Saving Simon

by Jon Katz

  This was during the great Fox Attack of 2012, when Simon embraced his potential and cemented his leadership of his new farm.

  We had a few chickens, including two Rhode Island Reds named Fran and Meg. I was taking a photo of one of our hens who was pecking at the grass about ten feet in front of me when I was startled to look in the viewfinder of my camera and see nothing but feathers trailing down from the sky. I looked up and the chicken was gone, just a pile of feathers left on the ground.

  I looked all around but saw nothing. It seemed a hawk—we had seen her circling for days—had swooped down right in front of me and scooped our hen up and took her off for dinner.

  We kept the hens in a relatively secure part of the barn. Other than the hawk, we had had no trouble from predators. We always credit the donkeys with keeping coyotes and stray dogs away; they are guard animals, protective of their pastures and the things in them. We had never had a run-in with a fox, but we had heard a lot about them from farmers. They are one of the smartest animals in the world: brave, stealthy, and intuitive. They seem to adopt strategies, stay away from humans, watch and wait.

  The first sign of trouble came when I got up one morning to let the dogs out early. Frieda, our Rottweiler-shepherd mix, started barking furiously, and our Lab, Lenore, a peaceful creature, even chimed in. I ran to the front door and saw a neighbor walking with her husky and pointing up to the pasture.

  Something was up. I ran outside and looked up the hill just in time to see Simon with his head lowered charging down the hill from the pole barn. I looked to the right and saw a bright red fox holding Fran in his mouth and trying to run up the hill with her. The fox looked up to see Simon charging straight at him. He sized up the situation, dropped the hen, and took off underneath the pasture fence where there was a small drainage ditch, the one place Simon could not pursue him. Then he vanished up the hill. Fran wobbled down to the barn and collapsed. She had deep bite marks on her leg and one wing.

  Simon stood staring up the hill, snorting and breathing heavily as he watched the fox retreat. I ran over to the neighbor, and she told me what had happened.

  She was walking up the hill with her husky when she saw Simon circling and then charging. She saw that a fox was pursuing one of our hens, Meg, who had run for her life, squeezing under the pasture gate and running across the road, where she was presumably still hiding in the tall grass.

  The fox turned back and tried to grab a second hen—there was no sign of her now—when I let Frieda out and she had charged to the gate. The fox stopped, checked Frieda out, and ran to the other side of the pasture, ignoring Simon and Frieda, and sneaking around to dart in and grab Fran, who was hiding under the hay feeder. He got her, but not before Simon saw him and charged again.

  I thanked the neighbor and looked up at the top of the pasture. I was astonished to see the fox sitting at the upper pasture gate, staring down at the farm, looking for the hens he almost got to bring home.

  I called my neighbor who lived at the top of the hill, and he said, oh yes, there was a fox den up there. Four or five kits and mom and dad out hunting. He couldn’t bear to shoot at the foxes once he had seen the babies.

  I could, at least at first. Nobody with a farm and chickens will look the other way when a fox comes around. I grabbed my .22 and ran up the hill. The fox stared at me. Halfway up, I lay down, sighted the rifle—he was right in my sights—and fired. The fox gave me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look and then just sauntered off.

  I told Maria we were in for it. We had never been up against a wily fox before, and we had heard nothing but horror stories about their perseverance and intelligence.

  We collected poor Fran—she was alive but just barely—and got her into the barn. Maria got out her creams and ointments, cleaned out her wounds, and put her in a dog crate. Chickens are not nice to their injured colleagues; they will peck them to death if they can get near them.

  We tried to figure out what to do about the other hens and went to find the survivors. When chickens are attacked, they flee toward the nearest hiding places. They might hide for a day or so. Chickens have no natural defenses and can’t fly away from their predators or run too fast. All they can do is go into shock. We were worried we wouldn’t be able to find Meg, but Maria went across the road and called out to her, and she popped her head up in the grass and ran across the road to Maria like a scared schoolkid running for her mom.

