by Jon Katz
Chapter Ten
FAMILY CIRCLE BOTH OF US WERE LAUGHING, THE TALL, MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN with the picture of a Newfoundland puppy on her sweatshirt and I. Despite the fact that we were freezing, standing at the edge of an ice-covered pond outside a small town southeast of Buffalo on a raw, blustery day, we were happy. Neither of us could believe that we were there together. We had only distant memories of being together at all, even though this was my sister. And we were about to score some huge points in her new neighborhood. Rose was in her classic border collie crouch-nose almost to the ground, right paw lifted, head tilted, eyes focused intently, awaiting my command. There are sheep hiding out there, I said quietly, gesturing to the thickly wooded hillside in front of us. The sheep we saw last night. And we are going to get them. At the mention of sheep, Rose knew more or less what we were there for. A working girl knows when theres a job to do. It was late February. Id had more laden moments in my life, but not many. Two weeks earlier, after many discussions with me, my sister and her tribe of Newfoundlands had moved from her home in a working-class Boston suburb to a five-acre tract with a ranch house above this pond. In Massachusetts, Jane and her big, gentle dogs-all rescues of one kind or another-had been confined by convention and local ordinances to a small fenced yard with daily treks to a nearby park. Here, in this bitter winter, they were joyously in their natural element. The healthier ones were romping through their much larger fenced yard; those with various ailments had a quiet environment in the finished basement. Finally, and at great cost, Jane had found a loving and peaceful family, and like some wise, powerful elder, shed led them into the wilderness where they all-including her-could live undisturbed. Jane seemed as happy as the dogs. Even though I hadnt seen her in many years, I couldnt remember seeing so calm a look on her face. Wed been talking about a visit, but intended to wait until later in the spring, when the weather was more agreeable and I was finished with lambing. Her new place was a long drive from mine. But things had speeded up, taken a strange turn, the fates intervening with a clear message. Janes brand-new neighbors were up in arms over some wild sheep living on the edge of the pond. Abandoned by a couple that had divorced, they had originally numbered five, and had been living in the woods for several years. Now there were only two left. They fled from dogs, people, snowmobiles. Nobody could catch them, or had even gotten near them. Some neighbors occasionally threw down some hay, but mostly the sheep lived off brush and weeds. Now the wretched creatures were starving in this unusually bitter winter, ravaging peoples shrubs and ornamentals. A number of border collies had been worn out trying unsuccessfully to herd them out of their hiding place. In fact, one of Janes neighbors had called a nearby border collie owner a week earlier to ask for help. The sheep, growing increasingly desperate for food, had begun chewing the bark off trees. The owner had refused, saying it was too dangerous a mission. This ticked me off, as Jane knew it would. There are some appeals you just dont turn down if you have border collies. How often does somebody ask you and your dogs to save some sheep? Isnt that more or less the reason for a sheepdogs existence? Still, the woman had a point. These sheep were not dog-broke; theyd never been around working dogs. They were likely to flee when a dog approached, just as if they were confronting a coyote or another predator. Trained dogs, in turn, get easily unhinged when sheep behave so unpredictably. Instead of herding, the exercise becomes an unruly, sometimes bloody chase. Nine-month-old Rose wasnt large or experienced; she was used to moving fairly compliant sheep whod been around border collies all their lives. I wasnt sure shed developed the presence to deal with these rampaging wild creatures. It would be a test of all our hard work together, more important to me than any trial ribbon. Besides, rounding up wild sheep was a pretext; this visit had many dimensions. How apt, though, that a dog was the spark. When Jane heard about the recalcitrant border collie owner, she told her neighbor, My brother Jon wont like that. I bet hell come up here with his dogs when he hears about this. Jane knew me. Brothers and sisters dont need to talk all the time to understand one another. And I loved the idea that perhaps for the first time in our lives, she was asking her brother for help. Of course she was right. I called Anthony and asked him to watch over the farm and its inhabitants for a day or two. Even though Orson was keen to join the posse, I decided to put him in a kennel. He thinks Newfoundlands are sheep and would probably go ballistic at the sight of them, and I didnt even want to picture what runaway wild sheep would do to his arousable nature. This