATVs are somewhat controversial. Teenagers or irresponsible drivers can steer them into grisly accidents. And environmentalists hate the idea of noisy machines penetrating quiet wooded places, burning fossil fuel and spewing fumes.
I hated the idea for different reasons: ATVs offended my middle-aged ego. “They’re like golf carts,” I sniffed. “I don’t need a machine to get around my own farm.” Increasingly, though, I did. If I didn’t rest my now bad leg, I wouldn’t recover. If I couldn’t recover, how could I maintain this wonderful, but physically demanding, life in this lovely place?
One day John drove up with his own ATV on a trailer and rolled it out for me to test-drive. It was fun maneuvering the thing down the wooded paths and around the rolling meadow. And it was a pleasure to climb up into the pasture without hurting. But I already had a farm truck and an SUV and didn’t relish calling Paula to suggest buying still another vehicle.
John and Anthony both argued that I needed one. ATVs were useful, they said, good for hauling hay and firewood and trash. It was also fun to go trekking to nearby farms or into the woods. One thing I’d noticed—and often argued with environmentalist friends about—was that people like Anthony don’t use such contraptions to despoil nature but to experience it. He and his friends are constantly out in fields and woods on four-wheelers and snowmobiles; he tosses his daughter, Ida, into her seat
and heads out for picnics and river explorations.
“I don’t think I can buy one right now,” I protested to John. But my heart was sinking. Doctors can say what they want, but there was no way to maintain a farm with three dogs, three donkeys, three chickens, and a lot of ewes in labor while staying off one’s feet.
So a few days later, I went to the dealer with John and, as both he and Anthony knew I would, returned with a Kawasaki Prairie. John gave me a long lesson on operating it safely; Anthony showed me how to climb steep hills and make turns.
Then I was alone with it, a snappy dark-green model with wide, steady tires. The machine was almost shockingly simple to use: You turned the key, adjusted the choke, and then drove off, using a throttle near your right thumb. John had insisted I buy a helmet; he also installed a rear seat, in case Paula, Emma, or a dog needed a ride.
The dogs gathered around the ATV curiously. I couldn’t envision a dog riding in that seat, but I was wrong. Orson hopped up and planted himself in it as if he’d been born there, waiting for me to take him four-wheeling, apparently. So I climbed on, trying to spare my painful leg. He put his head over my right shoulder, to navigate, and off we puttered, slowly, down a path into the woods.
Omigod, I remember thinking as we launched, the wind in my face, Orson’s head on my shoulder. I’ve wasted my life.
Orson was completely at ease. With his tremendous agility, he kept his footing over every bump and turn. I accelerated a bit and we zipped around the meadow. When I pulled back into the driveway, having kept our first excursion brief, Orson waited until he was sure I wouldn’t change my mind and crank the thing up again. Then he leaped down, looking delighted with himself.
The dogs instantly loved this new contraption. They loved the running, and the sense of adventure. Rose, who wanted no part of riding, was happy to take up point position about a dozen yards ahead. She never had to break a trot to keep well ahead of me, no matter how fast I went. Clementine, surprisingly fleet for a Lab, trotted right alongside or to the rear. Orson sometimes ran but usually rode.
We found new streams and trails in the woods, stopped for picnics. I started packing sandwiches and treats, plus water for us all. The border collies never tired of running alongside, but after a few miles, Clem did, so I sometimes lifted her onto the seat.
Orson had a shaman and two vets, one holistic and one traditional. He had been studied by behaviorists and trainers. His diet included Chinese herbal supplements. I’d trained him year after year. I’ve read countless books, tried innumerable treats, methods, and programs, talked to vets, behaviorists, herders.
I can honestly say that none of those efforts changed this strange dog as dramatically as my ATV. The Helldog, as he was known in my family, became: Hell on Wheels. The ATV somehow meshed happily with his crazy self.
He had found his work—intense, exciting, in close proximity to me. Unlike sheepherding, which he had to watch from a distance, on the ATV he was in the center of the storm, right where he always wanted to be. The machine gave him the chance to run like a fiend, which he loved, and then to navigate, which he loved even more. And there was no way to do it wrong or screw it up. It was all positive, all the time.
Every morning when I came outside, he took up position on the rear seat, awaiting travel instructions. If we were doing something else, he jumped down and followed along. If we were ATV-ing, he was in heaven. He’d never loved working with sheep nearly so much. The border collie who needed work had found some, and it calmed him even more than Chinese herbs.
Over the past months, Rose had pushed Orson aside a bit. She’d gained importance because she was so indispensable, and because dealing with the sheep was so big a part of farm life. Clem was irresistible to everyone; people lined up to see and cuddle with her. But this machine provided Orson’s triumphal comeback. I didn’t really know how it related to whatever had been bothering him. But I know he was a different dog, less frenetic, more at ease.
