by Jon Katz
Orson and Clem
CHAPTER ELEVEN Sleepaway I t was the third of August, deep into the dog days. There were only eight left. We would not see Sirius rise with the sun again for another year. Orson would not see it again at all, at least not with me. I needed to screen things out. How much I loved him. How much other people loved him. How integral a part of my life he was. How much we had done together. How much he had done for me. How much fun wed had and how much trouble hed gotten into. That he had become, to many people, a symbol of human beings keeping faith with their dogs. That people had told me how, in one way or another, our contract had moved them to make and keep their own. That his death, consequently, would sadden and anger people and might discourage some. That I would always wonder if I had done the right thing. That I would miss him. That Orson was my lifetime dog, and I was not likely to have another. That I would lose my guardian, my guide, whom Id failed in the ultimate, most profound, way. I was breaking the covenant that had bound us together for years and altered much of my life. I put these thoughts aside, the agonizing and doubt, because the decision was made. I would live with it. Or not. My vet, Mary, sensitive to these sorrows and worries, offered to come to the farm to euthanize Orson there. I decided against it. I didnt want him to die here; I didnt want to associate the farm with Orsons death. Hed been to the vets office many times and felt comfortable with her. And I wanted him to have the safety of a professional facility, just in case something went wrong. I would be there with him. I called Anthony and asked that he arrange to dig a grave at the top of the pasture, on the crest of the hill, from which Orson could keep an eye on things. I asked him to find a mason to cut Orsons name into a block of rough fieldstone, to place on the grave. And I asked him to make sure no one was around the place in the afternoon. Within a couple of hours, the grave stood ready; the stone was cut and placed next to it. And nobody was there. In summer, the farm can be eerily still in the afternoon; the animals shut down in the heat and wait for sunset to move and forage. One last ride. Lets hit the ATV, I yelled to Orson, and he bounded happily onto his seat. We tore up the hill, right past the hole in the ground, and up into the woods where wed often sat and waited for Sirius, the Dog Star. I sat down on the usual rock and he hopped into my arms. I hugged him long and hard, he licked me several times, then plopped down for a scratch, his head on my foot. Thanks for rescuing me from New Jersey and technology books, I said. It was all there was to say. We rode back down the hill, then drove to the veterinary clinic. Our appointment was for five p.m., the last of the day, when most of the employees were gone, along with all the clients. There were only a couple of cars in the parking lot. Mary was waiting for me by the side door, so I didnt have to go through the waiting room. She had needles ready on the examining table. She said little, other than to tell me that she had once made the same decision herself for one of her dogs, and she supported mine. She told me not to worry about the bill, that it would be sent. I realize now that it never was. It was a small, spotless, antiseptic examining room. I sat on the floor. Orson, anxious, crawled into my lap. Mary asked if I was ready, and I nodded yes. She was exquisitely professional and sensitive, knowing exactly when to speak and when not to. Orson put his head on my right shoulder, his body resting against my chest, and stared into my eyes, trembling a bit. He licked my face, and I stroked his head. Mary inserted one needle into his left foreleg. Then she administered a powerful sedative, a mix of acepromazine and Torbugesic. Very quickly, he licked my chin, then sagged, and his eyes began to close. I kissed his nose and face and hugged him for dear life. Then Mary administered the drug Sleepaway, to stop his heart. My right hand cradled his head and shoulders, my left was on his chest, right next to Marys stethoscope. I could feel his heart slow, then stop. Hes gone, Mary said, listening carefully through her stethoscope. She gave me a heavy canvas bag and together we placed his body inside and carried it to my truck. It was a very sticky, hot day. I drove home, parked the pickup behind the house. I let Rose out of the house. Rose saw everything that happened on the farm, good and bad, constantly inventorying the comings and goings. Shed lived with Orson nearly her whole life, handling him skillfully, deferring to him without becoming submissive like Homer. She should come along, I thought, for his burial. Clementine stayed in the front yard. A sweet and loving Labrador, she was not into drama. She mostly cared about love and food; with or without Orson, she would have both. I decided that I had to carry Orson up the hill. I would not drag his body in a bag, or put him on the ATV, or throw him in the back of a pickup. I had to carry him in my arms to his grave site. But his body weighed nearly fifty pounds. I was soon soaked with sweat and out of breath. The bugs were all over me, and him. My bad leg began to throb. Rose, having sniffed his body, walked quietly alongside, staying close. I had to stop several times. My leg and back were rebelling against this load, pain shooting down into the knees, worse with each step. Before long, the leg had grown numb. Every five or ten minutes, I had to set his body on the grass and rest. The pain-both kinds, all kinds-was almost unbearable. I considered calling Anthony for help, but took a deep breath and asked for strength. I could do this. I owed Orson at least this much. It took more than a half hour to struggle to the top of the hill, his body still warm in my grasp, and when I got there, I was disheartened to see that the grave was not deep enough. I feared that coyotes or other predators could dig him up, and I couldnt bear the thought. Rose sniffed the body again as it lay on the ground, and looked at me quizzically, wondering what instructions there would be. There were none. We walked back down the hill to the barn, where I got a shovel, then slogged back up the hill with it. The ground was dry and hard-there had been little rain that summer-and it took an effort to dig a hole that seemed deep enough. I had to chip away for a long time, pulling out the larger rocks one at a time. When Id finished-drenched in sweat, covered in dirt, and aching badly-I leaned down, kissed Orson on the nose, and dragged his body into the grave; I no longer had the strength to pick it up. I arranged his body so that he was straight, no legs at awkward angles; it looked like he was sleeping comfortably. I closed both his eyes. It took another while to shovel the dirt over him and level the ground. Then I dragged over the stone marker. It said simply: Orson. I reached into my pocket for the poem Id brought along. Id read it to Orson a couple of times when the Dog Star rose at first light. The poem, by Boris Levinson, was called Dream. I read this part:
I, a child Try to reach the stars Sirius is so near. I run to the nearest hill My reach is always too short Wait till I am a grown man! Now, I am old and bent with years No more running to the hill and mountain top- Yet, a warm, steady, life-giving glow Reaches me from Siriusthe unattainable. I collect White iridescent and evanescent starbeams For my trip home to Sirius the dog star.