was no small step. I could never have left Orson in our first few years. But Id worked hard to get us both to this point. Ive always believed that quality kennels are among the safest places to leave dogs; you know theyll be fed, safe, and right where you last saw them when you return. It was time, past time. Sometimes I wonder if I liked Orsons dependence, seeing it as a sign of his devotion. Its hard to teach a creature you love to move away from you. But in many ways, its the essence of love. What if something happened to me? Shouldnt he know that other people could love him, too? The folks at the Borador Kennel in Salem knew his story well. Dog lovers all, they would adopt him, visiting him throughout the day, stroking and cooing and offering treats. For an attention junkie, this wasnt half bad. I also enlisted Derrick, the twelve-year-old son of one of the technicians, to come visit Orson in the evening after the staff went home. So I dropped Orson off with little fuss, and Rose and I headed west, bound for a great adventure for us both. I HAD NOT SEEN JANE IN A GOOD TEN YEARS, MAYBE LONGER. Until a few months earlier, Id resigned myself to the likelihood that Id never see her again. I hadnt seen or talked with my older brother in years, either. Jane-the person in my family to whom I was the closest and, in many ways, the one Id loved most-seemed lost to me. Now, on a gray winter day in a far-off corner of New York State, closer to Canada than to the lives either of us had known before, we were like refugees reunited in a foreign land. A lot seemed to be riding on this, much more than the welfare of a couple of sheep, and I was afraid that we might both be disappointed. After all that had happened, I had no reason to believe my connection with Jane could survive as more than a phone friendship. We were nearly strangers now, however close wed been in our early years. Shed been very ill for a long time. She had only seen my daughter once or twice, years ago. Shed virtually abandoned her own two children; one daughter had come to live with Paula and me for a while and the other had gone to live with her father. Neither talked to her much now. I knew how bad she felt about our family and hers, how hard she had struggled to recover. But so much damage had been done, to her and by her. It was hard to forget those awful years, or to believe they were truly over. It would be extraordinary even to talk with her face-to-face. Paula and I have been married for more than three decades, and I cant imagine being closer to another human. Yet Jane knew me as no one else in the world could. The same crucible had shaped us; she understood, literally, where I came from. To lose my family was a catastrophe. To get even a piece of it back was a miracle. ID ARRIVED THE PREVIOUS AFTERNOON AFTER A LONG DRIVE, with Rose navigating. As we cruised along, I was surprised at how rural and remote a region my sister had chosen. Shed never lived outside an urban area. In our telephone conversations-increasingly frequent, now daily-Id tried to warn her of the particular challenges of life upstate. Boston winters are rugged, but she had stores and services and movie theaters close by, dog-rescue friends to commiserate with. My sister still seemed fragile to me, and at my urging, shed seen a doctor, just before moving, for some medication for her anxiety and depression. It had helped. But I knew what nasty winters in unfamiliar, rural areas could be like. This was a brave undertaking. It wouldnt be an easy transition for her, and she had a lot less support than I did. She had little money to spare. After being laid off six months earlier from her programming job, she was living off savings and real estate proceeds until she found new work. She knew nobody upstate apart from an e-mail friend in the dog-rescue movement who lived nearby. One daughter was in California, the other back in Massachusetts. There was no commu
nity around to keep her company or help her out. She had eye and leg injuries from an accident-I was surprised to learn shed had a related knee replacement a few years ago-and now felt considerable anxiety about driving. Plus she had about two thousand pounds of dog to take care of, some with heart, dietary, or orthopedic problems that required ramps, special food, vet visits. A fervent believer in raw natural diets for her dogs, she fed them only chopped-up turkey or chicken parts. I hated to think how much time shed spend in her minivan (without four-wheel drive), making the rounds of vets and butchers. Yet Jane felt strongly, as I did, that change was necessary and that time was growing short. She needed to shed her past and move forward. Twelve-step recovery programs had saved her, but she wanted the next phase of her life to be different, more meaningful. It was surreal how similar wed become. All those impulses, apart from the addictions, were issues and themes I had experienced, even written about. But it was also daunting how different we were. In some