by Jon Katz
“Foolish dog,” said James as Kipper hopped up and stood beside him, giving the coyote a cold stare.
Kipper positioned himself between James and the coyote and lay down. The coyote met the dog’s stare, and James marveled again at how cool this creature was, how dignified, as if he were waiting for this, expecting it, not surprised at all to be confronted with an old farmer and his old dog. The dog, too, surprised him. He was calm, almost quiet, not frantic, or barking loudly, or even growling.
The three old dogs looked at one another.
The coyote raised his head, and James could see more blood caked on his neck. How he must have suffered, lying in that tangle. It reminded him of all those awful pictures of Jesus coming down off the cross.
Kipper was as still as James had ever seen him. By his position the dog seemed to say to the coyote, As long as you stay away from him, I have no quarrel with you. But I will not move away from him, and you will have to go through me to get him.
The coyote was lying on his side, his legs tangled in wire and his back and side resting on some bushes and posts. His stomach was moving up and down slowly. He lowered his head to rest on the top of a cracked old fence post, but he never took his eyes off James.
James held up the rifle, and the wind whistled up the hill and blew leaves among the three of them. He hoisted the gun up under his right arm, the butt on his shoulder, and took a step forward. He had the coyote’s forehead right in his sights. He could hardly miss.
But something held him there.
He lowered his rifle and he looked down at the farm that he loved so much, and that his father had loved so much, and his grandfather, and great-grandfather before him. At the handful of grazing sheep still there—soon to leave—and the rotting old barn and fading farmhouse and busted engines and cannibalized old trucks.
Then he raised the rifle again and sighted it on the coyote.
“What is it that happens to life?” he said out loud, to Kipper, “that it slips by so fast, and that we don’t see it go? What happened to my boy and my Helen? It was only yesterday that the three of us picnicked right here up on this hill, brought cheese sandwiches and fresh cider and we ate it right here.”
The wind came up again, and he heard Kipper whine and stir.
And through the gun sights, he swore he saw tears running from the beautiful creature’s big yellow-gray eyes, streaming down the side of his long gray pointed nose. He saw shadows on the ground, and he heard the leaves and grass rolling and rustling in the wind, and he looked back up at the big birds, already waiting to pick the wounded animal apart. They could smell blood a long ways off.
Then James felt hot tears running down his own face too. He raised his arm and wiped his eyes on his old flannel sleeve.
He pulled the trigger, and a cloud of birds lifted up right over his head; the sheep bolted and ran toward the shelter of the pole barn, and Kipper shivered.
James heard the sound of the shot reverberate and bounce off trees all through the valley, and he wondered if somebody would look up and come see. But he knew they wouldn’t. It wasn’t an unusual thing around here, to hear a shot like that.
He lowered the rifle. He was done.
HE WONDERED LATER if he had moved his arm deliberately, or if he just wasn’t used to the gun anymore. He had shot high, tearing a huge chunk of bark off a nearby maple tree.
The coyote never flinched. His eyes were still locked on James. James felt light-headed, almost dizzy. The coyote’s eyes seemed to blaze, then blur. He heard the whispers: Oh, Luke. Oh, Luke.
James heard himself sobbing, short, deep gutteral cries, more animal-like than human. He hadn’t cried when Luke died. He hadn’t cried when Helen died. But he cried now, as if his grief were rising from a new well that had been dug up inside him, great piercing sobs that rolled across the pasture.
James dropped the gun. Kipper stepped ahead of him, and then James, all of the fear and hesitation gone, walked right up to where the coyote lay. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cutter he always carried for the fences and began clipping the barbed wire away.
The coyote lay quietly panting, watching as, bit by bit, the cutters snipped until he was finally free. He rolled backward and down to the ground.
Kipper growled, and leaned forward. The coyote turned and locked his eyes on to Kipper, and for a second James thought his heart would explode right out of his chest.
He started to look for the gun where he’d dropped it, and then he stopped. James stepped back and called Kipper. Kipper sat down and waited, a few feet alongside of him, refusing the command to get back.
