by Jon Katz
I instantly nicknamed the apartment complex where we were staying “Weirdville.”
It was twenty-five miles outside Minneapolis, a tiring commute and a big sacrifice to have made for any dog, even Devon. I wouldn’t be able to explore Minneapolis or St. Paul as much as I’d wanted, but this was the only place that would take dogs, even therapy dogs.
It was a monument to the new global economy, a sort of way station for disconnected Americans in transit—government employees being transferred, executives moving, people whose real estate purchases had fallen through, all sorts of folks between homes for one reason or another.
Nobody meant to be here; nobody planned to stay long. People arrived and vanished regularly, overnight; there was no point in making friends, as everyone seemed either shell-shocked or about to decamp.
The only other thing we all had in common was dogs. The complex stretched for miles and there were dogs everywhere, dozing on balconies, barking through apartment doors, being walked on the grounds and around the nearby lake, running free on tiny patches of grass.
The scene was as bizarre as it was hilarious. Dogs would pop out of every door—some leashed, some not. They would occasionally leap off the second-floor balconies. Many of them were big dogs, obviously not used to apartment living. They spent much of their time barking at the other dogs.
The best news for us was the lake, where Devon could run off-leash on the surrounding trails and walks.
Even better, we found—actually, Devon found—a long stretch of fenced park next to a highway streaming with trucks at all hours. I let Devon race back and forth till he dropped.
His capacity to adapt to completely new routines was impressive. In the morning, after his run, we’d drive into Minneapolis and park in a garage near the U. For the first week, he freaked in the garage elevator, then he got used to it.
Across the street, three blocks from the building where I taught, a funky café sold coffee, bagels, and sandwiches. Throngs of kids passed by on their way to class.
I’d tie Dev to a utility pole and go inside and order breakfast to go, while outside lines of people formed to pat Devon and exchange hugs and kisses. He loved the attention. I’d see him looking through the café window at me. Is this okay? he seemed to be asking. Can we have this much fun?
Whatever had been ailing him when he arrived in Newark that spring, Minnesota went a long way toward healing. Border collies are more common in the Midwest; many students at the U come from farming regions and know border collies. Some students would get nostalgic for their own dogs, dogs of sainted memory or merely dogs they’d left at home and missed.They’d reach into their backpacks and give Devon bits of sandwiches.
Eventually, the café owner noticed Devon tied up in the rain one morning and chastised me—for not bringing him inside. He became the place’s mascot, going from table to table to greet patrons. He had a gift for knowing when he wasn’t welcome. He’d go to a table, sit, and wait. If nobody responded, he’d simply move on. If someone seemed interested, he’d offer a paw and accept a gift. He never had to go far. Armed with takeout coffee, we’d next walk to Murphy Hall.
There are times when institutional sensitivity can really make a difference. Devon and I owe the U a lot. The students and professors couldn’t have been more generous. They were perfectly entitled to give me a hard time, but no one did. In fact, Dev had legions of fans.
Inside, he went to see his particular friends Jon and Karen, sitting outside their offices. If they were in, they’d call him and ply him with dog biscuits. Half a dozen people volunteered to take him on walks while I was busy or in class. This strange creature, who just a couple of months earlier would have jumped out a window if I left him, became the BDOC. He seemed to especially love women. After a slight hesitation and a look back, he’d go off happily with his new walkers. Reports streamed in of his affability, good nature, and growing fascination with the slow, overfed campus squirrels.
In class, once I started talking, he’d sink to the floor and go to sleep. Two or three kids began bringing biscuits here, too, so that my opening comments were generally accompanied by steady crunching.
After the first few days, I could say, “Let’s go to class,” and he’d bound down the stairwell to the classroom. When I said, “Let’s go to the office,” he’d scamper back up.
At a colloquium for several hundred students and faculty in a big auditorium, Devon and I both took the stage. He sniffed until I began my talk, then settled down for a two-hour nap. He awoke to a polite round of applause, assuming, I’m sure, that it was for him.
