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

by Jon Katz

  Epilogue

  PEACEABLE KINGDOM EASTER SUNDAY 2004 WAS COOL AND SUNNY. THE FORECAST called for rain, but the bad weather didnt materialize, and we woke up to sunlight streaming through the blinds and a nicer day than Id expected. Green grass and leaves were making their first appearances, but the winter was still fresh and had left the farm and the valley with a wasted look, brown and spent. Though spring was here, it was hesitant. Id planned to take the sheep on a hike to the top of my hill to munch and mow my neighbor Adams lawn, but looking out over the valley, I had a different idea. Sitting on the porch with Orson and Rose, watching the parking lot of the Presbyterian church down in the hamlet fill up with worshipers, I remembered my dog-eared and largely forgotten copy of Saint Augustines City of God. Six months earlier I was still mesmerized by the book and the idea. Now I wasnt even sure where it was. That early glow had been rudely obliterated by the first thirty-inch snowfall weeks before winters official onset, then kept at bay by feral cats, hypothermia and frostbite, the reemergence in my life of the complete stranger who was my sister, countless treks in and out of the pasture to haul hay and water, herding lessons in sub-zero temperatures, round-the-clock midwifery duties, and one gravely ill donkey. My journey, it turned out, hadnt been to a heavenly city but to someplace quite different. My days had not been bright, peaceful, or pastoral. I had not entered a place of calm and spirituality after all, but a place of literal Bedlam, a state of my own unnerving creation. Bedlam, as it happened, was a much more accurate reflection of my inner being. At least I had my dogs as spirits, prophets, guides, fellow citizens, and companions. Thinking back on my mood that October day, I wondered if Augustine had had a dog, and if so, why he never mentioned it. Just five days before Easter, a final blast of snow and howling winds had engulfed the farm. Bits of the barn had blown all over the place, and another lamb had died. I took this last nasty snarl personally, as a forceful reminder of what had been and what would, in just a few short months, come again. I was already ordering hay and firewood for the coming winter. I was getting a breather, not a pardon. But it was a welcome breather. Although I am not a religious man, I was conscious of Easter, in part because of the two lovely church spires that pop up through the trees below the farm. Also, in part, because in this overwhelmingly Christian community, normal life and commerce had halted to celebrate the holiday. I thought of the Easter story, of the power and promise of the Resurrection, the spiritual roots of my donkeys, the faithfulness of my neighbors, driving into the church parking lot early to make sure they got a seat at the packed Easter morning service. In this world of dirt roads, blue jeans, and muddied pickups, it was fun to sit up on my perch and look down at the bonnets and ribbons, the flowers and finery. Gazing at the stream of families in their go-to-church best, anticipating the hymns of the choir soon to ride the sharp spring breezes up the hill to the farm, I decided to join the celebration. Bedlam Farm should contribute to this Easter scene. I was feeling a bit blue that morning. Returned from my short visit to New Jersey, I was sorry to find myself back in the tug and the pull-missing the farm, worrying about my animals, needing to be with my wife and closer to my daughter in the city, unable to have all of it all the time. Things had gone too far that winter. As my friend Carr had predicted, the experience had changed me. I could shuttle back and forth, but not in the same way as before. Too big a chunk of me was here, with these barns and pastures and animals, and that chunk had taken root. Back in the suburbs, the tension and traffic, the din of leaf blowers and garbage trucks were no longer so easy to bear. I needed the quiet of West Hebron. I missed the leisurely, circular chats that characterize the best Country Bullshit. I missed driv-ers waving to me from their cars and trucks as they passed on the road. I missed the hee-haws that echoed from the barn practically the minute my feet hit the bedroom floor in the morning, and the urgent cries of ewes and lambs locating one another. Jerseys soccer uniforms, the vans and SUVs whizzing kids from lesson to lesson felt strange. There was certainly nothing wrong with it, but it was not my world any longer. I had found-built, really-a new one. I felt invisible in New Jersey, irrelevant. People could pass on the sidewalk and not smile or say hello. Here, although we were different, my new friends were wise and empathetic. Farmers go through much, understand a lot. At home, apart from time with Paula, which I cherished, I really didnt know what to do with myself. On the farm, I never knew how to get to all the chores that awaited me each day. Although she handled it with her usual enthusiasm and eagerness, New Jersey was also hard on Rose. The reigning Queen of Bedlam Farm, shed grown accustomed to roaming and herding sheep until she dropped; back there, confined and leashed, she really had nowhere she could safely (or legally) run free, and try as I might, no work to do. A favorite neighborhood park, I was horrified to learn, had been covered in expensive artificial turf at the urging of the soccer and lacrosse parents-worshipers of the new suburban religion-and sealed off by a ten-foot fence more suited to a minimum-security prison than a neighborhood. Yet in New Jersey, the company of my wife, the garbage pickup that replaced drives to the county dump, the Thai restaurants and multiplex movies were a pleasure. That was the thing about the tug and the pull; it tugged and it pulled. After so intense a connection with this place and its people, I felt split in half again. I wasnt a gentleman farmer, nor a real one, yet Id never felt more comfortable or engaged-or at home-than slogging up that icy hill with Rose and a bale of hay in the brutal cold. While many things had changed, many hadnt. Paula had just accepted a teaching position at Columbia Universitys Graduate School of Journalism in New York. She loved teaching and was great at it, so I was happy for her. But