by Jon Katz
I WOULDNT HAVE MISSED A DAY OF THIS WINTERS EERIE AND demanding beauty, but I also couldnt wait to say Id gotten through it, although there were times I wasnt so sure I would. People needed one another in the winter, and they knew it. They seemed to go out of their way to wave to a passing driver, to chat at the market or the gas pump. Nobody could really make it entirely alone, so community seemed to flourish. People kept an eye on their elderly neighbors, shoveled their walks, made sure they were warm, asked if they needed a ride to market. When I got what was left of my hair trimmed at one of my favorite Washington County places-Janets Beauty Salon in tiny Shushan-the little shop was usually filled with elderly women sitting under big blue dryers. One of the women was Miriam, who was ninety-four, mostly deaf and blind, but still went to Grange and town meetings. It took the entire town of Shushan to get Miriam to the beauty parlor, although she didnt know it. Miriam lived alone in a small house on the edge of town, refusing all offers of help. So when she had her weekly appointment, everyone mobilized discreetly. Somebody stopped traffic on one side of the road when she was ready to cross, and somebody was waiting on the other. Janet held the door open and guided Miriam to her seat. After her steely hair was done up in waves that were probably very chic in 1948, she crossed the street again. (Thank you, young man, she told me when I asked if I might accompany her, but Ive been crossing this street longer than youve been alive.) She stopped at Yushaks Market for a cup of coffee and a chat with Dennis or Debbie Yushak, and then somebody walked her home with her groceries for the week. There were probably similar stories to be told in every hamlet nearby. As Carr predicted, I was not the same at the end of the winter, not even in the middle of it. Even as my appreciation for my dogs grew, so did my sense of human community. Each drop of the thermometer seemed a reminder that people and dogs work best when mixed together. Sometimes, dogs can lead you to the people you need. While I truly doubt I could have endured winter without my two canine oddballs, I also couldnt have made it without the dozen telephone conversations I had each day with my wife, my sister, friends new and old, and the encouragement and sympathy of this new community. We were in it together, all of us, those with fur and those without. In early February, I came out of the house as the sun came up to hear Carols hee-haw. It was nearly thirty degrees, balmy by recent standards, even though another snow-and-ice barrage was due that evening. Carol sounded stronger, and she looked better, too-up on her feet, out of the barn, eating hay in the pasture, Fanny placidly following along. It didnt quite register that we had saved Carol until a few days later at the variety store. Good to see your donkey up and around, said one of the townspeople, a woman who looked up at the farm each morning when she got into her car to go to work and loved the sight of the donkeys at the feeder. For a few miserable weeks she hadnt seen them at all as they hunkered in the barn, and of course, like everyone else in town, shed heard of Carols illness. Now Carol and Fanny had emerged, like large, fuzzy robins. It helped me get through the winter, she said. Some people would have put her down or let it go. I allowed myself a little ripple of pride. I had spent many cold hours giving Carol her oats, petting and soothing her, plying her with medications, playing her favorite tunes, bandaging her hooves. Taking her temperature, too. And she had come through it. We had all come through it.
