The Dogs of Bedlam Farm : An Adventure with Sixteen Sheep, Three Dogs, Two Donkeys, and Me

by Jon Katz

  Chapter Twelve

  DOG DAYS III AT THE START OF APRIL THE NIGHTS WERE ONCE AGAIN COLD enough to encrust the water tubs with ice and cover the pasture with frost. I had to haul out the de-icers and stick them back in the water. With a pitchfork, I stirred the hay to bring the dry stuff up for the animals. At least the spring sun was strong, unlike its winter predecessor. It quickly spread over the meadow and the barns, warming the still-brown grass, drying things out. The soaked ground gave off a continuous sighing, sucking sound as if cold were bubbling up from far below. The roads were still blanketed with sand and salt and bore scars from the Highway Departments relentless day-and-night plowing. The donkeys and sheep loved to catch those first morning rays. They were sun worshipers. It was pleasant to look out the window and see them lying down, half-dozing, at ease in the sunlight. For me, these moments were the saving grace of sheep. Seeing how much Carol loved the spring, I was beginning to understand how rough the winter had been for her. Next fall, Anthony has a plan to build her a heated shed in the barn, maybe with the same lamps that warmed the lambs. He also means to build a south-facing shed for the sheep, so that even if they dont want to come in from the cold, they can stay dry and out of the wind. The dogs, freer to follow their usual pursuits now that the lambs were rapidly getting bigger, seemed fond of the longer days and yielding earth, too. ROSE WAS NOT THE SAME DOG WHO HAD ARRIVED IN OCTOBER. She was a young lady now, responsible, mature. I was filled with admiration and respect for her diligence and work ethic. Her energy remained breathtaking, and her sense of responsibility had only grown. By dawn, she was already scooting from window to window upstairs to scope things out in the pasture. Rose reminded me of those NFL coaches you see pacing the sidelines at football games, their clipboards full of charts and plays, earphones picking up invisible chatter, always thinking, scheming, reacting. Rose was preparing her herding plays long before we went out to the sheep. I believed Rose had a secret plan for the farm, a detailed map in her head that showed exactly where all her ewes and lambs and humans ought to be. Though I was nominally the herder, I wasnt privy to the map. Herding trainers all said you needed a plan, but it seemed to me that I didnt, as long as Rose had such a good one. My job was mostly to latch and unlatch gates and tell her where Id like the sheep to go that day. The rest was up to her. There were moments with Rose when I felt like a ticket-holder at my own show, lucky to be there, in awe of what I was seeing, but incapable of completely understanding the nuances of the production. Some herders talked about the importance of leadership, of directing and guiding the dog. I wish. Most of the time I did what Rose suggested, and it worked out fine. Her day now began around seven A.M., as she and Orson and I took our first walk. Our walks were getting more exciting. In deep winter, there was little to smell, no holes to dig, nothing to chase. Now chipmunks, field mice, rabbits, and deer, to name a few, had reemerged to keep the dogs occupied as they dashed here and there in an effort to organize things. Border collies are heroic in their ambition, but doomed to fail. They simply cannot position every moving thing in the world where they want it to be. After our walk, we came back to the farmhouse for breakfast, the first of many daily phone yaks with Paula, and a cup of coffee to help jump-start me for the morning chores. They were easier than in winter, but not easy. Orson stayed behind for this round. Eager for the beef jerky he knew was coming, he was usually already waiting in his crate. Rose had the drill down, too. By now, she knew the boots I used for herding, the sweatshirt I wore to ward off the morning chill as we headed for the barn, the pocketknife I carried to cut open the hay bales. Deploying any of these items had her sitting by the back door in a flash, staring at me impatiently. She was my partner in anything relating to sheep, donkeys, barns, and pastures. Orsons turf was the rest of my life. It was a good division; both seemed happy with their work. Outside, Rose and I went first to the former pig barn, the small, askew outbuilding where I stored the feed. Big bucket of feed and corn for the sheep, until there was enough grass growing for them. Smaller bucket of oats for Carol and Fanny. Rose, the centurion, scoured the barn for any signs of mice or the two barn cats still living there. I sometimes glimpsed them skittering around the barns at night when I came out for my final check; otherwise, they