At lunchtime, the two of us walked the banks of the Mississippi, where he’d run through the parks and along the walkways that bound the river.
Then it was back to my office, where I researched and wrote, and he’d curl up in a corner on the dog bed I’d brought along.
He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He was with me every minute of every day, had tons of things to see and observe, and had crowds of admirers.
Back in Weirdville, he’d sit out on the patio and catch the cool evening breeze, monitoring and occasionally barking at the assortment of other dogs sitting on patios—poodles, shepherds, pointers, mutts, little yippy terriers—all woofing and whining in a strange, alienated chorus.
I did leave him alone at times—if I went to the movies, to dinner with students or professors, or to the local laundry or supermarket. But during that whole month, I doubt we were apart for more than twenty or thirty hours.
I missed Paula and Julius more than I’d expected, and I loved the kids and the class more than I thought I would. But the effects of the trek to Minnesota with Devon were the most surprising development of all. We bonded on that journey, as he kept a sometimes lonely, disoriented middle-aged man excellent company.
We took good care of each other. We learned to trust each other. Devon taught me something about patience and fidelity; he got a home and friend for life in return.
We had a sweet month in Minneapolis, for all sorts of reasons. Not the least is that I found some of my lost faith there in Weirdville, with a border collie who knew what it was to be lost, and then found.
Nine
Homer
* * *
Back home, Paula reported that Julius seemed subdued—more subdued than usual, which was already pretty subdued. But he was sunning himself in the yard, as usual, receiving his many human and canine pals, perhaps enjoying the fall colors. She said he seemed fine.
Even from Minnesota, I kept up my weekly yaks with Deanne, who loved hearing reports about Devon’s progress and his embrace of academic life. It was fun to talk with her. She saw life with border collies as an intellectual challenge, and by now I could only agree.
We continued to trade strategies on overcoming his past problems, inducing his cooperation. She didn’t like my practice of letting him chase after cars and trucks, even from behind a fence, although she understood that it had become a channel for his energy and part of our routine. But even before she challenged the practice, I knew I’d have to find some substitutes; it was ultimately too risky a game. One day he might misinterpret a command or forget himself—too many border collie owners told such stories.
As it happened, a new diversion soon emerged: the Canadian geese who also inhabited Weirdville began to attract Devon’s fascination.
Geese out in the far Midwest are fat and cheeky. Many no longer bother to fly south for the winter, since there’s so much tasty garbage left about by humans. Minneapolis is a beautiful city, but it isn’t enhanced by the goose excrement that carpets much of its green space, especially along its famous lakes.
During my second week walking Devon through the park nearby, several parents came up to me one afternoon, kids in tow, to ask if he was a border collie. It was the first time anyone in Weirdville had actually spoken to me, and I figured they were about to ask me to put him on a leash when we walked, which they would be perfectly justified, legally and otherwise, in doing.
&
nbsp; But that wasn’t it.
They had heard about border collies, the parents said tentatively. And they wondered, well, here was the problem: their kids couldn’t play soccer on the fields near the complex without stepping in and slipping on smelly goose droppings. Sometimes the geese took over the field and could not be scared off and the kids couldn’t play at all. Was there any chance of my walking Devon out there, letting him have a run at the geese?
He seemed to puff up at the mere request, the genes of Hemp and Kep perhaps stirring a bit.
Sure, I said. Why not try it tomorrow morning, a Saturday? I was as curious as they to see if Devon’s instincts might serve some actual purpose besides driving me nuts.
This would be a good chance to channel his instincts in a different direction. We had plenty of unwelcome goose shit in New Jersey, too, even if the geese didn’t look as big or bellicose as these.
I’d heard lots of stories about how tough geese could be, how they’d stand their ground against people and dogs. Julius and Stanley had adopted the same attitudes toward geese that they had for most wildlife—they seemed not to notice them, always managing to gaze in some other direction.