My dogs and I communicate mostly wordlessly, it seems to me. But I felt I needed to say something. I love you. I thank you. Im so sorry. I fussed with the grave for nearly half an hour, making sure it was filled in, the earth tightly packed. I was spent and felt weary. The pain in my leg was different, disturbing. I heard the rumble of hooves and looked up to see Rose moving the sheep toward me at full speed. Some people believe dogs think like us, but Rose reminded me that they dont. She was not interested in mourning. Give it a rest, Rosie. Leave the sheep alone. She stopped, looked surprised, left the sheep and came over to me. I walked down the hill with her, not looking back. On the way down, I passed Winston, the rooster, hobbling up.
Two weeks after Orsons death, I was at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York, receiving treatment for severe spinal stenosis. My bad leg, it turned out, wasnt a bad leg at all but a bad back, in which damaged discs pressing on nerves were causing intensifying pain. By the time Id finally relented to Paulas urging and sought treatment, I was unable to walk more than a few feet. Paula spent days ferrying me to appointments, for X-rays and myelograms and MRIs, for consultations with a neurologist and a surgeon and a physiatrist-a specialist in managing pain. A couple of times, when
the pain worsened, Paula wheeled me through the hospital in a wheelchair. I had passed through some portal into a world I dreaded, where I controlled nothing and felt at the mercy of everyone. It was the very kind of life I had always sworn to avoid, as far from Bedlam as I could be. I missed the farm, the quiet, the routines, the small dramas, and the animals. I missed the community I had found, the friends I had made. I was frayed by the insurance forms and the waiting rooms, the city noise and congestion and traffic, the ice packs and pills, the pain. It was confusing and frightening. Each doctor seemed to say a different thing, or say it in a different way, or interpret the condition differently. For relief, the physiatrist carefully injected a steroid into my spinal canal. The treatment would work for months or perhaps only for weeks, or it might not work. I would be walking soon, or I wouldnt be walking properly for a long time. I would need surgery. It might be a simple operation, or extensive. Or I might not need it at all. On the farm, life was so regular, so elemental. The animals ate in the morning. The dogs were walked. We herded the sheep. I worked. The dogs were walked again, the animals fed once more. I missed Orson. In New Jersey, as I was resting between appointments, a friend called. Hows the farm? he wanted to know. How are the dogs? I told him Id put Orson down. He was incredulous. My God, he said. I cant believe it. You killed Lassie. It was a New York kind of thing to say, dark, smart, cynical. And true.