After a moment, the coyote struggled to his feet, shook his head as if to clear it. Then he turned, and looked at James, right in the eye. The strangest thing, he thought. He felt a shiver down his spine.
And the coyote was gone.
JAMES HAD A LONG DREAM about the coyote that night. He saw him looking up at the sky, rolling over, and lying still. He saw his eyes, still blazing in the moonlight. There was something powerful about them, almost radiant.
The next morning, James and Kipper came out for their morning chores. Up near the pasture, they saw the crows and buzzards circling at the top near the gate. James grabbed a shovel, and he and Kipper took a long walk up. It was a warmer day, less windy. The shovel was heavy by the time they got up to the mound of wire and fence posts.
They saw the birds under a pine tree fifty yards away, on the edge of the deep woods. The buzzards took off, complaining as Kipper and James came near. There, curled up under the tree, was the body of the coyote.
James took a swig from the thermos he had filled with ice water, and then he started to dig. He had to rest two or three times, and his blue work shirt became soaked with sweat. His hands blistered until they turned bloody. His boots chafed his feet, rubbing the skin raw. His knees and elbows throbbed in agony. But he kept digging, the mounds of soil growing along the sides of the trench. By noon, he had a hole dug deep enough to keep other predators out.
He crossed himself and said a silent prayer, and then, using the butt end of the shovel, he pushed the coyote into the grave, covered it with dirt and moss, and then carried a dozen rocks and boulders over to put on top of it. The old coyote would have some dignity. Kipper lay alongside him all morning.
“Old dog,” James said, “rest in peace.”
He and Kipper walked down the hill, side by side, and then into the farmhouse, where James gave Kipper some fresh water and made some iced tea for himself.
He glanced over at a photograph of Helen, a portrait sitting on the table. He looked out the window, at the handful of sheep up on the hill. He gazed down at Kipper, who was staring at him intently, perhaps because James didn’t often sit quietly like this.
Kipper was ready and eager for work, whatever it was, whatever was next.
To the dog, James said, “Kipper, I think we can’t be living like this anymore.”
To himself, he wondered what life off the farm might be like. He wondered if there could be another kind of life. Could there be fun? Warmth and comfort? An easier life for him, and for Kipper? A smaller place? Might there be another companion for him, someone to share life with him and Kipper in the time left?
Somebody from the community college over in Argyle had asked him if he might teach a noncredit course in farming and hay management for the kids there. His hay was legendary around the county for its nourishing quality, its long life. They had a small stipend—$1,000—that they could pay him.
He had said no, but now, he wondered if he might not like it. And they were looking for a judge at the county fair, for the cows and the sheep. He would enjoy that too, putting to good use what he knew, working with kids.
And somebody had called and offered to pay him to do some sheepherding demonstrations at the new organic sheep-cheese farm down the road. Kipper would like that, and there were lots of other festivals and fairs that might be interested too. And he knew people would love to w
atch a three-legged herding dog. James had always said no, he was too busy, he didn’t have time. But now, maybe he did.
He was not into mystical mumbo-jumbo, but he couldn’t get the coyote out of his head, or shake the feeling that the coyote had come for him, not his sheep. He kept seeing his eyes, the way he ended his life. It had shaken him, opened him up.
He looked back over at Helen, a bit guilty maybe, thinking about a companion, but he knew what she would say because she had said it to him a few days before she died: “James, don’t die a grumpy old farmer. Be happy. You’ve suffered enough. Have some dreams. Take care of Kipper.” He felt his eyes well up. He got out his handkerchief to wipe them dry.
He looked back over to the photo. “I’m sorry, Helen. I wish I’d been a better husband, a better father. Sometimes, it feels like the farm just ate me up. Like life ate me up. But I still have some time.” The dog whined, and came over to him. Kipper looked confused, perhaps anxious, caught up in the tone of James’s voice.
“See what happens when you lie around, Kip?” he asked the dog, who looked at him curiously, tilting his head.