ways, she seemed much more damaged than I; in other ways, more peaceful, less angry. Neither of us needed a shrink to explain the powerful pull drawing us toward quieter, more peaceful surroundings with our canine companions. A mile or two from her house, I put the directions down and pulled over. I needed to catch my breath a bit, settle down, adjust my expectations. What if this visit didnt go well? What if we just didnt like each other after all this time? Rose, puzzled at the stop, moved in to lick my face. Perhaps she sensed my anxiety, or wanted to urge me to get moving. She was not good at being idle. I had great memories of times with my sister when we were young children-the long yaks at bedtime, the funny stories we exchanged, an aborted attempt to run away to our grandmothers house. That happy period was short, though. Mostly, we huddled together against the storm that was my family. Would I be greeting a ghostly survivor with whom I could never reconnect in any of the old ways? Or a close-to-home version of a dog person like Laurie, somebody who had turned her physical space and emotional self over to dogs so completely that she shut out human beings? Cranking the truck, I continued down the road to Janes. It was time to know. The night before, shed told me on the phone that she wasnt going to make a big deal out of the visit. I see you as another dog friend, she said. Im not another dog friend, I said. Im your brother. Its different. She apologized quickly. Even after all this time, we could still read each other. She was simply taking that view to keep from getting too wrought, putting too much weight on a quick visit. I understood. But I didnt want another dog friend; I wanted my sister back. I wanted to be the kind of brother she deserved, and to have the sense of family that neither of us had had as kids. We didnt have another decade or two to feel estranged. The sheep-chase gave the visit a wild, dog-related dimension. It was bizarre, but also safer; it took the pressure off. I saw the white mailbox shed described and pulled in, down a long driveway. A white ranch house sat on the top of a rise, with woods on one side, an open field leading to a pond on the other. I had called Jane on my cell to tell her I was close-Id gotten lost twice on the endless drive-and she told me shed be outside the house, waiting. But at the end of this driveway, a strange woman was standing on a porch. She seemed elderly, perhaps in her late sixties or early seventies, with a worn, weary, almost ravaged face and dyed red hair. I had pulled down the wrong drive. Do you know where Jane lives? I asked, leaning out the truck window. She just moved in last week. Im her brother. The woman looked puzzled, then smiled faintly. Its me, she said. Its me, Jane. I WAS SPEECHLESS, SUFFOCATING, ALMOST GASPING FOR AIR. I got out of the truck, Rose bounding out behind me. Jane came down the steps and we had a long hug. Then we pulled back, both anxious not to make too big a deal out of something that was a staggeringly big deal. In my head Id carried a picture of my sister from another era. Time and afflictions had aged her. The hard years-shed had precious few easy ones-were etched in her face. Did I look as old to her? Fortunately the shock and discomfort of the moment was quickly supplanted by the charge of enormous, friendly, slobbering Newfoundlands, barking, wagging, and encircling the normally assertive but now stunned Rose, who looked at me, then retreated under the truck. Rose is never stymied for long or by much, but this time she was rattled. These huge creatures bearing down on her-which might have looked like sheep but werent-were a new experience. She studied the situation, emerged from her hideout, and tried all her herding moves-nipping at noses and heels, circling around. The Newfies seemed amazed at this hyper little creature, their heads swiveling as she barked and charged. She got bewildered but genial responses until, finally, in the amazingly adaptable way of dogs, everybody started sniffing around the yard. Rose seemed to grasp that these were dogs, not livestock, and started stealing their toys. Jane and I watched for a while, amused by this clash of cultures, relieved not to have to say much. How did we get from there to here? she wondered. Even before I walked into her new house, we were joking about this odd location for the Family Circle. This was an organization of our extended family in Rhode Island and Massachusetts that had met regularly for years at different relatives homes, an organization she and I had carefully avoided. We walked into her backyard-it had a gorgeous, sweeping view of the Adirondacks. Suddenly, Rose froze, and in the dimming daylight I saw two sheep sitting on a hillside perhaps a quarter-mile away. Rose was already giving eye and creeping along the ground. Well take care of them tomorrow, I told her. She didnt move from her crouch. Was it the dogs that got us together? I asked Jane. I dont know, she said, truthfully. Maybe. Probably. That