remained invisible. Unlike the one that attacked Rose, these two made no trouble and were welcome. I occasionally left a can of tuna fish open on a ledge in the pig barn; it was always empty in the morning. I carried the feed buckets outside, unlatched the barnyard gate. I put Rose in a stay; she waited, stiff and alert, until I told her, Go get the sheep. It was a statement of how far wed come that I no longer paid much attention as she tore up the hill to wherever the ewes and lambs had gathered. Without fail, Rose and the sheep were heading down the hill within minutes. When they reached the trough and started crunching, Rose positioned herself between the sheep and the barn and lay down, on guard. For weeks during the winter, chaos erupted after the sheep finished their feed and then headed for the donkeys oats. Almost daily, a sheep would plow into my legs and topple me. It was hard enough to stay upright on the icy slope, impossible with sheep crashing around. Fanny and Carol were too gentle to fight the marauders off and always backed away while I cursed. Rose didnt like it. So she began sitting between the sheep trough and the donkeys feed buckets, and now woe to the sheep who even looked our way. I went about my chores while she kept order. Each day, I walked around to the main barns back door, slid it open, and hauled out two bales of hay. Rose hopped up the step and into the big drafty barn and chased out the napping pigeons. I dragged the hay to the feeder, Rose patrolling ahead to keep the sheep from rushing at me and the hay; then I cut the baling twine, which I wrapped around a fencepost, and shook the bales into the feeder. (Farmers all have cascades of baling twine around their fenceposts. Ive adopted the custom without ever figuring out why.) The sheep came up and started crunching. Rose never bothered them while they were eating; she sat regally off to the side, carefully observing everybodys movements, including mine. This was usually when Rose and I had our first herding session of the day. When I moved toward the sheep and said, Lets go, she sprang into action and circled the herd, gathering them together, nudging wanderers and slow movers along. Silently, I picked someplace to walk-the training pen, the paddock, the path over the hill-and set out. The sheep followed me, she followed them, keeping the flock together. Rose has a tendency to circle around to the front, slowing their progress, so I sometimes held out my hand and yelled Back to steer her to the rear of the flock. Id never had a dog like Rose before, nor a relationship like this. It was a strange thing to say, for someone who believed in not blurring the differences between dogs and humans, but I couldnt help thinking of Paula when I watched Rose on the job. Like my wife, Rose was a working girl, focused and businesslike, picky about the people she liked, supportive even when skeptical, devoid of guile. And I couldnt exist without her. Rose had been a gamble in lots of ways. Orson and I were firmly attached when shed arrived, much of our work with each other well under way, so there was little risk to him. But Carolyn had warned that a new puppy could have serious consequences for Homer. His anxiety, avoidant behavior, and herding problems might never be resolved if an energetic new puppy entered the picture. And as it happened, they werent. A new puppy is always an adventure. I loved adventures. Still, Id never imagined Rose would be the dog she was. For one thing, she and Orson were crazy about each other from the first. He tried all of his domineering, possessive tricks, and she just blew him off. Nothing stymied or bothered Rose for very long, and, as my ewes were learning, nothing intimidated her for long, either. After a few months, Orson had given up trying to push her around. In fact, I was astonished to see Rose tease Orson into playing tug-of-war one spring morning. Each grabbed one end of a rope toy and they raced off together in ever widening circles around the house. Rose had opened up even this intense creature. I admitted, as I watched them romp, to feeling a bit triumphant. Orson had grown almost Lablike in his sweetness and obedience; Rose had th