How would Devon respond? After this parental SOS, I’d gone online to a favorite border collie Web site and posted a query about goose-herding. Border collies, it turned out, were often bought or rented for use at parks, corporate campuses, playgrounds, and country clubs to handle this very problem. “Just bring him there, and tell him to stay,” one owner advised me. “Make sure he doesn’t run until you give the command. He’ll see the birds moving and figure it out.”
Next morning we strode importantly to the field. Some of the parents who’d approached us stood by the fence, along with other soccer parents, a few coaches, and players.
In front of us, about fifty yards away, maybe two hundred sizable, swaggering, honking geese thronged the field. If they noticed Devon or me, they gave no sign of it, and they certainly showed no inclination to move.
Devon was a bit puzzled, looking at me, then at the fence where he usually chased after trucks on the other side. He paid no mind to the growing crowd, until a few of the kids started to cheer him on, “Go, Devon! Go, Devon!” That caught his attention. He dropped into what I called his “launch” position—eyes wide, head almost to the ground, ready to spring.
I cranked him, too, making my voice excited. “You ready? You ready? You ready?” I said it louder and more enthusiastically each time, laughing at myself. Another bizarre man-and-dog scene, halfway across the country on a huge suburban soccer field. “Maybe we should call the Discovery Channel,” I yelled to one of the coaches.
He wasn’t in an ironic frame of mind. He wanted his team to play. “Yeah! Go, Devon!” he yelled back.
Devon was fully amped by now, tense, alert, looking at me, then ahead. The geese began honking and Devon seemed to focus on them for the first time. I had a bright idea: we walked to the left and circled the field, putting the highway and its tempting trucks behind us, the geese front and center.
More parents and kids had arrived. This was becoming a matter of pride.
“Old Hemp is watching you, pal,” I whispered to Devon. “Don’t screw up.” He cocked his head; I was asking something of him, but he wasn’t sure what. That made two of us.
But when a group of geese began moving, he started to get it. Besides, he needed to chase something now or he’d bust. He went more deeply into his crouch.
“Good boy,” I said, standing in front of him. His eyes were darting from my upraised hand to the geese, never taking his focus off either for more than a fraction of a second. “Are you ready? Ready, boy?”
Finally, I waved my hand, and yelled, “Devon, GO GET ’EM!” He sprang off down the field before the words had left my mouth, kicking up puffs of dust as he went. The geese turned to face him as he circled the flock, crouching down low, checking things out. Two of the birds, true to their reputation, stepped forward, prepared to do battle.
Good luck to you poor bastards, I said to myself, a battle-scarred veteran of many confrontations with Devon. I could see he was getting ticked off at their nonchalance. He began barking furiously, charging, nipping, darting behind the two leaders to cut them off from their reinforcements, then turning and lunging at the others.
The ghost of Old Hemp was definitely hovering above that soccer field. Devon’s ancestral honor was on the line.
Suddenly, he circled back toward me, then turned and rushed at the ringleaders, and they began to have second thoughts about this black-and-white missile hurtling at them. They took to the air. Devon wheeled and charged behind the rest of the flock, barking and snapping furiously.
There was a great whoosh, a flapping and honking as the herd lifted off, complaining, and a cheer went up from the crowd. “Yeah, Devon! Attaboy, Devon!”
Devon tossed off a final contemptuous bark, and rushed happily back to me, tail wagging, ears up, chest out—one very happy dog, come to receive his plaudits. I told him, fishing biscuits out of my pockets, how canny and courageous he had been, a credit to his breed.
Some kids came running up to us, and I reached for the leash and tried to wave them off. But Devon wasn’t about to spoil his triumphant moment. His tail wagging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, he was receiving pats, hugs, handshakes, kudos, and kisses and acknowledging them with nuzzles and licks.
We went home and I did some work, then returned after the game. The geese came back four or five times—I couldn’t tell if it was the same crew or fresh contenders—but Devon needed no further encouragement. At the field, he’d go into his crouch. By the third round, he could clear the field in sixty seconds. This was as swell as chasing trucks, though he occasionally gave the highway a wistful glance.