The ATV had other purposes. It would give my leg a chance to begin healing. The wagon that attached to the rear was useful; I used it to haul manure for the gardens, bales of hay, firewood for the stoves. Aboard the ATV, I drove up to the top of the pasture each morning and night to check on the ewes and lambs, visit the donkeys, and monitor fences that can’t be seen from the house. I surprised coyotes, rescued a ewe stuck in a thorn bush. But the machine’s greatest contribution was harder to quantify or describe.
One early summer morning, I left Rose and Clem in the yard. Orson hopped up onto the ATV and we roared off. I had packed my lunch and a marrow bone for him. At the top of the pasture, we motored over to the brown Adirondack chairs, with their thrilling view. In the past, I’d clambered up there almost daily, but since my other leg started hurting I rarely used those chairs.
At the top of the hill, I took in the lovely breeze, unpacked my sandwich, and gave Orson his bone to gnaw on. We watched the puffy clouds move slowly over the fields, listened to crickets and cicadas. After a while, Orson put his head on my foot and napped. I had a strong feeling I rarely got from this difficult creature: peace. It was nice.
In June, I decided Orson and I were ready to take our act on the road. I checked the firmness of the belts holding the backseat in place, and waved Orson aboard. We headed down the dirt road and into town, right down the middle of Route 30.
Strictly speaking, this was not legal. But it sure was fun. A rottweiler roared out of a yard and gave chase. In any other context, there would have been a brawl, a drama, with barking, charging dogs, and anxious humans. But this time, Orson looked down at this dog with contempt and just blew him off. Orson barked once or twice; I yelled insults; we cruised on.
We drove by Mrs. O’Malley sitting in her garden and watched her jaw drop. We zipped past the Presbyterian church and waved at the Reverend Hoffman. We saw Don Coldwell in his workshop, crafting more Adirondack chairs.
When we pulled up to the Bedlam Corners Variety Store, Marie came out and gave me a soda. “How did you get here?” she asked, incredulously, staring at Orson, who seemed to relish his role as grand marshal of his own parade. ATVs are not supposed to go cruising down highways.
Next, keeping to the side of the road, we headed for Gardenworks, the sprawling garden and farm center at the edge of town. As we roared up to the front door, its owner, Meg Southerland, blinked and smiled. Orson hopped off for some water, which his fans among the staff were happy to provide, and I proudly showed off my new vehicle. Everyone looked around for the trailer that had transported it from the farm, but of course there wasn’t one.
“You didn’t,” said Meg, who’d grown used to my odd adventures but was nonetheless alarmed.
“I did.”
After a few minutes spent visiting, though, it was time to head home. I didn’t want to press my luck and run into a sheriff’s deputy or state trooper.
But we were almost alone on the road, it turned out, chugging back down Route 30, past the variety store and the church, past Mrs. O’Malley and the rottweiler, and up the hill to the farm, where Clem and Rose were in the yard, waiting to greet us.
How strange a sight we must have been, man and dog. All we needed were silk scarves to look like flying aces, like Snoopy and the Red Baron.
It was a victory march. Orson could not have been happier, prouder, more at ease. Perhaps we both sensed it was some kind of high-water mark, after all our hard work, training, needles, tests, and herbs. I have never loved him more than at that moment.
If parts of Orson’s soul remained scattered, maybe we’d picked up one or two on our procession. I’d have to check with his personal shaman. Meanwhile, we were a happy duo.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ecstatic Places
I hadn’t thought about my fish for years. It was Paula who reminded me of my aquatic companions. They were the dogs of my childhood.
I was obsessed with tropical fish—betas, mollies, guppies, tetras—between the ages of eight and twelve, the first of sever
al great obsessions. At first, no one outside of my family knew of their existence, and no one inside my family cared.
I launched this enterprise at the J. J. Newberry five-and-dime store in downtown Providence, where a bald and businesslike one-armed man, who always wore a white shirt and tie, ran the fish department. A blunt sort, he never asked a single question about me, not even my name. But he was generous in telling me all he knew about fish, which was a great deal.
Before long, I had six or seven tanks—at least four of them held twenty-five gallons—hooked up to an elaborate system of thermostatic heaters, lights, gurgling pumps. Fish, tanks, and related equipment took over my room and much of the upstairs.
All these elements I laboriously hauled through busy streets and transported on buses and up long blocks to our aging, sprawling house miles away. It took months, even years, to fully assemble this world. To pay for it all, I regularly stole money from my mother’s purse. I don’t know to this day if she noticed and said nothing, or didn’t notice, or didn’t want to.
Over time, I learned to breed fish to sell and trade, supervising matings and innumerable hatchings. I was the house physician, as well, performing surgery and removing sores and tumors. I constructed elaborate surgical netting with lights to trap sick fish and hold them while I worked. I saved many fish lives, and lost some others.
I ordered medicines from different parts of the country so I could treat funguses and bacterial infections. After a while, strangers began to call and ask me to come save their fish, and I would grab my bag of surgical instruments, lamps, and medicines and wait to be picked up.