  Many people read about this on my blog and e-mailed me or posted messages on Facebook urging me to build a predator-proof shelter, but I had been on my farm too long and had learned too much for that. Predator-proof chicken shelters are expensive, and even then, never truly predator proof. We valued the idea of free-range chickens. We loved seeing them parade industriously around the farm.

  Besides, we had some weapons to use against the fox that might make a difference: Lulu and Fanny, and now, it seemed, our latest hero, Simon.

  I kept seeing the fox all day, walking back and forth at the top of the pasture, keeping his eyes on his potential dinner. I imagined he was eager to bring food back to his offspring. He was also on to me. Whenever I went outside of the house with the rifle, he vanished, and when I was gone, he reappeared. There are all kinds of predators in the country, but none as cunning and determined as a fox. Every farmer I knew told tales of being outsmarted and defeated by them. One farmer, a neighbor, told me to forget about the chickens: “He will figure out how to get them, and he’s smart enough to take them right out from under your nose.”

  The next morning, Maria and I drove the ATV to the top of the pasture, and we found the fox’s den. It actually looked right down on the farm, and the fox—his mate, too, perhaps—could look down the hill and see the chickens pecking around. We had locked them up for a few days, hoping the fox might get distracted by some fresh opportunities—rabbits or mice, maybe even a woodchuck—but that was unlikely. He had put his mouth on one hen and gotten some feathers from another. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  The den had two holes on either side of a hedge—foxes build escape tunnels. As we walked near the den, we saw three kits—baby foxes—come out and play with one another, wrestling and running in circles. I got some photos of them and put them up on my website. This is it, I said to Maria. I can’t shoot any of these animals.

  And it was true. I didn’t have it in me to shoot the mother or father and leave starving babies, and I certainly didn’t have the heart to kill the babies. Perhaps I don’t have the heart of a true farmer, but I just couldn’t do it. We would have to think of something else.

  As we puzzled and fretted, it felt a bit like we were under siege. Poor Fran was a horrible mess. I wanted to shoot her and put her out of her misery, but Maria was determined to nurse her back to health.

  We had greatly underestimated Simon. He seemed to take the fox attack personally. Lulu and Fanny would circle around if a stray dog or coyote came around, but they were gentle souls and had never charged an animal like Simon had.

  And that was just the beginning. The animals didn’t really need our help as it turned out. Simon instantly turned into our own secret service, taking the idea of a guard donkey to new heights.

  In the mornings, before we let the chickens out, Simon would climb halfway up the hill and stare at the fox den. When the fox appeared to patrol on the ridge, Simon walked back and forth with him, stomping his foot, charging sometimes, and glowering. Meg stayed close to Simon. Every morning when Meg left the barn, Simon came over, and she hopped on his back, catching an escort to the hay feeder where the good bugs and worms were. Simon would let her jump on and then trotted up to the feeder where Meg jumped off. He then took up position between her and the ridge, where the red fox was still patrolling.

  The Rhode Island Reds sometimes jumped on the donkeys’ backs to peck at bugs and fleas there, but Meg had taken it a step further—she was definitely using Simon as a shield, as a big brother. He rose to it.

  For days, Simon kept watch on the ridge. Tw
o or three times, I saw the fox crawl under the pasture gate and creep down the hill. He never got more than a few feet before Simon would spot him and start moving up the hill, ears and nose down. The fox might have been unimpressed by me, but he was taking Simon seriously. An angry charging donkey is not a pleasant thing.

  The fox would back up, slip under the gate, and go hunt somewhere else for a while. We didn’t expect this truce to continue, but after a week, the fox drama just ended.

  The fox had disappeared. He never came back. We no longer saw him at the top of the pasture, and after a few days, the chickens and Simon all began to relax, to let their guard down. He’s just waiting for this, I thought, but I was wrong.

