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

by Jon Katz

  Orson and Jon

  CHAPTER SIX Hell on Wheels Orson was never a well-grounded dog. Whatever happened to him back in Texas had left him damaged, without the resilience of dogs like Clem and Rose. He was unraveling, it seemed to me. Among those who knew him, a variety of theories had grown up over the years to try to explain his behavior. We knew hed been trained as an obedience show dog at some point, so perhaps that was why gates (like those used in such competitions) had special significance, one breeder suggested. One vet thought it was perfectly natural for some dogs to defend their territory, but another felt that Orson, when excited, was actually suffering seizure-like symptoms that sometimes caused him to lose control, to fail to recognize even familiar faces and voices. Something like epileptic seizures, she said, that might need to be treated medically, even surgically. An animal psychic I met at a book signing (hers, and there were people lined up beyond the bookstore door waiting to meet her and get their books signed) thought he was picking up distressing vibes from the animals-pigs, chickens and turkeys, cows, a few sheep, too-slaughtered on the farm in years past. One trainer felt Orson had been poorly socialized as a pup and that I should have visitors bring hamburger and liver treats when they came. Another suggested using a shock collar when he charged the gate. The odd thing is that Orson, like Clementine, was innately social; he lived for attention. He greeted a steady stream of visitors to the farm warmly and appropriately. He loved the UPS and FedEx men in the driveway-just not when they approached the gate or door. I despaired of ever making sense of these contradictions. Yet I recognized the truth of what my vet, Mary, was telling me, even as it saddened me. There was no point in subjecting this poked and prodded creature to any more uncomfortable, expensive testing. We had to somehow reach a different kind of accommodation. It was time to move on, if there was anything to move on to.