Mother
Pearl
Clem
CHAPTER TWELVE Life on the Farm T he human psyche is tricky; we see what we need to see. Id always thought of Orson as a guardian, a protector; I believed he was watching over me. I cant really explain why, but I felt safer with him around. When he came, he ushered in one of the happiest and most productive periods of my life. When he died, it seemed to mark a darker time. My back and legs were better, after treatment, but still quite painful. This was both discouraging and depressing, a new reality. Ordered to rest and recuperate, I had to hire people to do everything I loved to do and had come to the farm to do-feed the chickens, brush the donkeys, sweep out the barn, gather eggs, put out feed and grain. I even hired Annie, an animal lover from the adjacent town whom Id dubbed the Goat Lady of Cossayuna, to walk my dogs, something Id never imagined I would do. Annie had a wonderful way with animals; she even eventually charmed the reclusive Rose. She figured out that taking Rose into the pasture and letting her march the flock back and forth a few times would bring instant love. And of course, Clementine loved everybody, especially Annie, who took her swimming in the creek. Still, it was a wrench to see the dogs go walking off with someone else. Other troubles seemed to follow through the fall and into the winter. The donkeys got abscesses in their hooves and were lame for a while. A powerful rainstorm created a flood that swept through the pasture and damaged the barn. One of my ewes took sick and died. One morning, walking gingerly out to the barn, I discovered Winston lying motionless on the concrete floor, his head drooping. My friend Carr said he would bring his ax. I went to the house to get my rifle instead. Either way, wed give him a quick death without suffering. But Annie happened to swoop into the driveway just then. You do not shoot an animal with Annie around. She picked Winston up, in her arms, warmed him up, dashed home for crushed oyster shells and some other potions she thought would help. The sight of this proud creature, so diligent about guarding his hens, in this debilitated state was dispiriting. On and on. The autumn was wet and misty, the winter cold and dank, and my chronic bronchitis came and stayed for weeks. A friend in California died. Paulas work kept her in New York much of the fall and early winter. Emma had a new job and could only drive up twice. You look funny, Anthony kept telling me. My friend Becky and I had dinner together one night. You look down, she said. They were right. I had put my protector to death, and now dark times had come. In the normal course of things, I have a lot of faith-not the official religious kind, but definitely a spiritual strain. I believe that if you do some good, dont quit, and keep trying, you will get somewhere. The idea has always sustained me, but that fall and winter, it seemed to melt away. I didnt think I would ever live free of pain again, so I didnt think Id be able to stay on the farm for long. I began imagining where all the animals should go if I had to leave. Rose and the donkeys and a few sheep would go live with Annie, I decided. Annie loved all animals and was crazy about Rose-not the most lovable of dogs, given her preference for work over almost anything. And the donkeys would get homemade apple cookies, the kind she brought with her when she visited. Cuddling and cookies go a long way toward making a donkey happy. The adaptable Clem, I decided, could live with Paula. The hens and Winston, if he survived, could return to the friend whod given them to me, and I knew a farmer who would take the bulk of the sheep. I doubted Paula would keep Bedlam Farm or that Emma would want to be there much, so I hoped somebody nice would buy it. When I told Paula of this plan, so that it could be carried out if anything happened, she was alarmed, then exasperated. She pointed out that I was improving, and that the physical therapy Id started would likely bring further improvement. Im worried about you, she said. Youre depressed and youre getting alarmingly morbid. Youre struggling with losing Orson, but youre not really dealing with it. Everybody was telling me that-I was depressed and repressed, shutting down my emotions. I wished I knew how to respond differently, but I really didnt. I was feeling morbid, though. I felt my time in this world was growing short. I kept telling people my plans and wishes for when I was gone. Dad, Emma asked one night, why are you talking like youre about to die?
Not long after returning to the farm from the hospital, I found a message on my answering machine from Pam Leslie, the breeder whod sold me Clementine. Are you calling to sell me Pearl? I asked when I called Pam back, a running joke. Pearl was never for sale. You will have to pry her from my dead fingers, Pam always retorted. Pearl was a yellow Labrador, a two-time national champion, with the deepest, most mournful eyes Id ever seen on a dog; shed captured my heart from the first time I saw her at Pams kennel. I called her the Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands, after the Bob Dylan song, and when I visited her in the kennel, I often sang her verses of the song in an appropriately nasal voice. Pearl loved it. When she came out of the kennel, she melted into my arms and gave me soft licks on the nose. But she was a cornerstone of Pams breeding program. Ive got a lot of money in that dog was Pams usual response. Shed spent thousands of dollars developing the line, and hoped for many litters of little Pearls. So I wasnt surprised when Pam told me, Forget it. Pearl isnt going anywhere. But she asked if I might be in the mood to come by and visit. She had a black Lab for whom she wanted to find a home, so he could be socialized, exercised, and, from time to time, bred. You and your farm would be great for him, Pam said. She wanted a joint arrangement, so that hed have a home but wouldnt be neutered, and would be available for breeding. 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 theyd fare. Matching dogs and people was a major priority. She didnt particularly like Labs living with border collies (they ran too fast); she wasnt sure about a farm (a chance to pick up parasites); she didnt 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 Orsons death, I assumed. I hadnt talked about it much, and she didnt mention it. I wasnt 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 didnt 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, Heath
er 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, theres not always much going on behind those soulful looks (sometimes its 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 couldnt 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 hed love to run alongside the ATV through the woods. Hed hardly break a sweat. Hes great, I said as Stripe went sniffing from one of us to the other. But I dont know if hes for me. I liked mellower dogs. Anyway, I really wasnt 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 didnt take, it didnt. So she led Stripe away. Heather, whod 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 couldnt 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 shed 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 shed 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 shed 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 didnt 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 hadnt really thought about whether there would be a next dog-or, if so, what kind. Mostly, Id been mulling where my dogs would go when I keeled over in pain. But I didnt 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 couldnt 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.