was a bittersweet reality. It was great that dogs were responsible for this, sad we hadnt managed it ourselves. Surveying the scene, heading back for a tour of the house, I told Jane I didnt think it likely that we could corral these sheep. They looked restless and emaciated despite thick wool that had surely gone unshorn for years. They were probably suffering from worms and parasites as well as malnutrition. Rose had never seen such creatures, even though she herded sheep every day. I thought she was too young, the sheep too fearful, the woods too deep to accomplish this task. Jane shrugged. Either way, she said, my arrival had already raised her stock in the neighborhood. We all filed inside. It was hard for even a border collie to get wrought up around these sofa-like Newfies; they simply arent excitable. They all sat down to stare at the visitors, which led Rose to settle down with a bone while Jane and I sat down to deal with each other. She was sweet, easy, a bit vulnerable, much as Id remembered her. The house was spartan, the carpets cheap and worn, the walls bare. Almost all the furniture was shoved into two rooms, the living room and the basement. There were bowls and buckets-Newfies love water-everywhere, and the floors were littered with bones and toys. The place suited her. It was modern, with two propane stoves and a sunlit California room, and potentially comfortable. But it reminded me of a dog motel suite, temporary and impersonal, more than a home, partly because Jane had only been there a few days, partly because she didnt seem to have much interest in or talent for domestic life. She told me she hadnt had a visitor in years. As it got dark, we sat in the living room and she made me a cup of tea. This talk had been a long time coming, and there was so much water under the bridge to deal with that we both sensed we might drown if we tried. We took it slow and easy. She talked about each of her dogs, and got a huge kick out of Rose, who immediately set about organizing the Newfies, moving one here, the other there. They didnt exactly comply, but they didnt object to her efforts, either. We proceeded as if we got together all the time, as if this were normal. We didnt stray far from dog talk. After a bit, the shock and dismay of not recognizing her began to wear off. I said I was excited about our looming encounter with the wild sheep. I see why you like border collies, Jane told me. You and Rose are both obsessive about work. This was true. Though I doubted we could round up those sheep, we were going to give it a hell of a try. I kept peering out the window at the landscape across the pond. After a while, I brought my bags in. Janes guest quarters consisted of a bare room with little heat or light and a threadbare carpet. The sofa bed was a nightmare, with a pronounced tilt and murderous
springs. I knew there wouldnt be much sleep that night. I also realized that this was the first night Id ever spent in any place my sister lived. She would be getting dinner ready, she said-another first. Janes ranch house had been purchased and set up with her dogs very much in mind. Two of her Newfoundlands couldnt walk up stairs-one had debilitating heart diseases, the other had serious hip problems-so they stayed in the basement, which was furnished with sofas, a carpet, and a propane stove. Just the day before, she told me, she had taken in still another Newfie, a puppy named Simon, who suffered from dwarfism, which left him with short, basset hound legs. He was, of course, the perfect dog for Jane-cute, sweet, in desperate need. Simon, strange-looking but playful, had attached himself to Rose, and the two of them were rolling around on the floor while the other dogs sat placidly watching. Id offered to take my sister out to dinner but she said, with some pride, that shed already prepared a meal. I sat down at her small Formica table and she brought out some salad greens, rolls, and a pan of microwaved macaroni and cheese. I could see Jane wasnt used to guests. She couldnt quite coordinate the food and drinks in sequence. She had spoons, but no knives or forks, plates but no napkins. She hadnt bought anything to drink, so we had tap water. Dessert was ice cream. It felt strange. Our own family dinners had been elaborate and delicious, but always difficult; this one was quiet and peaceful. Rose curled up against one of the enormous Newfies, and my sister smiled down at her dogs-those who could climb the stairs-all sitting quietly around her. We were surrounded by dogs, in fact, and had to thread our way through them to clear the dishes. For the first time, we talked about our parents a bit, and some shared childhood memories. Then she described her dogs again, one by one. I came here for them, she said. She had all kinds of plans for them: expanded fencing, ramps for the ailing ones, dog doors so they could go in and out independently, treks to nearby state parks. She was extraordinarily gentle with and attentive to them. After dinner-it was about eight P.M.