Chapter Nine
DOG DAYS II IT TOOK ME A LONG TIME-YEARS OF LIVING WITH DOGS-TO understand how many of the problems that often mark human relationships with these remarkable animals have more to do with the people than the dogs. Only recently have I really grasped that when I complain about something my dog is doing, Im often speaking about my own behavior. Training a dog is something of a spiritual experience when done properly, a meshing of the instincts and traits of two very different species trying to live together harmoniously. But the spiritual stuff tends to get subsumed in all the yelling, tugging, even electro-shocking that passes for dog training in much of America. Dogs are born knowing exactly what they want to do: eat, scratch, roll in disgusting stuff, sniff and squabble with other dogs, roam, sleep, have sex. Little of this is what we want them to do, of course. We ask them to sit, stay, smell pleasant, practice abstinence, and be accommodating. The manner in which we breach this great divide-a chasm often overlooked in all the happy talk about dogs-defines our relationships with these creatures. We love to share our warm and fuzzy stories, but we sometimes dont want to acknowledge just how alien a mind like Orsons is. So we scold them, bribe them, at times even beat them, to change them, adapt them to our needs and expectations. Yet they have powerful, stubborn, sometimes immovable instincts of their own. When theres conflict, people tend to blame the dog. I want him to sit; why wont he? Hes defiant, we say. Shes so independent. We never say, I dont know how to train him or I lose my temper or I say too many confusing things. If its true that having a better dog requires that we be better humans-and I believe it-the daily drama of Orson and the donkey droppings reminded me of how far he had come, and how far I have to go. Orson herding sheep is a spectacular sight. He can herd trucks, buses, and kids on skateboards with Discovery Channel grace. But he herds sheep by charging full speed into the fray, wreaking havoc. He is an excitable kind of dog; any voice command results in his spinning, barking, and racing pell-mell across the pasture. The first time I entered him in a herding trial, beginners division, he knocked a judge down and the sheep leaped over the fence and ran for their lives. Things are calmer now, but not by as much as Id hoped. I thought that by spring, after months of practice, Orson might begin grasping the fundamental principle of herding-that the idea is to go around, not through, the flock and bring the sheep to me, or to wherever I tell him. I understand that this is an ideal, a goal; it may happen and it may not, and I will love him just as much either way. I also understand that for this to happen, the creature who has to change is the one without the fur. One February day, Orson rushed up to the pasture gate, barking and spinning as always. When I unlatched it, the donkeys prudently headed for the barn. I always said the same thing at this point: Lets go get the sheep. Rose would have raced out to wherever the sheep were to begin circling and collecting them. But Orson, marching as usual to the beat of his own odd drummer, invariably raced to the apple tree fifty yards away where the donkeys like to take their dumps and began scarfing down chunks of donkey poop. This was just as disgusting as it sounds. Every day I told myself I would pay no attention to this behavior. Every day I ended up screaming at him to leave it, drop it, or come now. Forget about it, Carolyn had advised me back when we first began herding in Pennsylvania and the attraction was sheep poop. Its perfectly normal, it wont hurt him, and the sooner you shut up about it, the sooner hell stop doing it. So I had no excuses. I knew from the first that this was a behavior that had to be ignored to be eliminated. Orson is a genius at attracting my attention; its his true sport. He doesnt do tricks, and his sheepherding is, to say the least, spotty. But he never tires of seeking my attention and rarely fails to get it, nor does he care much about the consequences. He barks when the crowd applauds at readings. He muscles other dogs aside if they come within ear-scratching distance. He insists on staying within a twenty-foot radius of me, even if it means leaving sheep behind or letting them run off. I understand, and have for years, that the proper way to train a dog is to make commands simple, clear, and positive. Perhaps the most common mistake owners make is that they only pay attention when their dogs are misbehaving. Thus the dog learns that to get his human to talk to or look at him, he has to do whatever provokes a reaction. The proper response, however, is to avoid reinforcing unwanted behaviors by ignoring them, to notice and praise behaviors that are wanted. I also know that its quite common for dogs-especially predatory ones like border collies-to eat other animals droppings. They were bred to spend days out on the moors with their charges, not to enjoy organic food from clean bowls. To lap at a mud puddle or scarf up calorie-rich poop is actually sensible. But because we see dogs as quasi-human, we react as we would if human members of our fa
