A Good Dog: The Story of Orson, Who Changed My Life

by Jon Katz

  In the fall, I entered Orson in a beginners herding trial conducted under American Kennel Club auspices at Raspberry Ridge. The judges flew in from all over the country, and entrants and their dogs assembled from everywhere. The beginners protocol was fairly simple. You and your leashed dog entered a small fenced ring-perhaps seventy-five feet long and twenty-five feet wide-with traffic-type cones at either end. Unleashed, the dog had to lie down and then, at your command, go behind the five sheep in the pen and move them to the other end. After you and the dog had steered the sheep the length of the ring and around the cones three times, the dog had to lie down and stay; then you leashed him up and left the pen. The trick was to get the dog to lie down and stay while you headed for the first cone. The dog had to be still, but the human had to keep moving, since dog and sheep had no idea where to go otherwise and couldnt get into a natural rhythm. Beginners trials were looser, less formal than other trial levels. Judges, if they were in a good mood, would cut you some slack. Or so I hoped. Sheep can read dogs quite well, and when they see crazy ones, they move quickly. This was one of the big problems in working with Orson-the minute you walked through a gate, the sheep took one look and started running. That got him excited, and moving too quickly. Then I would start yelling, and things would deteriorate from there. Still, Id mailed in applications for both my border collies. Homer, less antsy, had a reasonable shot at fulfilling his herding destiny, at least at this introductory level. Orson was always a question mark, but I thought wed take another shot. A ribbon-if we earned one-would be emblematic of my love for him, a recognition of the hard work Carolyn and I and Orson had been doing. Even with a grounded dog, herding sheep is a tough thing to do. With a dog like Orson, it would be a milestone for both of us. Homer, scheduled for the first trial day, had, true to form, acquitted himself fairly well. Wed gone through our paces quietly. I had trouble getting him to lie down, and hed missed one of the cones on the third pass, but he was unaggressive and eager to please. I swear he actually seemed proud when he got his green-and-white ribbon that meant he was a qualified, though novice, herding dog. But I was nervous on the second morning, when Orsons trial was scheduled. About a hundred people and thirty or forty dogs had gathered around the ring. Orson normally would have gotten distracted and overexcited being around so many people and dogs, but he was relatively calm. In a funny way, he really did seem reinvented, or perhaps reincarnated, after his name change. He was less tense. My communications with him had changed, too, and were less fraught. Since Orson was free of unhappy associations, he paid more attention to me, responded more quickly, and seemed to even enjoy our training sessions and the rain of treats that often accompanied them. It wasnt so much that he had become a different dog but that the dog Orson really was had begun to emerge. I had more confidence that he would listen; he had more confidence that he could succeed. But this would be a trickier and much more public test, with no treats allowed. We entered the gate, Orson on a leather lead, my number, 261, affixed to my shoulder with an elastic band. The judge nodded, and took a good look at Orson. Pretty dog, he said. Lie down, I said, quietly, to Orson. He did. Then he stood up. Then he lay down. We went through this two or three times, until I lightly flicked his butt with my fingertips and said, Hey! Lie down! The judge smiled. Unlike Homer, Orson didnt seem at ease in the ring, but at least he wasnt out of control. So far, reasonably good. Then I told him to stay, went out to the sheep, and, since my voice often aroused him, used a hand command to tell him to come toward me. He took off like a rocket and headed for the sheep. Remembering Carolyns injunction to keep moving, I scrambled from one orange cone down to the other, hooves and paws clopping behind me. The sheep whizzed past, followed by Orson-on-the-run. Yo, I yelled, and he turned and stopped. Down. To my surprise, he dropped. Then I ran to the opposite cone, turned, said, Okay, youre free, and dashed back toward the first cone, then around again. The sheep were shuttling along, though I thought I saw Orson bearing in on one of them. Orson, I said, holding up my hand. Stay! He looked at me, then at the sheep, then at me-and he stayed. I came around, slipped the lead back on him, and headed for the gate. It was not an elegant performance-the judge was struggling to keep from laughing-but it seemed to me that we had done it: had lain down, stayed, moved the sheep three times, lain down, stayed, left. And nobody, human or animal, had gotten injured. Still, it was hardly textbook herding. I wasnt sure it qualified as herding at all. I had seen judges fail more-polished dogs for lesser infractions. This judge said nothing, so I didnt know until after all the entrants had finished how wed fared. When the results were announced, the judge said 261 and handed me another green-and-white ribbon. Orson, too, had passed the beginners test. He was a herder, sort of. I gave him a big hug, and he gave me a sloppy slurp. He seemed happy to get away from the trial ring. Carolyn came running up, gave me a squeeze and critiqued my performance. Id moved the wrong way and too slowly, she said, but not bad. On to the intermediate trials, she said. I told her, thankfully, that this was the first thing Id ever won. It was definitely my first victory together with Orson, who was enjoying pats and praise from the spectators. Yet I, too, was happy to get away. Afterward, I put Orson on a long leash and we took Carolyns sheep out for some grazing. We climbed the rise overlooking the far pasture, and the sheep spread out to eat. From my backpack I took a plastic bowl and some bottled water. I poured him some and drank some myself, then gave him a biscuit while I ate a cookie. Orson sighed, and stretched out next to me, his head resting on my thigh. He paid no attention to the sheep, who crunched steadily ahead of us. He was soon asleep, and at peace.