Then, James leafed through the phone book and made a call.
“Harriett?” he said. “You remember me? James Page. Got the farm down on McLeary Lane? You spoke to my wife, Helen, a few years back about listing our place.”
She was so sorry to hear about Helen. She had meant to stop by. What could she do for him?
“Well, I’m thinking it’s time to sell the farm,” he said.
Luther and Minnie in Heaven
MINNIE LISTENED TO THE HEART MONITOR BEEPING NEXT TO HER bed. She knew it was slowing. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren had already been to her room to say good-bye. So had her rabbi, the hospice social worker, and her cousin Fanny Lozow. Her small room, in an airy wing of a well-run nursing home, was bright and stuffed with flowers and note cards. The young doctor who came in every day, uttering his usual distracted platitudes about being comfortable and then leaving after a few minutes, stayed longer this morning. For the first time, he squeezed her hand.
She was ready to move on. She’d had eighty-three good years, no complaints. She looked forward to joining her husband, Jacob, in heaven, although she hoped he wouldn’t expect to be taken care of there as much as she had cared for him in this life. Minnie was done taking care of people.
But she had this other, secret wish that she had not shared with anyone. She feared her two daughters might think she was a little crazy. She wanted to see Luther, her dog.
Luther was a mutt given to her by a Catholic priest whose parish had been closing. His visit to her that day many years ago was so strange that she still went over it often in her mind.
She had never spoken to a priest before and was startled when he knocked on her door that summer day. He was tall, very thin, and was wearing his clerical collar, but also a leather jacket and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. His red hair stuck out from under the hat and set off his bright blue eyes.
He was standing there along with a small brown and white dog on a leash. The dog was squat and ugly. The priest introduced himself as Father Matthews. “I’m here to ask you if you might consider taking my dog,” he said.
The parish, which had seen dwindling attendance in recent years, was closing. Father Matthews said he was moving to an urban parish in New York City, and Luther couldn’t go with him.
Minnie thought it was a joke, or a mistake, and just stared slack-jawed at the priest and this strange-looking little dog, who looked right back at her and wagged his tail hopefully.
“You’re not serious, are you?” she said. “We’re not really dog people.”
Father Matthews smiled, as if he knew that.
“You have the kindest face,” the priest said, “and I prayed that you would take Luther in. I hate to leave him. I had the sense that you two might be happy with each other. Call it a message.” He looked up at the sky.
Minnie looked up also, but she saw only clouds.
Even on her deathbed, she did not understand why the priest had come to her. It was as bewildering to her as why she eventually agreed to take Luther in.
Father Matthews had stood silently that morning, giving her time to think. Luther continued to stare at her. It was as if he knew her, was waiting for her. The kids would be shocked. She had never allowed cats or dogs or rabbits or rodents in her spotless little house. But for some reason, she now felt her heart almost literally opening up.
Father Matthews said, “All my prayers brought me here. That means something.”
Minnie started to open her mouth to say no, but the word would not come out. So she said yes, and the priest handed her the leash, along with a bag of Purina Dog Chow. He leaned down, patted Luther on the head, and then walked away.
Jacob had a fit when he came home from work and found Luther dozing on the sofa, but his displeasure didn’t last long. Over time, Jacob came to love Luther too, although not as much as Minnie did.
Luther ate well, grew fat and happy. He fit into the household easily, as if he had always been there. Minnie hadn’t realized it, but since the kids had left, she was sometimes a bit lonely. And while she had nothing bad to say about Jacob, life with him could get a little boring. Mostly, he loved to read his paper, watch TV, and smoke his awful cigars. Luther brought a whole new focus to her life. After a few months, he was sleeping at the foot of the bed.
Luther lived with Minnie for thirteen years. Jacob had died six years after the dog arrived, and Minnie often said she would not have gotten through the loss of her husband if not for Luther. When he died, she called the New York Archdiocese, tracked down Father Matthews, and told him that Luther had passed away.