mily were doing it. Yelling at dogs to stop just makes them anxious-thus more likely to eat the stuff-and calls attention to the behavior. Almost any experienced dog trainer on Earth would offer the same advice: ignore it and it will go away. Dont scold when your dogs screwing up; praise him when he isnt. I get this idea; I embrace it fully. I try to incorporate it into my training. Yet I doubt theres been a day in my relationship with Orson when I havent grumbled, muttered, or yelled at him, even as my love for him has grown. For example: because he doesnt want to be out of my sight, when we go for walks, he trots fifteen feet ahead, then turns around to wait. If I stop walking, he sits down. This bugs me, not because it matters, but because Orson isnt living up to my expectations of a happy dog. I want him off running and romping and looking joyous, not clinging neurotically to me. So I snarl-Get away!-and urge him to run, go, be free. I know better, but sometimes the more we love the dog, the more we mess up. Similarly, in the three years that weve been around sheep, theres hardly been a time when we enter the pasture that I havent made a mental note to be quiet when he eats sheep poop. I can count the times Ive managed to do it. At the farm, this issue escalated. Orson had developed a taste for donkey dung. Why did I care? I found the sight repulsive. I found it infuriating, believing (wrongly) that he was challenging my authority. It impeded our herding lessons since while he snacked, the sheep were heading rapidly up the hill. He was a sheepdog. Id gone to great trouble to put him together with sheep. Why would he rather eat poop? It was also embarrassing. Id been training this dog for nearly four years. Shouldnt this issue be resolved? It hadnt been, not because there was something wrong with him, but because there were things wrong with me. Orson couldnt reason all this out the way I supposedly could. His instincts guided him to an action; but my intellect should prevail over my reflexes. It hadnt. There were, of course, certain practical issues. Trainers can talk all they want about ignoring the dog while he gobbles this stuff, but theyre not around when the dog later vomits in your truck or has diarrhea on the living-room carpet. Dog lovers know that what comes in goes out, often in explosive fashion. I didnt care how natural the behavior was. I didnt like it; I didnt want him to do it. Yet he truly couldnt help it. So knowing all this, why couldnt I stop? Why couldnt I reinforce him for something else, like not eating poop? Why did he get my goat every time, despite my Churchillian resolve? Every day I failed, until this February day in the middle of the winter from hell. It was a freezing morning. We were slogging through the still-deep snow, augmented by a few fresh inches from a squall overnight. I had decided that morning to calm Orson down by saying nothing for most of our lesson. Because of the new snow, most of the sheep and donkey droppings were covered. But up by the apple tree, there was a fresh pile. As we entered the pasture, Orson veered off and made a beeline for it. I stopped, closed my eyes, took a deep breath. This was going to be the day I made some progress. As Orson veered right, straight toward the pile, I headed left, straight toward the sheep. I didnt turn to see what he was doing, just quickened my steps. Moving steadily, silently toward the sheep, I muttered a little mantra: Keep walking, say nothing. Keep walking, say nothing. I felt something shift within me. Like an alcoholic walking away from booze, I felt a higher power at work, and it was an exhilarating sensation. Maybe I could change. As I neared the sheep in the training pen, I tossed a few handfuls of corn over the fence and yelled, Hey, sheep! Yo sheep! I heard paws thundering behind me and Orson came racing past, circling the pen and barking. We finished our lesson, then turned and left the pasture. Keep walking. Say nothing. Keep walking. Say nothing. All the way to the gate and out. Victory! I had done it. I dropped to my knees and shouted for joy. Orson came rushing over, alarmed, and I gave him a giant bear hug. How strange he must have thought me, praising him effusively for what he hadnt done. After years of trying, including more than four months at the farm, I was finally able to look the other way. I did the same thing the next day. The day after, I forgot and yelled at Orson. But then the next time, I got back on track. It was a small thing, but it felt great; I was proud of us both. I was allowing Orson to change his behavior naturally, without tension or shouting. I was getting some reinforcement, too. Day by day, the intervals between my heading for the sheep and his appearing at my side grew shorter. On the seventh or eighth day, he loped right past the pile and headed for the sheep. I raised my arms to the sky and danced a small jig. When Orson came running over, exuberant but confused, I showered him with hugs and treats. Thank you, thank you, I told him. You have helped me to be a slightly better human than I was last week. Forgetting for a second where it had so recently been, I kissed his nose. I cant say that he has never eaten droppings since, or that I have never reflexively yelled at him to stop. I have. But these outbursts are