  Maria and I drove up the hill and saw that the den was empty. The family had moved away, perhaps to a new location where some vigilant donkey wasn’t waiting for them. There had to be easier ways to eat than to get by Simon.

  So our perspective on Simon changed. He seemed, as usual, quite pleased with himself, all puffed up and important. He was the big guy on the farm now, the protector, the chaser off of predators, our hero. I just about burst with pride. My man, I kept saying to him, my man. Bedlam Farm became a pastoral place again, donkeys grazing up the hill, chickens pecking around in the grass.

  But it was clear that this was his farm now, and he took his role seriously. Like dogs, donkeys like to work, and if you don’t find some for them, they will find their own—gnawing on barns and trees, chewing on tires, moving cans around and opening them.

  Simon had a role. He was the guardian donkey of Bedlam Farm.

  TEN

  The Farmer

  As Simon recovered and wove himself into the heart of the farm, I kept thinking about the farmer. I knew he’d been convicted of animal neglect and fined $125. But other than that, I knew nothing much about him.

  A neighbor of the farmer’s e-mailed me and asked if she could come by the farm to see Simon and meet me. She said it was important to her to see how he was now.

  Three days later, Jeannie drove her battered old Toyota pickup into the driveway. I saw it was a farm truck—the straw, jugs, chains, and bits were unmistakable.

  Jeannie looked like a horse lover to me—she had that tall, lean, and muscled look. I guessed her to be in her late thirties. Her handshake was strong, but I could tell she was anxious.

  She said she had seen Simon when he first came to the farm five or six months before the raid. He was tied up by the barn, and then he just disappeared. She hadn’t seen him since. She had grown up on a farm near Rochester, and had two donkeys and loved them dearly, and she had a feeling something was wrong. She never saw Simon working or grazing or being fed or brushed.

  She had been worried about him, and she felt guilty that she hadn’t called the police. When she saw them arrive with the trailer, she guessed he might be dead.

  She looked around the farm, and then we went to the barn. Simon and Lulu and Fanny, all of whom had come to appreciate treat-bearing strangers, came down to check her out and sniff her pockets. Jeannie knew what she was doing. She asked permission, then reached into the pouch in her jacket—horse people always have those—and held out a cookie in an open palm to each donkey. She looked Simon over quickly and then smiled. “Good job,” she said. “From what I hear, this is a lot different than he looked up there.…”

  She tickled the side of Simon’s nose, which donkeys love.

  What was the farmer like? I asked. She shook her head at first, and then shrugged. Country people never like to talk about their neighbors, especially to strangers. Neighbors are important, and so is their goodwill.

  Well, she said finally, he was a quiet man, not friendly, not hostile. If you needed some help, he was happy to provide it, but he never wanted to talk much, and she never saw much of the son or wife. There was to be no socializing, no visiting. She got that message and respected it. She had seen some horses around. She thought he must have been trading some or buying them. They were out in the pasture behind the house. They had a small pole barn for shelter and looked strong and healthy, she said.

  She had noticed things deteriorating a bit around the farm; she guessed he was having a rough time. She said she always thought of him as a decent, hardworking man, but obviously she had been wrong about that. No decent man could have allowed an animal to suffer like that.

  “They should have put him in jail,” she said, quietly.

  I nodded but didn’t respond. After Jeannie left, I went out to the pasture to brush Simon and check on his legs. I kept thinking about what she had said.

  Was that so? I hear that judgment often—the idea that people who mistreat animals ought to go to jail. I also hear people say they do not trust anyone who does not love an animal. That there is something wrong with people like that.

  I didn’t feel that way. I have good friends who are not drawn to animals, and they are good people. I think the love of animals has become a religion in America, a faith. If you look at the news, you sometimes see an angry and violent country, but if that is so, animals are its soft place, its merciful heartbeat.

  The definition of mercy is “the compassionate or kindly forbearance shown toward an offender, an enemy, or other person in one’s power.” The definition of compassion is “a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for those who are afflicted by misfortune.” Compassion is the strong desire to alleviate the suffering of another.

