A Good Dog

by Jon Katz

  Getting a dog, any dog, from Pam was not simple. She had a great passion for Labs, but also a long list of concerns and worries about where her dogs were going and how they’d fare. Matching dogs and people was a major priority.

  She didn’t particularly like Labs living with border collies (they ran too fast); she wasn’t sure about a farm (a chance to pick up parasites); she didn’t want the dogs overtrained or undertrained or not trained at all. She threw up a raft of roadblocks and reservations. The people who got one of her dogs were those who battled through them. Getting Clem had taken nearly a year of cajoling and convincing, and then waiting.

  Pam did not know of Orson’s death, I assumed. I hadn’t talked about it much, and she didn’t mention it. I wasn’t looking for another dog—unless it was sweet, loving Pearl, and I was never going to get her to budge on Pearl.

  Pam knew, too, that I didn’t like these joint ownership arrangements, having dogs on the farm that were not neutered or spayed. I like to own my dogs without strings attached, and although every good breeder disagrees, I think unneutered dogs often spark behavioral issues with other dogs and are more likely to cause trouble. But I almost always felt like driving out to see Pam and her beautiful dogs.

  So I drove over to Pawlet, Vermont. Pam and her assistant, Heather Waite, were waiting for me. Pearl, I noticed, was in a crate in the waiting room where Pam met prospective dog buyers—and grilled them until they squirmed.

  “Miss Pearl,” I yelped. “My sad-eyed girl.” Usually, she was in her residence in the rear. Let out of her crate, she walked over slowly, put her head on my knee, turned those heartbreaking brown eyes on me, and dissolved into a heap by my feet. I lowered myself carefully to the floor and hugged her.

  Pearl was all sweetness; she loved and wanted to be loved. Those of us who cherish Labs understand that however profound they seem, there’s not always much going on behind those soulful looks (sometimes it’s hamburger they really love). But Pearl seemed to recognize my sorrow, and to empathize.

  I was sure she was waiting for me, waiting to leave behind the world of dog shows and breeding and join a family—mine. It would not happen, not for years. But I couldn’t blame Pam; Pearl was the kind of dog that ought to be bred; there should be others as beautiful and calm and affectionate.

  As usual, Pam and Heather and I dog-talked—breeding, training, Labs—for about half an hour. Then Pam went out to get Stripe, the black Lab she wanted to show me.

  He came roaring out into the waiting room, a big, brawny, powerful dog, full of enthusiasm. He bounded from one end of the room to another. I could see what a great working dog he could make, how he’d love to run alongside the ATV through the woods. He’d hardly break a sweat.

  “He’s great,” I said as Stripe went sniffing from one of us to the other. “But I don’t know if he’s for me.” I liked mellower dogs. Anyway, I really wasn’t looking for a dog just now.

  Pam nodded. “He may not be for you, but the shame of it is, you would be great for him.” She never pushed a dog on anyone, though. If it didn’t take, it didn’t.

  So she led Stripe away. Heather, who’d also become a friend, winked at me. “What about our crippled dog?” she said, quietly, to Pam. “What about Pearl?” Pam looked away, as if she couldn’t bear the idea.

  I stared at Pam. “You would let me have Pearl? For real?” She was still lying at my feet, awaiting pats and scratches.

  Pearl, it turned out, had damaged one of her legs in a kennel accident and had undergone three painful, complicated surgeries to repair the damage. Then she’d spent months in a crate recovering, as the doctor had prescribed.

  Her movement had been restricted. Confinement to a crate. Walking only on a leash. No running or jumping. She needed a lot of rehab, from massage to slow hill climbing, and there was a good chance she’d need more surgery.

  Poor Pearl had had a rough time, suffered much pain and discomfort. She had screws in her knees and nylon filaments replacing her ligaments. No wonder she was walking slowly.

  “You can have Pearl,” Pam said. There was no discussion, which meant that she’d made up her mind. I knew this was a huge blow. Pearl had piled up ribbons, certificates, awards.

  She was not a dog Pam would give up willingly, to anybody. But Pam put her dogs’ interests first. Pearl had endured enough, she said; she didn’t want to put her through the added strain of breeding or showing.