rived on our home schooling; I had survived the winter. But anybody who loves dogs knows that life with them is filled with unpredictability. ONE DAY EARLY IN APRIL I WAS TAKING THE DOGS FOR THEIR final evening walk, a routine and simple affair. Usually I stood by the back door, and gazed up at the sky while the dogs rushed up the hill, did their business, and came in for the night. Wed followed this routine for months without any kind of trouble, without my even paying much attention. Rose ran around more than Orson, but she never left my sight or sound. And her recall was terrific; from her first day, I never said Come without tossing a treat on the ground; now all I had to do was yell, Rosie, come! and she would tear down the path or through the woods toward me. She never strayed far, anyway; border collies like to keep an eye on the humans who bring them to sheep. On this cool night, just a few days before my first longish visit home in months-I planned to stay four or five days-I opened the door, strolled alongside the house, and shined my torch out into the pasture to see the sheeps reflecting eyes. They were way up on the hill, their lambs huddled near them. Orson drifted back to the door. No Rose. I called her once, twice. Nothing. After months of walking, herding, lambing, cuddling, I knew this dog. Shed never run off or failed to come within a few moments of being called. I waited for five or ten minutes, my desire to do something growing along with my anxiety. I walked outside, yelled, pointed the high-powered flashlight everywhere I could see. I took Orson out and we trekked through the brush and woods and up the dark hill. I blew the whistle I sometimes used during herding training and called her name. I told myself shed be back any second. When I called Paula, just to let her know I might be outside for a while, I said Rose was probably chasing some woodchuck into its hole. I didnt want to take this seriously. But as the minutes ticked by, my lame effort to stave off terror faltered. I started to think about the coyotes and bobcats and even-rumor had it-a mountain lion that prowled these woods. Id heard more than one horror story about a dog attacked by coyotes in a backyard, about dogs who ran off and got trapped in the nested strands of barbed wire left all over the woods from long-abandoned farms. Sadly, their bodies were usually found much later. The thought of Rose cornered by some animal or trapped in a ditch or wire chewed at me. I ran up and down the dark road shouting, flashing my light and blowing the whistle. I thought of calling someone for help. Anthony would have roared over with Arthur and the nuclear lights mounted on his Toyota pickup. But I clung to the notion she would pop out of the woods any second. I could already hear the Country Bullshit: Aw, hell, what a nervous Flatlander you are! Dogs around here run off all the time. Shell be back. Country wisdom is often right, and a healthy counterpoint to Flatlander anxieties. But for all the dogs that come back, there are plenty that dont, hit by cars on those dark dirt roads, killed by predators, lost in the vast woods. As I often told my neighbors, just because somebody is anxious doesnt mean his fears are always groundless. Rose was a small, intense, and impulsive creature, whose confidence sometimes outweighed her common sense. She also had ferocious predatory instincts, boundless energy, and insatiable curiosity-all potentially dangerous qualities. After two hours of walking up and down and shouting, I was wiped out and hoarse. Orson and I got into the farm truck and chugged up the road. He was peering ahead through the windshield; I was blowing the whistle, hitting the horn, shouting, Rose! Rosie! out the window. About a half-mile along, I thought I heard some barking. I turned the truck to shine the headlights up the hill and didnt notice the deep drainage ditch to my left. In ten seconds the truck slid smoothly off of the road, tilted at an angle, and sank up to its fenders in thick mud-probably the only thing that kept it from rolling all the way over. Pushing the door open with some difficulty, I crawled out and saw I was mired in muck over the tires. Orson and I began the long slog back down the dark road. I saw one or two lights down driveways, but it was getting late, not a good time to be knocking on strangers doors. As I walked down the hill I kept calling out for Rose, my heart sinking. Clearly, something was wrong. You could hear a call for miles in this valley and she had always responded instantly. Something had hurt or trapped her. I couldnt shake off my visions of her struggling in barbed wire or running for her life. Rose was still a puppy; she weighed only thirty-three pounds. She was used to pushing around our bovine sheep, who sometimes butted or resisted her but rarely gave her any serious trouble. She would have no chance against a pack of coyotes or a bobcat. But if she was all right, why hadnt she come, why didnt she respond to the whistle that always brought her flying back to me? Why hadnt I been more vigilant? Why didnt I call her five minutes earlier? I nearly forgot Id ditched my truck, I was so frantic. I got home, spattered with mud, hobbling on my bad leg, and got my Ford Explorer out of the other barn. I hadnt wanted to bother my neighbor Adam. But he was direct and action-oriented, at home in these environs. A hunter and snowmobiler, hed