One time, a town police cruiser pulled over to watch the show; a parks department truck came by to tell me we were welcome anytime. So we made twice-daily visits to the soccer field, more on weekends. Devon’s fans increased as the goose droppings diminished. When we left, they missed us in Weirdville.
I called Paula to relay the triumph. We talked about recouping the costs of rawhide and vet care by renting Dev out to golf courses in New Jersey.
What I didn’t tell her was that I’d had a particularly interesting conversation with Deanne. Her new twelve-week-old litter included, she said, one of the sweetest, most loving puppies she’d ever had. But he had a mild case of something called “collie eye anomaly,” a genetic defect that strikes the breed with varying degrees of seriousness. It wouldn’t necessarily affect his vision, but it meant that he couldn’t be bred or shown, so she was seeking a home for him.
And while I had my hands full, she couldn’t help thinking what a perfect companion this dog would make for Devon. This pup had no unhappy history or emotional problems, had a pliant, submissive personality. He’d be a playmate, but never challenge Devon’s authority or position.
But she’d have no problem finding a home for this puppy, Deanne added. In fact, he was so lovable she was considering keeping him herself. “Sometimes,” she wrote me in an e-mail, “you get one that you just can’t let go of.”
She sent a digital photo along, just so I could see him.
A diabolical move. She knew what would happen the instant I glimpsed the photo of that fuzzy, bright-eyed face.
Of course, another dog was folly. I had just learned that three dogs was one too many. Still, a name popped into my head: Homer. He was Homer.
“I can’t really take on a puppy right now,” I e-mailed back, and she said of course not. Hadn’t I just been through a hand-wringing ordeal? She was just thinking aloud.
Merely out of curiosity, I asked how a young dog would affect Julius and Devon, who was finally feeling secure. Well, she was sure Julius wouldn’t mind. He would likely be relieved to feel less pressure to play. (Probably true. Devon would often rush past with a toy, urging Jules to run with him. Julius would sigh, look at me, and sit down somewhere else. He mig
ht, in fact, be delighted to watch two lunatic border collies chase each other around.)
Besides, Deanne added, Julius was totally secure in his relationship with me. If he hadn’t been threatened by Devon, he certainly wouldn’t be threatened by this docile little puppy.
She pictured it this way: Homer and Devon out romping in the yard or upstate, chasing things, digging holes, wearing each other out, Jules dozing in the sun or stretched out by my feet while I worked, as usual.
Actually, she pointed out, that configuration would in some ways be easier. The two collies would exercise each other, so I could walk them less. And Devon would train Homer in a snap. But this was just friendly chatter, she added hastily.
I had plenty of dogs. She was messing with my head. Although . . . she was perceptive; she knew me and Devon; and if she said this pup was one of the most special she’d ever bred, then he was. Deanne was honest, blunt, and to the point. And there was some logic to her pitch (which, of course, was what this elaborately casual musing was). I was trying to wear Devon out, but more often, it worked the other way around. Maybe Jules and I could be a pair, and Homer and Devon could be a pair. It might make some sense, apart from the work of training, the clouds of dog hair, the vet bills, the walking . . .
I was doomed. I e-mailed Deanne back. “No fair,” I protested. “That dog is totally adorable. How can you do this to me again? Think of Devon and Julius.”
She wrote back: “I think Devon would have some adjusting to do, but then again, he already shares some of your attention with Julius, and he did with Stanley while he was there. . . . Sharing is not always a bad thing :). I think you can offer more than enough love and attention for two borders, and I do think they will become each other’s best buddies—even if they might be known to be a bit jealous of who is getting your attention at the moment, now and then. . . .
“Homer’s just so cute (and not just his looks, he’s got a bright, sweet heart as well). I don’t want you to take him if you’re not ready . . . seriously. There will be other nice pups in the future. But this is one of the pups we have every once in a while that stands out . . . so if you are ready, I think he’d be fantastic for you.”