  Holistic. It was an odd-sounding word. The number of dog owners drawn to holistic care kept growing, I knew from my research and from countless stories Id heard. Yet the idea still discomfited me. I like and trust regular vets and count a number of them among my friends. Ive always found them committed, knowledgeable, and trustworthy. I was doubtful that a holistic vet, whatever that meant, knew much more than regular ones. Im also concerned about putting some limits on the care and time I spend on even a beloved dogs well-being. For me, a healthy life with dogs means boundaries. I love my family; I value my work; I treasure my friends-and I love my three dogs dearly. Thats about the right order for me. I dont want to spend hours online exchanging herbal cures and trading conspiracy theories about veterinarians and dog-food manufacturers. Holistic care is something Ive always resisted as dubious, unnecessary. Still, Orson and I had kept faith with each other. And so, two weeks later we drove to a white farmhouse in Manchester, Vermont, where we met Dr. Valerie Gurstein, a vet specializing in holistic care, including acupuncture, chiropractic, and herbal remedies. Dr. Gursteins office was different from conventional vets facilities, which tend to be cramped, crowded, and noisy. Dogs pick up on all sorts of smells and sounds in those situations and often tense up, get fearful or aggressive. Oh, he knows where he is, people tell me all the time, as even the boldest pets tremble and whine in the vets waiting room. I have no idea what my dogs think or know, but I see few dogs at ease in such places. Rose gets the shivers the minute we pull into our vets parking lot, and Orson grows vigilant and anxious. (Clem, the slut, on the other hand, is delighted to be there and wags all the way from the front door to the examining room, happily greeting her many friends and admirers.) Dr. Gursteins office was different. We arrived early, but the doctor-soft-spoken and warm-waved us right in. Id brought Rose along for moral support. Orson scampered up the porch stairs into the reception area, where something soothing and New Age was wafting from stereo speakers. Dr. Gurstein obviously scheduled visits to avoid tense canine encounters, and allowed plenty of time for each dog, more than an hour. So the atmosphere was altogether relaxed, unhurried. The examining room felt more like a living room than a medical facility-carpeted, with soft colors and framed art on the walls. The examining table itself was a low carpeted platform less than a foot from the ground. Orson hopped onto it without being asked, showing none of the uneasiness he often demonstrated in conventional veterinary offices. Dr. Gurstein spoke directly to him in a measured, soothing voice. Trainers often caution that its unwise to look a dog directly in the eye-many take it as a challenge-but Orson loves people who look squarely at him and say his name; he loves attention in general. A dog who seems to expect to get into trouble, Orson almost visibly relaxes when he is praised and soothed. He appeared to react to Dr. Gursteins calm, quiet manner by calming down himself. She let him sniff her hands and check out the room, then sat down next to him on the platform. I have to be honest: Im a bit skeptical about this whole holistic idea, I said. Its a first for me. She nodded and said shed heard similar sentiments before. Often, I suspected. Before I examine Orson, Id like to talk to you, she said. Tell me about your history with him, your experience. Ive talked to your vet, but Id like to know from you why youre here. What do you want for him? I was surprised by the question, and more surprised by my response. My normal vets were great, but decidedly pragmatic. They wanted to identify a problem and fix it, ordering tests as warranted, prescribing medicine when appropriate. They were efficient and highly competent, but the office atmosphere in their busy practice was often chaotic. It was not a place you wanted to linger and schmooze, nor a place where anyone would want you to, since there were always people and patients waiting. This place was different, and Orson was picking up on it, watching Dr. Gurstein carefully, but at ease, his ears up, his tail wagging, his breathing normal. I was feeling the difference, too. No vet had ever really asked me much about my history with Orson. We usually got right down to symptoms and solutions. So I told her about how Orson had come to me almost out of the blue, about our difficult first year, about how Orson had led me to sheepherding, which had led me to Bedlam Farm, to donkeys and sheep, and then to Rose and Clementine. I explained what an enormous gift hed turned out to be. How hed rescued me from a place I felt estranged from, work I was wearying of, a lifetime without many close friends. How hed brought me to this life of challenge, beauty, nature, and animals. He had saved me in so many of the ways a person can be saved. I owed him much, and I felt I needed to take his care and welfare as far as I reasonably could, without offending common sense and perspective. Id grown very concerned about what could happen if his unpredictable behavior continued. Like it or not-and most of the time I didnt-my farm had become a more public place, with people often streaming through. I had to try harder to calm him. A part of him is broken, I said, recounting what little I knew of his early years. And I cant reach it. My eyes welled up, something thats never happened in all the many times Id talked about this dog. Id written reams about Orson; wed appeared on television and radio; Id talked about him at readings and lectures-yet I dont think anybody had really asked me how I felt about him, what I wanted for him. Nor had I really stopped to look back at all the exhausting hours of training, calming, worrying, shouting, soothing, herding, all the work wed done together. Id tried so hard to keep faith with this dog, and talking about that with her, the intensity of the experience seemed to seep out. I stopped, took a deep breath, regained control. I didnt particularly like the idea of bawling in a holistic vets office. Still, the emotion her question elicited was powerful, and it reminded me just how much I loved this creature, how much he meant to me, how much I wanted to reach and heal that broken part, what was at stake if I couldnt. The doctor, who suggested I call her Valerie, nodded and listened. Then she spent a long time carefully examining his back, legs, shoulders, and neck for orthopedic problems. Trained as a conventional vet, she was familiar with bone structure and musculoskeletal problems, and quickly found some. After Orson was hit by that car years ago, hed rolled to his feet, apparently unhurt, and had shown no damage or injuries when our New Jersey vet checked him over. Nor had the rec
ent battery of tests turned up any orthopedic problems. Now Valeries exam found extreme sensitivity to being touched along parts of the spine. I could see Orson-the most stoic of dogs-wince sharply, even yelp, when touched in a certain spot. His spine was seriously out of alignment, she told me; he must be uncomfortable much of the time. That nobody, including me, had noticed this sensitivity in all our time together amazed me. I was suddenly grateful to my vet for suggesting this visit. I also told Valerie about Orsons arousal problems, how everyday sounds could make him crazy, sometimes even dangerous; how he could switch from placid to furious in seconds, sometimes for no discernible reason. As a demonstration, I clapped my hands. Valerie was startled to see him launch into furious barking, nipping at the air, charging suddenly toward the window, out of control. It was worse around doors and gates and delivery people, I said. Completing her exam, she suggested Shen calming herbs from China, and recommended acupuncture. I was doubtful about the first idea, bemused by the second. Acupuncture for a dog? That seemed a stretch. Though it had often been suggested for me, for my own bad leg, I always resisted. It seemed somehow fitting that my dog would get acupuncture, but not me. But the measure of this experience, Id reminded myself, would be simple: Either it helped the dog or it didnt. And we wouldnt know for a while. Valerie took out a plastic container of acupuncture needles and removed one. Rose, whod been lying quietly on the floor, watching, suddenly leaped onto the platform over the startled Orson and growled, showing Valerie her teeth. This, too, amazed me: Rose barks at strangers, but has never bared her teeth to anyone. Easy, Rose, I said sharply. But I was impressed by the way Valerie handled the confrontation. Instead of trying to placate Rose or scold her, she paused, took one of her needles and held it out for Rose to sniff. Rose, she said in that same low, steady voice, Im not going to hurt Orson. Im going to put this needle in him. Watch. Her calm was infectious. She moved the needle to Orson, who was lying peaceably on his side, watching, then back to Rose so she could sniff it again, then back to Orson. Rose, whose studious, problem-solving nature has mesmerized me more than once, followed the needle with her eyes, head tilted. Valerie waited a few seconds while Rose considered. Rose seemed satisfied by this and hopped off the table and resettled herself on the floor, watchful but willing to let things proceed. That first day, Valerie inserted eight or nine needles into Orsons back, neck, and shoulders. At first he tensed. Then, needle by needle, he seemed to steadily relax. I was stunned, after ten minutes or so, to see him lying on his side, sound asleep, snoring loudly, his tongue hanging from one side of his mouth while needles protruded from various parts of him. My dog, usually so intense, anxious, and alert, was barely conscious, practically comatose. At the end of the session, Valerie removed the needles and turned to a cabinet stocked with treats. Orson came to, but was as relaxed as I could remember ever seeing him outside my own office. After the first visit, Orson learned to step off the platform and sit by the cabinet. We came every two or three weeks for a chiropractic adjustment and acupuncture; in between, I administered calming herbs, mixing a teaspoonful or so into his food each day. Orson seemed eager for his treatment. When we arrived at Valeries office, he dashed out of the truck to her door, ran inside, and jumped onto the examining table, usually lying down before he was asked. At times, the needles made him uncomfortable and he squirmed. Valerie, seeing things I never could, adjusted the needles until he slowly closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and conked out. Usually Orson is a pain when we drive, rushing from one window to the other as cars and trucks whiz by. But when we left Valeries, he went out like a light and slept all the way home. Almost everybody who knew this dog-especially the guys still working on the wall and Dog Room-volunteered that Orson had changed, that he seemed easier, less frantic. He still got excited at the gate, and still took the occasional nip at somebody carrying a power tool, but it seemed an almost halfhearted gesture. Knock it off, Orson, Chris or Anthony or Kathan would say, and he would. Sometimes when somebody came to the door, he didnt even get up-this from a dog who once crashed through a Plexiglas-braced leaded-glass window. I judged that he was about 30 percent calmer, 90 percent of the time, the most dramatic behavioral change I had witnessed in the last few years. If the gauge of holistic care was whether or not the dog did better, my first encounter with alternative medicine was a success. I was happy that Id tried it. Clearly theres a point where conventional veterinary care-as good as it is, as happy as Ive been with it-has nothing much to offer and another realm of medicine begins. Still, I was unprepared when Valerie, after several months, suggested I speak with an animal communicator. Im not ready for that, I protested. Acupuncture? Some herbs? A dose of Enya, followed by some sweet talk, a soothing massage, and some hypoallergenic treats? So far, so good-but no farther. Valerie said she understood.