know back roads and paths. And his truck, a huge Dodge, was equipped for everything from plowing snow to hauling wrecks. I needed him. Rose needed him. I called Adams cell phone and left a message, trying not to sound overdramatic. Then I drove up the steep driveway to his house, on top of the hill above mine, and knocked on his door. No truck and no answer. He must have been away. It was so late by now that I felt there was little point in calling Anthony or anyone else. Besides, what could anybody see or hear on this dank night that I couldnt? Orson seemed frantic, whining and sniffing in circles, but if he didnt pick up any scent, how could I? I would keep walking and shouting through the night, then call for help in a few more hours, when it grew light. But I was losing hope. Even if Rose had chased an animal, she shouldnt have been gone for three hours. She would have made her way back by now. Suddenly my driveway lit up. Adam pulled in, his truck roaring-the Hebron Marine Corps. Get in, he said, as always a man of few words. I left Orson in the house and we headed off. It was shocking, when his headlights picked up my truck, to see it tilted over nearly on its side. Adam hitched a nylon towline to my rear bumper, which miraculously stayed attached to the body as he pulled the truck out. It took maybe five minutes. Then we both drove back down the road. If only finding Rose could be so simple. After this long winter, after all shed done for me and with me, she was lost. Which wasnt like being lost in New Jersey, where somebody would be sure to spot her and call the police or a shelter or me. She was wearing a bright red collar with my cell-phone number written large, plus several tags engraved with every number I had. But who would notice her out in the dark? She could be out there for days, bleeding from an injury or starving to death. My house was lit up like an ocean liner, all the floodlights and porch lights blazing. As my resuscitated truck brought me back down the hill, I saw a nearly motionless dark creature by the garden in front of the house. At first I thought it was a skunk or raccoon. But as we got closer, I saw, with a flood of relief, that it was Rose, lying eerily still. She was shaking and panting, even though it was cool and dark, her tongue hanging. She looked spent. I jumped out of the truck and called to her and she came flying into my arms, licking my face and neck. But she was trembling. I brought her inside, and she rushed into the kitchen and gulped down half a bowl of water, then lay down beside me. I massaged her back, held her, talked to her. Its okay, girl, its okay. Youre okay now. But something bad had happened. She ran into her crate, then out, then in again, and finally settled down and dropped into sleep. I called Paula, then sat down on the floor and hugged Orson for many minutes. When I finally staggered off to bed, Rose roused herself, came upstairs and curled up on the pillow next to me. When I fell asleep, she was still shaking. I didnt sleep much. In the morning, Rose still lying beside me, I saw a little blood on the bed cover. I couldnt find any deep wounds, but we hastened over to Mary Menard, our vet in Salem. Some scabs, a few small puncture wounds, Mary said, examining the still-quiet Rose; nothing major. Most of the blood, she thought, was not Roses. She did appear exhausted, though, Mary said. Sometimes such trembling occurred when a dogs blood sugar has dropped. Running for hours might explain why she was so exhausted; Id nev
er seen Rose so subdued. It appeared Rose had been running for a long time from something that had frightened her a lot, and from which shed had to fight her way free. Her confidence and ebullient energy were absent for a while. She stuck to my side as if taped there. Her confidence and constant motion were such integral parts of her that this seemed a different dog. It took Rose several more hours of sleep-and an unusual amount of time in her crate-to recover. Rose was a sweet dog, but her usual priorities were clear: If you didnt have fleece, you were just taking up space that could be put to better use. But for the next couple of days she would impulsively rush over to me, lick me frantically, then curl up at my feet. Maybe the experience had left both of us even more appreciative of the other. But sleep and sheep were powerful restoratives. I took her out with me for animal chores the next morning, and she shot through the open gate, ready for battle with any rebellious ewe. I loved the resiliency of these creatures, how they hewed so faithfully to the routines and rhythms of their lives, adapting to change, trauma, and confusion. Things regularly happened to them-fights, accidents, late-night mysteries-that would level me for weeks. Fortunately for us, dogs dont