becoming rarer, as his interest in fecal matter diminishes. Were having fun. Who knows? If we herd sheep for another decade or so, I might make it: I might become a patient man. So much for Freud. Give me a good dog any day. I HAVE KEPT MY WORD. WHEN I CAME TO THE FARM, I PROMISED myself each dog would have a daily herding lesson, no matter what. And we didnt miss a day, not in rain nor snow, et cetera, et cetera. After the sheep and donkeys were fed and watered and the barn mucked out, and before I began to write, I had a cup of morning coffee and some toast and fruit. I ate breakfast standing by the kitchen window, watching and studying my sheep. If I didnt yet love them, at least I could try to understand them. After a second cup of coffee, I put on my earmuffs, ski mask, knit cap, hooded jacket, et cetera et cetera (and that was only the top layer), and tossed some beef jerky into Orsons crate; he happily trotted inside. Rose then ran to the mudroom, where I kept my now-repulsive rubber boots. If I began putting them on, she barked and headed for the back door. By now, Rose and I were starting to act in rhythm. Id watched Carolyn Wilki train dozens of herding dogs in Pennsylvania, read many books, and e-mailed some trainers I liked and trusted. Still, it was risky to put a high-powered working dog like Rose in the hands of an impatient, gimpy, and easily frustrated novice. If it didnt work, Id have harmed another dog-hardly the reason I came to Bedlam Farm. Take the long view, an Irish trainer e-mailed me. Let Rose find her own comfort level. Discourage freelance chasing around, but give her enough freedom so that she can build her confidence and hone her instincts. Keep lessons short and focused. Have a goal in mind, and if she achieves it, cut your losses and get out. Dont talk too much: you dont want her looking at you all the time; shes supposed to be watching the sheep. That added up to a lot of things to keep in my head during lessons. But I clung mostly to what Wink, my favorite trainer-advisor, had said: Trust her. You trust the dog to herd the sheep; the dog trusts you to tell her what you need. Respect her. Let her show you how its done. Support her when she needs it, correct her when you must, but theyre her sheep and its her pasture. One day you will find that the two of you are working together, and that will be a beautiful day, he predicted. Yes, it would. But it still seemed quite a way off. Though she was less than a year old, Rose already had a commanding authority around sheep. She also had the speed to move around them quickly and head them off without getting nasty. Still, the Homer experience made me gun-shy. I had messed up one dog I loved, to the point that I had to give him to somebody else. I didnt want that to happen to Rose. We were lucky enough to have more than forty acres and our own sheep; now we had to live up to this happy opportunity. Some border collie owners are among the dog worlds most rigid snobs. A number of them had already made it clear that they thought it reckless, even irresponsible, to train a puppy without a professional herding trainer. Maybe so. But such trainers have loads of dos and donts, often contradicting what other trainers insist on: Never praise the dog, always praise the dog. Always use a stick, never use a stick. Always reinforce with food, never reinforce with food. It gets my back up, makes me tense-and then I pass the tension on to the dogs. This time, the only voice I wanted to hear in my head was my own. I understood my biggest dangers-my big mouth, my short temper, my bad leg (which makes it hard to move quickly), my
difficulties in trusting a dog. As it happened, trust was never an issue with Rose. My hand-feeding, rigorously positive training, and liberal use of beef and liver treats had gotten us off on the right foot from the very start. Now all the indicators for successful herding were good: her head swiveled when she heard her name; she made eye contact; our training sessions were short, fun, and focused. On those occasional days when my voice got sharp or I lost patience, she could shrug it off. Besides, the context was so different up here. We werent driving an hour to someone elses farm, just walking out the back door. As a result, Rose didnt go crazy whenever she saw sheep; they were simply always around. She had already bailed me out so many times-warding off Nesbitt, keeping the sheep at bay while I delivered feed, rounding up escaped donkeys and ewes. I was coming to understand that she really was the teacher and I the pupil. Getting her to lie down, come quickly, back off when I said Thatll do-all of that would come in time. We didnt have to learn it all at once. Meanwhile, whenever she moved to the right, Id say, Good come bye! When she went left, Id praise her for going away to me. I praised her all the time, in fact. That awful censorious voice rarely came out of my mouth. In general, I kept in mind Stanley Corens great all-purpose training maxim: Never give a dog anything for free. To get into the pasture, Rose had to lie down and stay. To move closer to the sheep, she had to lie down again. To stay with the sheep, she had to remain calm and focused. Her confidence grew with her experience. Yet it was also true, I