  Orson had been dead for little more than six weeks. Given my uncertain back, I hadn’t really thought about whether there would be a next dog—or, if so, what kind. Mostly, I’d been mulling where my dogs would go when I keeled over in pain.

  But I didn’t fuss over this decision, or give Pam time to change her mind. I adored Pearl, her beautiful face, her wonderful temperament. We could hobble around together, rehabbing each other. In seconds, I was writing a check, and then I grabbed Pearl and would have run out of the kennel, if I could run.

  Pam was usually happy to see her dogs go to good homes, but giving up Pearl, I could see, was wrenching. She couldn’t watch.

  As we headed out the door, Pearl eagerly walking by my side, Pam called after me. “Take care of her. And sorry about your border collie.”

  Pearl wove herself into my life as seamlessly as any creature could have. She did need more surgery, and we both did go through some long and painful rehabilitation. Whenever we went to the vet, Pearl would head straight for the operating room, even if she just needed a rabies shot.

  She came everywhere with me, on shopping trips, to readings and talks. Wherever we went, she’d find some sucker and, within seconds, be lying on her back getting her belly rubbed. She had fans and friends everywhere.

  My dog life had quieted, even with this new addition.

  Rose seemed calmer after Orson’s death. She spent more time next to me in my office, or sitting quietly in the garden, sometimes playing with Clem, more often keeping an eye on the flock. She accepted Pearl without rancor or fuss.

  And Pearl and Clem, who were aunt and niece, bonded instantly, gnawing happily on each other, playing tug of war. I called them the Love Sisters.

  Almost anybody who knew me, from UPS drivers to landscapers and friends, had learned to approach the front-yard gate warily, a legacy of Orson’s ferocious hubbub. Suddenly, it was a different experience. Instead of Orson, the Love Sisters were waiting, wriggling and wagging for treats and hugs. The local garden center often invited both of them for the day, to sit in the doorway and greet customers. Friends like Annie and Nicole—two of Orson’s former girlfriends—came by to cuddle the girls and to help with Pearl’s rehab. Town highway workers stopped to give the Labs biscuits.

  Pearl couldn’t run much those first few months—even getting to her feet after a nap took some effort—so she curled up next to me while I worked. She had every reason to be grumpy and aloof, but instead she was affectionate, forgiving, and calm. At the vet’s office, they called her Perfect Pearl.

  Of course, I couldn’t run around much, either. Sometimes, when we encountered the slowly recovering Winston on our walks, I wondered at the spectacle of the three of us, limping and lurching around the farm.

  Pearl had lived in a kennel her whole life; she seemed to relish being part of a family. She was so gentle I could bring her anywhere; none of the other animals on the farm minded her presence. She accompanied me to the barn to see the chickens, sheep, or donkeys.

  Clem showed her the dark side of Lab life, where to find the biggest piles of tasty donkey droppings, how to roll in decaying animal carcasses or—even better—drag them into the house.

  She loved to come sheepherding with Rose and me. While Rose moved the sheep around, Pearl would sit beside me, her head swiveling as Rose raced up and down the meadow. I thought she seemed puzzled as to why any dog would race around like that. She preferred to spend herding time leaning against my leg and waiting for a belly rub, then go back indoors for a siesta.

  Pearl had enormous presence and dig
nity, the bearing and focus of an experienced show dog. She generally left the hard running and grunt work to the other dogs.

  She was as different from Orson as a dog could be. Her very simplicity was healing. She just wanted to love and be loved, and had no agenda beyond that. She needed virtually no training; caused no trouble; demanded no more attention than I wanted to give. She did want to be with me, and I accommodated her.

  When I worked, she lay by my right side; when the winter approached, she lay as close to the woodstove as she could get. There were titanium screws and other hardware in her leg; I figured they probably got cold in the winter.

  It felt from the first as if she had lived with me forever. I don’t believe that dogs choose us, as you sometimes hear their besotted owners say. But I do think dogs and other animals enter our lives for a reason, and in some cases, if you’re paying attention, you can figure out what the purpose might be.