She thanked him for bringing him to her. “He’s been a great comfort to me. You were right.”
“Thank you for loving him,” the priest said. “I will pray that you and Luther meet in Heaven.” She decided not to tell the rabbi about that prayer. Jewish doctrine was a little fuzzy when it came to Heaven, and the rabbi might be wondering what she was doing chatting with a Catholic priest.
Now Minnie felt very tired. It was so quiet. The room was empty. Then the beeping slowed, and the bed filled with light and warmth, and Minnie had the most amazing sensation of feeling young and light again. She felt as if she were floating out of her tired and aching body until she couldn’t hear the beeping any longer.
MINNIE RECLINED in a comfortable chair, her feet up on an ottoman. There was a small garden, the flowers rich and sweet-smelling. The air was crisp and pleasant. Songbirds were everywhere. Nothing fancy, just everything she liked.
Jacob was sitting next to her, holding her hand. They didn’t live together there, but they saw each other every day, took walks together, sat and talked about their children. Somebody else took care of him.
She saw her mother and father walking together at the edge of the green lawn. Once or twice a day they waved to her and smiled. They seemed happy. She hoped she would see her children here someday too.
The days passed easily and comfortably.
One day, there was a commotion by the gate, which swung open, and a buxom, anxious-looking woman came in calling Minnie’s name. Minnie raised her hand, and the woman bounded over to her.
She was heavy-set, with curly brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses that were partially fogged up. She wore a green, blue, and red paisley cotton dress that came down to her knees. Even from a distance, Minnie could see dog hairs on it. Minnie was fastidious, and always noticed things like that. But most notably, the woman had wings. The wings were of badly frayed silk, and she wore knee-high rubber boots. She was holding an odd-looking wand, and she smelled like liver.
“I’m the angel Audrey. I’ve come to take you to meet Luther, as Father Matthews had prayed for.”
Minnie brightened. “Father Matthews? Is he up here?”
Audrey shook her head. “Not yet. But we text.”
“But Luther is here?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, absolutely,” said the angel, wiping her glasses on the edge of her dress. “But the animals have their own heaven, and it’s different. The animals can’t come here, but you can visit them there. If things work out, sometimes people can readopt their dogs. Or the dogs can readopt their people. It’s a choice for both.”
Minnie jumped to her feet—it didn’t hurt at all to do that here; her knees were young again, bless them. She turned to Jacob, who was smiling, and said she would be back. She felt a flash of the old guilt, but that never lasted up here. She was free to come and go as she pleased. Jacob didn’t ask to come, and Minnie didn’t invite him.
“I’ve been assigned to the dog part of Heaven forever,” Audrey said. “I’ve never lived on Earth myself, and I love dogs, so it’s a good fit for me.”
Audrey held out her hand, and Minnie took it and closed her eyes as the two of them took off into the blue sky and sailed through the air and into the clouds. Minnie looked down on a vast, beautiful terrain. There were flat plains, woods, and on all sides rolling hills pockmarked with countless caves. Streams crisscrossed the valley. There were rows of thick brush with holes dug around the roots, and clusters of old sheds, shacks, and barns.
There were no streets, houses, or big roads, just a lot of dirt paths.
“It’s different,” Audrey said. “That’s why it has to be separate.”
They landed on a large green field, and the smell was so strong that Minnie held her breath for a second. “Dog poo,” she said.
“There are no cleanup laws up here,” Audrey said. “The dogs can go wherever they want. It can take some adjustment for humans.”
And Minnie could see that it was true, what Audrey said. All kinds of dogs, mutts of every size and description, Rottweilers, pit bulls, Afghans, Newfoundlands, Labs, shepherds, poodles, shar-peis, English bulldogs, beagles, hounds, and lapdogs wandered in and out of the caves and woods that lined the fields and bushes. There were tall and thin dogs, brown and white and black dogs, purebreds and mongrels, scary dogs and tiny loud ones. Some were dozing, others were running, growling, eating, barking, playing, or peeing or pooping wherever they pleased.