-she announced that we had to go downstairs and visit the basement-bound Newfies. I made what I hoped was the appropriate fuss over them. Cold-weather dogs, they were delighted by the snow and bitter temperatures. Shed had to buy multiple air conditioners to keep them comfortable during Boston summers, Jane said; here, she might not need them. I went outside to walk Rose and to clear my head and calm down. When I returned, Jane was settling into what was clearly her evening routine. In a room off the family room, she unearthed some turkey carcasses from an enormous freezer, and chopped them apart with a small hatchet, putting the parts in a bucket on the floor. The dogs stared at the pungent bucket for fifteen minutes or so as Jane worked. Then each got a turkey leg or thigh, plopped down on the living room carpet and began crunching away. I know, Jane said, following my gaze. But this house is for them. Theyre why I came. Why shouldnt they eat on the carpet? This long trek to an alien place, a completely different way of life, far from friends, family, a half-century of experience and memories-it made more sense now. She wasnt leaving a home, she was creating a home conceived for her dogs. It was a peaceful retreat for the last years of her life; I had no doubt that she intended to die here. Our conversations were low-key, nonemotional, just as she had wanted, and always interspersed with her comments about, observations of, and discussions with her dogs. Susie, what? Are you hungry? Simon, do you want to go out? Phyllis, what are you saying? Often, she burst out laughing at something the dogs were doing, some expression on their faces. She loved Rose, and was careful to include her in the running commentary and to make sure she was comfortable and plied with bones. She immediately grasped the depth of love I had for my own dogs, and I found it oddly comforting that nothing had to be said. When I took the dogs outside for their final walk of the night, they put on a show under the back-door floodlight. Rose would zoom in, grab one of the Newfies toys, rush to a safe distance and crouch down, daring the big guys to come after her. Several of them tried, charging a few feet, then watching bemusedly as Rose tore out of range again. I looked up and saw my sisters face in the window, beaming at the sight of me, of our dogs playing together. Could I possibly imagine a more unlikely likely sight, I wondered, feeling much of the same pleasure. After a while, the Newfies wore out, something that typically happens to Roses playmates. I opened the door and they filed into the basement one by one, with Rose left outside, staring at me expectantly. I threw her a ball for another ten or fifteen minutes. When I came in, Jane was again surrounded by all her dogs, old and young, healthy and sick. She talked to each one about their play session, distributing pats and hugs, accepting their licks. I began to see the working nature of these dogs, too. They had enveloped my sister in a loving, furry, protective cocoon, where she was insulated from some of lifes rough edges, disappointments, and pain. Life never gave her that, but they did. These were profoundly gentle creatures. There would be no sudden moves, no squabbling, no intrusions. They were the temperamental opposites of the people who had raised us, this house the opposite of the one we grew up in. There was no nagging, fighting, or cruelty in Janes new house, and very few rules except that dogs could go anywhere they wanted, eat wherever they wanted, and always-always-claim the affection and attention of their owner. I was spent and said goodnight. It was a long time until morning. I think we both felt awkward. Jane really didnt have much experience with hospitality, and I was still struggling with the surreal nature of the visit. The guest room was cold and stark and dusty, and when I climbed onto the sofa bed, one half collapsed to the floor. I couldnt level it, so I ended up swaddling myself in blankets and my coat, lying with my head elevated at the foot of the bed and my feet on the floor. I didnt sleep a wink, but I doubt I could have anyway. Rose curled up and slept against me, great comfort through a strange, uncomfortable night. In the morning, I got up early and scoured the kitchen cabinets for cereal or bread or coffee, but there was no breakfast. So I took Rose out for an early walk, and we circled the pond to a spot where we could clearly observe our quarry-a ram and a ewe perched on a hill, vast woods behind them. At the first close-up sight of us, they could easily take off deep into those woods, and wed shortly be on our way home. One of the neighbors, whose gardens the sheep had decimated for several years, had prepared a wire pen, if we could move the sheep to her property. It was only about two hundred yards from their customary spot. But Rose expected sheep to behave a certain way, and this pair was unlikely to oblige. That pen might as well have been in Ohio.