  But she didnt give up. A couple of weeks later, Valerie suggested I give her a picture of Orson to pass along to a shamanic soul retriever, a woman whod studied the ancient Chinese notion that when animals are damaged, parts of their souls break off and can, under certain circumstances, be retrieved and returned to them. This retriever had a solid reputation for helping animals; Valerie recommended her enthusiastically. Shed intended to return to the subject of an animal communicator, but was waiting until she sensed my resistance had lowered. My discomfort, in fact, remained high; this seemed a trek deeper into la-la land. But I agreed to think about it. If I were seriously exploring alternative care for Orson, shouldnt I go all the way? The point of any potential treatment isnt whether I believed in it. If Orson got better, then it worked-at least for him. If he didnt, it didnt. Pieces of soul break off from a dog when he or she suffers? I just cant put together how that would work. But Id also observed how conventional training and veterinary medicine werent working for him, either. On top of that, a friend in Vermont called to say that a well-known horse communicator-someone with decades of experience around racetracks and horse breeders, with many stellar references-was branching out into dogs and other animals. She wanted to come to the farm and see Orson and the donkeys. She was also, my friend added, picking up signals from Winston, the differently abled rooster. Well, I told Paula, the same test applies. If the dog got better, it was worth the shot. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Lesley, the shamanic healer, called first. All she needed to begin with was a picture of the dog, she said. She might or might not need to visit the farm and see Orson after that. She didnt even mention payment until I did. When I pressed her, she said she charged very little-thirty-five dollars for the retrieval, another thirty or so if a visit was necessary. Obviously, she wasnt driven by money. Then Donna, the horse communicator, e-mailed me from Virginia. She seemed bright and direct, and a lot more expensive: $400 to communicate with Orson, Rose, and Clementine, plus the three donkeys. Shed throw in the rooster for free.