  Orson radically altered my life: He came at a pivotal time and provoked—with no conscious part in the process, I’m sure—a series of actions and reactions that caused me to change almost everything about the way I lived and worked and thought.

  Pearl was a dog hungry to leave behind her successful but transient life as a show and breeding dog and find someone to attach to, I was sure. That the someone was also pain-riddled, crippled, and sadly bereft was probably coincidental. This was her work. Unlike Orson, she was neither dominant, territorial, nor unpredictable. If his spirit was fiercely protective and instinctual, hers was unfailingly soothing and agreeable. Affection was her calling.

  You could not look at that dog’s face and fail to smile, and between Orson’s death and my physical troubles, I hadn’t smiled much for a while.

  I didn’t know, when he arrived, how much I needed Orson, but I did know I needed Pearl. When I was sad or unhappy, I would sit on the floor and she’d come limping over and put her head on my shoulder, lick me once or twice on the chin, then collapse onto the floor herself for tummy rubs.

  Her own rehab continued, painfully and slowly. I learned how to massage her legs and gave her medication, and we went to see the same holistic Vermont vet who’d done so much to calm Orson, for acupuncture and chiropractic. As the weeks passed, Pearl grew stronger, more supple, more active. She began chasing sticks a bit.

  In fact, I started taking Pearl along to my own physical therapy appointments. Entering the small building, she went to patients, resting her head next to them. If they ignored her, she moved on.

  One sixteen-year-old had suffered awful knee damage in an accident, and his rehab—as he laboriously pedaled a stationary bicycle—was painful even to watch. Pearl zeroed in on him instantly; I loved to see him smile at her approach. An elderly woman trying to manage advanced arthritis always stayed to cuddle Pearl while I went through my own exercises. Soon, patients were calling to see when Pearl was coming. The therapists made it clear that I was not to show up without her.

  She and I hobbled into the deep winter together. And, slowly, things did start to brighten. Anthony bought a house on a hilltop, began a crash program to rebuild it, and let me run a forklift now and then. (I only put one hole in a wall.)

  Winston survived, thanks to Annie, who built him a low perch and rigged up a heat lamp for the coldest nights. His crow was markedly weaker, but it was wonderful to hear it.

  My back improved. Pearl and I went to physical therapy twice a week, and the exercises, heat, and massage began to work some magic. By the time the snow came, I was walking better than I had in a couple of years. I still faced limitations on what I could do. But there were stretches of the day when I was not in pain, and that made life better. To my family’s relief, I issued fewer instructions as to the postmortem fate of my animals.

  Clem, sensing an opportunity, started sleeping at the foot of my bed—at least until I dozed off myself, at which point she was prone to seizing my pillow and stretching out luxuriously. We tussled over blankets and space, but I loved waking up to her slurps on my face. I visited Orson’s grave almost every day, sometimes riding up on the ATV, sometimes walking up the pasture, now that I could. I said hello, briefly told him what was going on. It was a nice spot with a good view.

  On a farm, the miraculous cycle of life and death, loss and rebirth, keeps pulling you along, even if you’re not really in the mood to go. So, of course, do dogs.

  The tenor of life with my dogs had changed dramatically. If I no longer had a dog who could transform my life, I also no longer had one who would burst through a glass window, or frighten or harm anyone. There was less tension in Bedlam, fewer shouts and corrections, less anxiety and vigilance.

  My other dogs could not replace Orson, nor fill the void he left, yet in a curious way his departure had given me the life with dogs I’d always dreamed of. Be careful what you wish for.

  On a farm, there is no stasis, however. Nothing stays the same three days in a row. I noticed the first rat in the fall, a big fat thing cheekily walking right by the barn door. When I yelled at him, he didn’t move. I tossed a rock; he still didn’t scramble.

  I put the word out, therefore, on the country bullshit grapevine. In West Hebron, all news was broadcast via the Bedlam Corners Variety Store. Soon enough, I got a call from a farmer who had a cat he wanted to get rid of.

  I was never much drawn to cats, and even if I had been, Orson was not. They seemed to me slithery and remote. I didn’t really get having an animal you couldn’t herd sheep or take a walk with. What use were cats?