had to admit, that some things she simply seemed to know without my ever teaching her. These instincts ran deep in her bloodlines. If I could shut up, she would figure it out. We got into a routine. Inside the pasture gate, Id walk toward the small training pen and see what happened. Over several weeks, I noticed that by the time I reached the pen-and I tried not to look back at Rose or at the sheep-flock and dog were close behind. When I finally did look, it wasnt a pretty sight: Rose was steering the sheep all over the pasture. But inexorably, she brought them to me. I gave this behavior a name-take the sheep to the pen-and the sheep and dog began to follow a trail theyd worn down through the snow. The process almost took care of itself after a while. Some trainers wouldnt like this, I knew. They liked sheep moving in straight lines; they preferred traditional verbal commands. But Rose was doing what I needed her to do. Some of my own attachment issues, I was coming to realize, had to do with respect. People want their dogs to respect and obey them. Id argue that its equally important that I respect my dogs. I respected Orson tremendously for his big heart, despite his grievous past. He had every right to be nasty and unforgiving; instead hed responded to me with great affection. I respected his intensity, his intelligence and his devotion. I respected Rose for her energy and professionalism. She was a working dog through and through, a different creature from Orson or Homer. She wasnt especially interested in being my intimate, my confidante. She kept tabs on me, popping up every hour or two to lick my hand as I wrote or talked on the phone or prepared meals. Then shed wander off to move her toys around, chew a bone, monitor the sheep through the window. Orson was always next to me. He curled up beside me on the sofa when I watched TV, slept with his head on my shoulder at night. If Orson was my soulmate, Rose was the farm manager, my partner. Each took care of a vital part of me. Orson supported me in the most elemental, emotional way; Rose was already making it possible for me to stay on the farm, caring for my animals through a punishing winter. I believe they sensed my respect and returned the favor. As had happened with my Labs, Julius and Stanley, I felt I was forging an almost mystical relationship. Together we were beginning to find that lovely state of harmony and comfort that our two species can sometimes achieve. I was a lucky man. ORSON WAS PROGRESSING, YET IT WAS HARD TO IMAGINE HIM ever herding the way Rose already did. Still, the working dog is nothing if not ingenious about finding work. One night I got a telephone call from a farmer in North Hebron with a problem: he had a half-dozen cows that had been living in his back fields for years, rebuffing every attempt to bring them into the barn. Theyd virtually become wild animals. Now, about to start clearing his property for a new outbuilding, he needed to get them into the barn. He had heard from his friend Carr that I had two working dogs. Was that true? I said it was. What do you do? he asked. Im a writer. Oh. He was disappointed. But the dogs are really quite useful, I added. Oh, good, he said, audibly brightening. Could I bring them over? A half hour later, I pulled off Route 31 and down a side road alongside a huge farm. Reg was sitting on a giant tractor, waiting for me. I could never let Rose loose on cattle; she could get kicked to death. But nothing made Orson happier than when a goose tried to peck at him, or a cow or sheep tried to kick. He danced, weaved, and nipped; if he wasnt much of a shepherd, he was a master at domination. So we walked into Regs back field. Perhaps a quarter-mile away I saw a knot of cows staring warily down at us. I told Reg to open the barn door, then walked toward them with Orson. Get ready, I said, a command that always put him on red alert. He spun, then crouched. I pointed to the cows. Go get em, I yelled, slapping my leg. He took off like a fighter jet, straight through the meadow and into the woods behind the cows. His outruns, iffy around sheep, were magnificent around everything else. He came roaring in behind the cows, who bunched together protectively. One of them turned to go nose-to-nose with Orson-a mistake. Orson got in her face, yapping, and nipped at her nose. She bellowed, turned, and ran. The others followed, Orson in pursuit, barking and circling as the little herd hustled through the meadow and into the barn. It had taken perhaps ten minutes. Reg was impressed. He closed the barn door, then chugged his tractor over and handed me a crumpled ten-dollar-bill. I intuitively knew I ought to take it. Good job, he said. Thats a good dog you have there. Anytime you want work, call me. We headed home, feeling satisfied. Soon the word spread. People thought a man who wrote about dogs was worse than useless, but they grasped the power of the working dog. A woman in Salem had a shy sheep who was also wary of the barn. When we pulled up in the truck, Orson merely stuck his head out the open window; the sheep trotted into the barn before I could even open the door to let Orson out. A border collie in Rupert kept getting butted by an obstreperous ewe. Orson and Rose and I showed up. The ewe