hold grudges or dwell on bad memories. The sheep were her work and focus, her grounding. I would probably never know what happened to Rose that long night. If you love dogs, loss and risk are never all that far away. I kicked it around a hundred times in my mind, wondering if I had been neglectful or mistaken, had forgotten to take some obvious precaution. One friend insisted that Rose should only be walked on a leash from now on. Another suggested a radio receiver attached to her collar. Our culture, built on alarm and liability, likes to guard against all possible dangers. But I came to a different conclusion. Rose was such a spectacular animal in part because she had been allowed to live the life shed been bred for, roaming the farm, a working dog. My faith in her was the cornerstone of our work together, and she reciprocated by obeying and watching out for me. In fact, when I thought about my time with Rose on the mountain, I figured there were two things Id actually done right. One was positive-reinforcement training. Rose was the first dog Id trained entirely positively (okay, being human and being me, Id lost it more than once, but not too often). She was the first dog I ever had who grew up with virtually no experience of being shouted at, subjected to the jangle of a thrown chain, menaced, or reprimanded. What she did came from affection, encouragement, and reward, not coercion, bullying, or showing her whos boss. I created situations where she couldnt fail. When she lay down, I said, Good lie down! When I held up a treat and she sat to look at it, I praised her for sitting. Id worked relentlessly on rewarding and praising her for making eye contact. It was the antithesis of much that had happened to Orson, before me and even with me, and it worked. Rose was the keenest, most responsive and easy-to-train dog I ever had. Our relationship was almost entirely without conflict. I will never train a dog any other way. The second idea that lodged in my mind came from my Irish border collie trainer Wink. Trust the dog, he would say to me, on the phone or in e-mail, day after day. It was his mantra. She knows how to herd sheep. Respect what she knows and trust her. If you give her the chance to solve problems and succeed, she will. So I had trusted Rose and it had paid off in so many ways, even as I understood and accepted that it involved some risk. I had rigorously street-trained Rose and did daily run-throughs of all the basic commands, but her life came with no guarantees. I cant be sure that a ewe or ram wont catch her from the wrong angle and injure her, or that she wont rip a ligament or muscle as she tears across a field, or that she wont follow her great, intense instincts and tear off one day-or night-to the wrong place after the wrong thing. I will watch her and train her and love her-more every day-but I wont ask her to live a life that undercuts the very instincts and traits that give her (and me) so much joy and satisfaction. Within reason and boundaries, she will be a working dog. SOON AFTER, I DROVE HOME TO NEW JERSEY-FOR THE FIRST time since a two-day New Years Eve visit-to be with Paula. I missed my wife. I needed to see my house, visit with my daughter, do some business. And I needed to see my former dogs sweet face. I understood Homer wasnt my dog any longer. But I had to see for myself that his new home was working out. I had gotten some neighborhood reports that hed been seen walking about with his new family, and was getting a bit plump. When I called, concerned, Sharon and Hank said they were aware of his weight gain and had already taken steps to change his diet and crank up his exercise. Otherwise, they said, everything was swell and the love affair continued unabated. As it happened, Id barely arrived and was unloading in the driveway when Sharon brought Homer over. He came skittering around the front of the truck, waggling furiously, squealing with glee, slurping all over my face. I was very happy to see him. The two of us rolled around on the ground, wrestling, exchanging hugs. He had gained some weight but not as much as I had feared. The reunion packed more punch than I expected. It hurt. I could tell myself that I was feeling easier about him, and in most respects I was, but a piece of me will always live with Homer, and vice versa. I brought him into the yard to visit everyone. He rushed up to greet Paula, and before she could plant a kiss on the top of his head, Orson was on him, backing him into a corner of the fence. When I called Orson off, Rose, wanting to play, dashed up with a rope toy. Homer hesitated, and Rose grabbed him by the tail and began pulling him around. Homer flashed me that old nervous save me look. Sharon, watching the tussle from outside the gate, had just been telling me how crazy she was about