  But the rats were invading, and so sizable that early on I mistook one for a rabbit. The farmers told me there was nothing much to be done: Rats, naturally drawn to farms, were smart, hardy, and tough to get rid of. There were countless holes in stone walls and rotted silos they could nest in. They figured out traps. And I couldn’t spread poisons around a barnyard full of dogs, sheep, donkeys, and chickens.

  The farmer who’d called was about to weed out his own posse and had one in mind for me, because she was accustomed to dogs. Young, scrawny, and mottled (cat lovers would call her a tortoiseshell), she got her name—Mother—from her habit of caring for kittens, whether they were hers or not.

  Upstate, barn cats are mythic figures. Elusive and reclusive, they prowl barns and pastures, sleep in haylofts, wage war on rodents and snakes.

  They die often—and frequently brutally—from disease, neglect, and abuse; from poison or stray dogs or attacks by predators like foxes and coyotes; from target practice by kids or hunters. They get hit by cars or, in the worst cases, waste away from starvation and exposure. When their numbers increase (few are spayed or neutered), they often are shot. Some of the softer farmers put heat lamps in their barns or let their barn cats into basements and mudrooms on sub-zero nights. Most don’t.

  Did I need a barn cat?

  Rose ran the farm and didn’t like cats either, though she was less adamant about that than Orson. But the rat population was booming. So, with many misgivings, I agreed to take Mother, and my neighbor drove her over in a cardboard box. I had the distinct feeling that if I hadn’t taken her she wasn’t headed for a shelter.

  Mother was surprisingly friendly. She took to me right away. She loved to be stroked and scratched, and she purred when she saw me and curled around my legs. She was always ravenous and seemed astounded by the cans of cat food I ferried out to her in the barn. She was also instantly businesslike, scoping out the rats the second she arrived.

  I took her to the vet and had her spayed and immunized, then put a collar on her, so strangers would know she wasn’t a stray.

  Rose was not hospitable. The minute Mother returned from the vet and entered the barnyard, Rose roared down the pasture hill to drive off this unimpressive-looking intruder.

  It was one of Rose’s rare errors in judgment. The cat sat perfectly still until the charging border collie was about four inches away, then she calmly turned and raked the dog’s nose with one sharp swipe of her paw. Rose, unlike Orson, was not one to make the same
mistake twice. From that point on, even when Mother was right in front of her, Rose pretended not to notice.

  Mother staked out the barn and the barnyard right away, sashaying back and forth at the gate, taunting the dogs, strutting her stuff, almost daring anybody to start something. Nobody did.

  From Mother’s first day, the rodent carcasses began piling up. She left the first right by my back door; it was enormous. Daily offerings followed. This caused accompanying minor problems when Clem and Pearl, wagging delightedly, began bringing the corpses into the house. But the pest population plummeted. I was impressed; this cat delivered.

  Greeting Mother quickly became part of my morning routine. I left a bowl of dry kibble in an empty stable, but I also brought her a dish of canned cat food each day. Mother was always waiting for me, purring, meowing, circling. I put out a de-icer bucket so that she would always have water, even on bitter-cold nights. And I brought occasional snacks, table scraps, or a cup of warm milk. As with dogs and donkeys, food went a long way toward establishing a good relationship.

  Mother seemed quite content in the barn. Unlike a dog, she had no need for or interest in sharing my life. Yet we had a real understanding, a lot of mutual affection.

  As winter approached, I worried about the cold—I’d always heard that cats hated the cold—even though Mother was filling out and growing a thicker coat. With a friend’s help, I made her a sort of igloo in the barn loft, a cozy construction of hay bales with a fuzzy blanket underneath.

  I sometimes wondered, as the temperatures dropped, whether I should let Mother into the house. Every dog I’ve ever had would have happily come inside. But Mother didn’t seem to care. She was happy in her space and happy to leave me in mine. She was willing to accept occasional gifts, but she didn’t need my charity.

  Every now and then she disappeared for a day or two, and I went out to the barn, anxiously calling her name. You could not, I realized, have it both ways. A barn cat was not really a pet. In the tradition of barn cats, Mother eventually reappeared, and no one knew where she’d been or why.