rushed out to challenge us, and Orson nipped while Rose took her backside. Shocked, the ewe retreated to the back of the flock and behaved, now dog-broke for good. Orsons fame spread further, through sheepherding circles, and we dog-broke sheep in Hebron, Granville, and Cambridge. Just a few sessions, and the sight of any working dog would get such sheep to move. It was great work for Orson: no blood, no biting, no real training. Just his raw craziness could tame rams and convince ewes that obeying dogs was the wiser choice. Intimidating livestock was his calling. If we were dealing with a frightened dog, Id have the owner leash the dog and walk behind us. The dogs couldnt tell whether they or Orson were moving the sheep, but they usually concluded that they deserved the credit, so their confidence grew with each visit. Meanwhile, if this could be said of a dog, Orson seemed to be having a blast. We kept our standard fee at ten bucks, but also accepted pies or muffins. There are no trial ribbons for helping traumatized border collies or prizes for dog-breaking sheep. But I had a champion on my hands, no doubt. Every few weeks, I got a call that began, Are you the dog guy? Yes, Id say, Im the dog guy. And, as I proudly announced to Paula, after a few months Orson and I had earned eighty dollars, several pies, and three dozen free-range eggs. AS FOR ROSE: WINK WAS PRESCIENT. DURING A THAW, WHEN the temperatures briefly turned upward and some of the snow was melting, I saw the sheep clustered by a gate in the highest corner of the pasture. Rose and I clambered uphill to see what they were so interested in. There were a few clumps of grass and weeds appearing just beyond the fence at the very top of the hill. Perhaps the sun was warmer there, the patch sheltered somewhat from the wind. In any case, something green was visible for the first time in months, and the sheep wanted at it. I had never taken the sheep off my fenced property. If anything went wrong-sheep running off, Rose getting overwhelmed, stray dogs appearing
-Id have no way to restrain my herd, and little likelihood of getting it back intact. Still, I kept picturing the old print I had hanging in my office: a shepherd walking a path in the deep woods, his small flock behind him and a happy border collie behind the flock. I had dreamed of living that scene. I thought it might be years away-but maybe not. All I had to do was open the gate. It was gorgeous at the top of the pasture. The day was cold but the sun felt good, and the view was mesmerizing. I took a deep breath and unlatched the gate. The sheep rushed out, Rose right behind them. I instantly feared Id made a stupid mistake. The sheep went skittering all over and Rose, excited by this new adventure, was confused, chasing one and then another. Cmon, Rosie, I exhorted. Lets round em up and take a walk. She turned to me, head tilting as it does when she seems to be trying to figure something out. Then she sprang into action, circling the ewes into a tight cluster. I led the way, a walking stick in my right hand. Faith, I said to myself. Have faith. If I keep going, the sheep and the dog will end up behind me, just like they usually do. Which is just what happened, Rose playing the role shed been rehearsing for all her young life. Had Orson been there, the sheep would likely be diving into the woods. But they stayed pretty calm around Rose. When they stopped to graze, she stopped. When one wandered too far from the group, she nudged it back into place. When I moved, she moved, and then they moved. She began wearing, walking a curving path back and forth behind the sheep to push them unobtrusively forward, though that was a technique I still hadnt taught her. It was a triumphal procession. I was the man in the print, the shepherd, and she was my herder. For much of an hour, we walked through my neighbor Adams land and my own, stopping now and then so that the sheep could munch at patches of green that might not reappear for months-we hadnt seen the last snowfall, I was sure. Everything about the setting was lovely and soothing-the view, the sweet, sharp air, the quiet of the woods, the sight of a dog who makes you understand why there are domesticated dogs in the first place. I regretted that Orson couldnt join us, but I also accepted that he probably never would. Dogs pay the price for the awful things people sometimes do to them. There was part of him, I knew, that would never operate the way border collies were meant to function. Still, he had his other work, which he loved, and I couldnt imagine there were many dogs living a better life. After a while, as the sun started to weaken and my leg to throb, Rose and I walked the flock back over the crest of the hill and down into our own pasture. Id hardly said a word the whole time, but we both seemed to have read the same script, a sweet moment in the life of any dog and owner working together. Not bad, I thought. Score one for this terrific little dog, and another for the balding middle-aged Jersey guy with his odd entourage. On the first really warm day of spring, I decided, Rose and I were going to walk those sheep right down the road in front of my house, down Route 30, and right up to the doorstep of the Bedlams Corner Variety Store.