Homer, how much Hank and the kids adored him. He got everybody up in the morning with licks and barks, walked each kid to the school-bus stop, and went along to soccer games. My former dog, herding partner, and book-tour companion was living a different kind of life than I could give him. It seemed clear that he was fulfilling his particular canine destiny. Where Rose was largely uninterested in humans, Homer loved them. Orson eyed strangers warily, barking and circling them; Homer greeted every stranger as if this were his long-lost cousin. Being with people was his work, every bit as meaningful as herding or tracking or anything else. And he was meant to be an only dog, to get the attention he needed and deserved without having to fight for it. Lets go home, Homer, Sharon said as Homer edged toward the gate. He was more than ready and raced across the street with her, rushing down the block toward his new house and family. I maintained visitation rights, though. A couple of weeks later, I came back to New Jersey for a medical appointment, leaving Orson and Rose kenneled upstate. Id acquired an infection, and I needed to rest and be with Paula and see some doctors. Almost the first thing I did when I got back was to ask Sharon and Hank if I could take Homer for a stroll. They agreed, graciously and enthusiastically. Homer had bonded strongly with his new family; nobody was feeling insecure about it. I couldnt recall the last time Id been alone with Homer-probably at Christmas, when wed gone herding together. Homer was happy to see me, as always, squealing and wriggling. I thought I saw a look of expectation in his eyes: Are we going to herd sheep? To the park to chase geese? Or to the ocean to chase waves? For all our frustrations, wed had many good times, and I believed both of us remembered them. And we no longer had anything at stake, none of the tensions that can sometimes arise between dogs and owners. Homer seemed tickled to head out with me, and I was happy to have him. We had several walks over the next few days, around the neighborhood, down to the high school field, past familiar landmarks. Alone together, without my perpetual scolding, his remarkable sweetness emerged. Dropping him off one day, I turned around and saw him staring plaintively through the storm door at me. I know better than to try to guess what a dog is thinking, but it seemed to me that we felt some mutual regret. He was clearly happy in his new home, as I was with my remaining two dogs. But if my relationship with Orson and Rose reflected a capacity to grow, relocating Homer was a potent-and painful-reminder of my failures. Fortunately, Id realized that in time to rectify it. On the street one afternoon, a neighbor and dog lover whod known us for several years hesitantly asked if he could pose a personal question. Sure, I said, guessing wha
t it would be. I saw how much you and Homer loved each other. I know what a great dog he is. Tell me, how could you bear to give away a sweet dog like that? I smiled and shrugged and said nothing much. But I thought, How could I not? SOMETIMES I THINK THAT SOON AFTER ORSON ENTERED MY life that night at Newark Airport, he developed a confidential strategy for dealing with the curious stranger he suddenly found himself keeping company with. His past troubles may have prevented him from herding sheep the way border collies are supposed to, but that doesnt mean he isnt a working dog. I believe his work became: me. He was as focused on me as Rose is on sheep. Sometimes while I sat reading in the living room, he hopped up onto a rocking recliner chair, rested his head on one arm, and, rocking slightly, watched me for hours. This guy is a mess, he must have thought when he landed in New Jersey, and perhaps still did. Few friends, no hobbies, rarely gets outside except to walk those slowpoke Labradors. Not writing about the stuff he ought to be writing about. Not living where he ought to be living. Not in touch with anyone from his family. One by one, these realities changed. I could imagine him checking them off on a list only he could see. If working with him had improved me in some ways, simply living with him had profoundly altered my life, for the better. I often wondered what else he had in store for me. On an April morning back at Bedlam after one of our Jersey visits, Rose and I fed the sheep and donkeys and mucked out the barn. Then it was time for the daily herding lesson with Orson. Our lessons were now conducted mostly in silence. Not only did I not yell at him about donkey leavings, I didnt speak to him much at all. My voice was arousing and distracting for him, Id decided; his own herding instincts would either emerge and develop, or not. I put aside my own agenda. He was the herding dog, and he would either keep going at it or