  I didnt see as much of Carolyn or Raspberry Ridge after that trial weekend. Carolyn saw herding trials as important yardsticks of training progress, especially for working dogs, but I didnt like trialing, and I dont think Orson did, either. He tensed up when he saw gates and fences and crowds of anxious people with dogs by their sides. Name change or not, he knew potential trouble when he saw it. Besides, trials can sometimes inject an unappealing element into the relationship between human and dog. People like me tend not to simply enjoy the experience; we want to win. When we lose-sure to happen eventually-how can our disappointment and frustration not be apparent, especially to dogs, who read us skillfully? I liked Carolyns ideas about positive-reinforcement training, yet I was growing increasingly resistant to particular philosophies for training dogs. No single idea seemed appropriate for Orson and me. My own frailties kept me from being positive and patient enough, for example. Yet I was curious about the process. I was coming to have my own training approaches and wanted to explore them on my own. Besides, Id been bitten by another bug, once I realized how much I loved working on Carolyns farm. I owned a tiny cabin in upstate New York and was hearing a great deal about the dairy farmers going under all around. Real estate in Washington County was still remarkably affordable. Why not pursue my ideas up there, on my own farm, with my own sheep, battered truck, fences, barns, and dogs? I came up with several reasons why I should get my own small farm. Our cabin was too small for Paula to work in, with little space for my daughter or her friends. The property, with just two steeply sloping acres, was too small for sheep, too. And the cabin was geographically so cut off from the nearby town that I hardly knew anyone around me. I hadnt found lasting community in New Jersey or most of the other places wed lived, but I still hoped for it. Perhaps up there. Besides, on our own farm Orson could learn to herd, could have all the space even a demented border collie could want, could be far from school buses and sirens. He would, at last, learn to make sense of the world.

  Winston

  CHAPTER TWO Orson and Winston A little over two years after Orson arrived at Newark Airport, he and I were standing by a sprawling old farmhouse in the tiny hamlet of West Hebron, New York. This time Id really done it. Id bought a farm. I will be a long time sorting through the process that led from there to here, but it went something like this: Orsons arrival in my life challenged me in any number of ways. To keep him, to do
right by him, I began sheepherding with Carolyn Wilki. 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 whod 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. Id named this place in honor of West Hebrons 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 worlds 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, wed left the cabin I owned in nearby Cambridge, New York, where Id 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. Thats 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 couldnt 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 Id 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 towns 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 whats 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 Id never said so aloud, Id come to believe that Orson had appeared in my life to make sure that didnt 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. Its 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? Its 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 Carolyns 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 didnt really warm to other animals or people. He didnt often tolerate their coming near me or our house. Hed 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 wouldnt 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 wasnt. 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. Id 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 Id 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 didnt have time to get outside and intercept Winston, so I stood watching tensely from the window. I saw Orsons 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. Hed 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 hed had a sword, it would have been drawn. Into the valley of the shadow, I thought. Orson sat up suddenly, but Winston kept coming. Hes 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. Orsons 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 pu
ffing. 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 didnt 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 couldnt 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.