  Wouldn’t the farmer be entitled to some of both? Or had his treatment of Simon forfeited that right?

  Mercy and compassion are deeply ingrained in the human relationship with animals. There are hundreds of thousands of people in the animal rescue movement, locating animals in need, transporting them around the country, rehoming and rehabilitating them. There are thousands of “no-kill” shelters all over the country where animals spend their lives being cared for and fed rather than euthanized.

  In America, the Left and the Right agree on almost nothing, but they do agree when it comes to loving animals and treating them well. It is difficult to think of any single issue or movement that is so unquestioned and supported as the love and care of animals in need.

  Yet there is no national rescue group for people—no consensus on how to help the poor or if they should be helped at all. Social service budgets have been slashed all over the country as Wall Street bonuses soar into the billions. I am not a political person. I just wonder at the contradiction, and how narrow the prism of mercy and compassion can be.

  For me, compassion—like writing—comes from moving to the edge of my comfort zone. I know that people who profess to love animals seem to show little mercy to humans sometimes.

  I’ve seen the mobs online raging about cruel humans and abused dogs. I was first introduced to the great numbers of people who attack human beings in the name of loving animals when I wrote A Good Dog about my decision to euthanize my border collie Orson after he bit three people.

  Digital mobs rarely kill people, but I see little mercy and compassion in their swarming. There are thousands of pages on social media devoted to horror stories about people and animals, and the rage I sometimes see there is breathtaking.

  Where did I stand in all of this? Animals have made me better every time I opened myself to them. Could I feel this way about people? Learn to be more patient, less judgmental?

  I think I knew the minute I met Simon that I had to go and meet the farmer, see his farm, try to understand what had happened. My heart broke for Simon and what he had suffered, but he was also a mirror. In feeling for him I had to also feel for the man who had done this to him. They were not separate things; they were parts of the same thing. Simon and I and the farmer were all connected—part of the adventure of life, the theater of chance.

  I suddenly saw that I could not possibly be compassionate toward Simon if I did not at least try to understand what had allowed this abuse to happen. If we can do this to animals, we can to it to others, and ultimately we are doing it to ourselves. Donkeys have always
carried messages to human beings, from Jesus to the Kabbalah to Simon in my pasture. Simon was shaping—perhaps reshaping—my heart.

  It was just not enough for me to condemn and judge and dismiss. That was not, to me, the path to being a fully realized human. I didn’t want to run away from what the farmer had done. I wanted to run to it, to put myself in his shoes.

  One warm July morning I drove out to the small town north of Albany where Simon had lived. I had seen the address in the paper when the farmer had appeared before the town court and been fined. Since the recession hit in 2008, animal control officers reported the growing problem of people who could no longer afford to take care of their animals—dogs and cats dumped on the roads or brought to shelters, farm animals without enough food or proper treatment of sickness and injuries.

  Many small farms were going under, and as farmers struggled to stay afloat, they cut corners wherever they could. It wasn’t, I was told by a farmer friend, a decision anyone felt good about; it was a process that devoured the human spirit. Quite often, these farms had been in one family for generations. No one wanted to be the one to break that legacy. No one wanted to let go.

  I had been a reporter for a long time in big cities—Washington, Philadelphia, Boston, Atlantic City. I am not afraid to approach people who didn’t want to talk to me, and I had learned how to talk to people, even when it wasn’t comfortable.

  Still, I was anxious. It could not have been easy for this man, having the state police come and haul his donkey away and charge him with neglect in front of all of his neighbors. He would not be happy to see me. He was unlikely to want to talk to me. But I was more curious than nervous. I wanted to see how I felt around the man. I loved Simon, and it was hard not to look at his awful suffering and not be angry.

  It took an hour and a half to get to Simon’s old farm. I could see it was not and had never been a dairy farm; it was a crop farm. There was one small red barn, no big cow barns, no silos, no broad and sweeping pastures.