let it go-his choice. Orson liked the new drill. And it was generating more rapid and dramatic change than years of my previous training, so much more vocal and more stressful. I opened the pasture gate and the two of us walked inside. Orson rushed past two steaming piles of donkey dung and, glancing over his shoulder at me, took off for the sheep at the top of the slope. While I watched, startled-this was usually the point where he spun around like a pinwheel, barked and panted, rushed back toward me, or all of the above-he loped gracefully up to the fence, curved alongside it, and came up behind the ewes and lambs. As always when Orson appeared, they started rapidly down the hill, straight for me. As always, his authority and presence were impressive. What a herding dog he could have been, and might yet be. I held up my hand-the stay command-and to my further surprise, Orson actually stopped. The sheep rushed toward the barn. I ran up to my dog and dropped to my knees to greet him, his signal to rush up and lick me. We walked out of the pasture together. Then, on impulse, I turned back and brought him back in. He broke into that beautiful but seldom-seen outrun, gliding once more around the sheep, who turned and ran in my direction. I unlatched the gate, checking first for traffic up and down the road. The sheep hustled across the road and into the greening meadow below, Orson cantering behind them. I closed my eyes and said nothing. If I were a religious man, I would have prayed. When I looked, I couldnt see sheep or dog. But when I walked across the road, there they were behind the small barn, the sheep grazing, Orson sitting behind them, looking particularly pleased with himself, as if to say, See? You thought I couldnt do this? A couple of the neighbors drove by and honked, then slowed so their kids could see the dog and sheep and lambs. Beautiful dog, yelled one of the mothers. Yes, I thought, he is. After ten minutes or so, I walked back across the road, yelled, Get me sheep, and stood back as ewes, lambs, and dog came flying back into the pasture. A herding trial judge would have knocked off points for all sorts of things-Orson ran too fast, got too close, didnt respond quickly enough to some commands. But it was the most beautiful sheepherding I had ever seen. ON A WARM SUNDAY AFTERNOON, IT SEEMED THAT HALF THE hamlet had driven up with their kids to see the new lambs, watch the dogs at work, bring carrots and apples for the donkeys, who were delighted to have their fuzzy noses scratched in return. At one point, there were five or six pickups in the driveway and more than a dozen people milling about. At my more solitary mountain cabin, this influx would have driven me mad. Here, I was pleased that my creatures were giving people so much pleasure-and to no one more than me. Wed had so many visitors by now that wed developed our own drill. Orson, whose interest in sheep never extended much beyond working with me, moved from one dog lover to another, working the crowd, wolfing down biscuits, offering kisses and receiving hugs and scratches. Meanwhile, Rose, showing her usual marginal interest in things that were not sheep, put on a show, moving the herd into the training pen, up the hill, down into the paddock and back. Orson loved all the cooing and cries of admiration; Rose hardly seemed to notice. When she grew tired and I called her off, she would lie off to the side, staring at the sheep until I released her. If somebody came over to pet her, shed be polite, give a wag, but it was clear where her loyalties lay. It was fascinating to see these two border collies evolve in such different ways. Orson vastly preferred cuddling and food to the rigors of herding; Rose only wanted to work. At first, there was much oohing and aahing at Roses herding. But Orson was always the bigger hit. What a beautiful dog, people said. What a sweetie. What a character. Now and then, Id come over and mock-scold him-You biscuit slut! What about the sheep? Hed bound toward the flock, circle once, receive his hosannas, then go back to the laps and treats. Seeing him so happy and at ease reminded me of the look on my sisters face when she saw Rose playing with her Newfies. I knew how she felt. It was a pure, visceral sense of love and joy. More than Rose, this dog reflected the pleasures and crises, twists and turns, nooks and crannies of a life-my life. He mirrored my pain, my confusion, but also my determination to keep moving, changing, improving. He not only reflected those things, he made many of them possible. To joy I added gratitude. What I told Orson as the last pickup exited the driveway and the last kid waved goodbye was just what Id said when a trailer full of sheep had pulled up months before. I leaned down and hugged him. Look what youve done, I said.