between that and the stories shed still be reporting and writing, she wasnt moving anywhere anytime soon. She loved the dogs, but they werent as integral to her life as they were to mine; while she appreciated Orsons gathering calm and Roses herding exploits, she did not consider them the triumphal, landscape-altering miracles that I did. For all the drama and punch of the winter, I felt on that Easter morning that in certain ways Id ended up closer to where Id begun than I expected. Where did I belong, anyway? Perhaps I dreaded the honest answer: no place, really. Was I one of those people, I wondered, whos addicted to change for its own sake and drifts from experience to experience? Or had I rooted and landed this time? I wouldnt know for a while. So sitting up on my hill with my dogs, I sniffed a bit of the Easter fever that had swept the town, and understood some of its power: a transition from one season to another, the notion of resurrection and redemption. I settled Orson with his beef jerky and left him dozing serenely in his crate. I was happy about this, and it was no small thing. Orson had for years hated being left behind. In his early days hed tunneled under fences and jumped through windows in protest. But years of training and pounds of treats-plus a significant increase in understanding, patience, and anger management on my part-had soothed him. Me, too. Learning what really makes a dog like him tick had forced me to grasp more about what made me tick. I often didnt like what I saw in me, but I was determined to do right by him. Which meant, as Carolyn had suggested, that I had to be better. Orson, like all my dogs, was a measure, a barometer, a mirror of me. Before we came to the farm, Orson would surely have run to the door and tried desperately to squeeze out if I tried to leave without him. Now I simply said Crate and he rushed off happily and without complaint for a snack and some quiet time. Quiet time is good for border collies. It wasnt so much that Orson was a different dog as that the real dog had finally emerged: a profoundly loving, happy, playful, and, most important, calm creature. Only the two of us could possibly know how much work had gone into this new reality. I couldnt honestly compare our relationship to any religious milestone, but I did feel on that lovely morning that this dog had been reborn. And so had a part of me. By the measures Id set, I was calmer, less angry, better able to deal with frustration. Somehow, Orson and Homer and Rose had led me back to my sister, too. Out of a painful shambles, a part of my family had reemerged. Perhaps Orson was still not calm e
nough for this Easter walk, but he was getting there. Next year, I vowed, Id take the same walk with him. This Easter jaunt was tailor-made for Rose, though, my partner in all things sheep-related, my fellow adventurer and farm manager. I put on my rubber boots, wordlessly. Rose, who knows the location and sound of every farm boot in the house, appeared out of nowhere, her nose at the back door. We went out toward the barn, but instead of entering the pasture by the main gate, I walked over to the side, to a gate we hadnt used all winter. She stopped and looked at me curiously. Cmon, Rose I said. Were taking the sheep for an Easter walk. One of the things I love most about border collies-who certainly arent for everyone-is their enthusiasm, their appetite for fresh tasks. The lurking danger of middle age, for me, is old-fartism, that mental rusting that leads you to cherish stasis and squawk about change. If you have a brace of border collies, thats unlikely to be your state of mind; your dogs simply wont allow it. The official motto of the breed ought to be: Move along or perish. At the mention of sheep, of course, I had Roses full attention-eyes wide, head cocked. She didnt know what I had in mind but was ready for whatever I might propose. I opened the side gate and Rose ran inside, looked around for the sheep, then charged up the hill as usual. I called her back. No, I said cheerfully. Were going somewhere else. Were taking an Easter walk. She sat down and waited. I pointed to the sheep and then across the road. Well take them into the meadow and down along the creek, I said, explaining my plan slowly, as if I were talking to a small child or slow adult. And well wind up right across from the church parking lot. Rose didnt care about my explanation, of course. She dashed up the hillside and pushed the sheep down toward me. They didnt seem to care, either. Rose was happy as long as she was moving sheep around; the sheep were delighted as long as the place to which she was moving them offered food. I greeted the ewes in my customary way. Good morning, ladies, I said. Hope youre up for an adventure. Were going to visit some pilgrims. We werent headed for a City of God, but wed drop by one of His houses. Without further elaboration, I turned toward the road and told her to bring the sheep. She had no trouble grasping that part: behind me on the run came the thirteen surviving ewes and their offspring-the Winter of 2004 Brigade. They were a healthy, plump, high-spirited, and raggedy troop-the ewes matted coats in urgent need of shearing, lambs hopping all over the place, nervous moms stopping and starting. There were almost twice the number that had arrived in Wilbur Prices trailer. Carol and Fanny, whom Id lured into a separate pasture with some oats, hee-hawed reproachfully as our curious little band set out. Like the dogs, they always wanted to come along, and sometimes did. But we were navigating alien turf that day and donkeys, unlike sheep, have wills of their own. If they took it into their heads to go south, Rose wouldnt be able to do much about it. Wed never taken the sheep on this route. By now Rose had regained the upper hand with the rebellious ewe-moms, so I had no doubt about her ability to propel the flock toward the church, but with all the lambs it would be tougher than usual. After taking them across the road, shed have to move them along a narrow trail edged by brush and woods, then alongside a muddy swollen creek before we all emerged into a clearing about fifty yards from the church parking lot. Next time, girls, I yelled to the donkeys, and set off. The herd paused a bit in confusion when we got out of the gate, and I had to send Rose back a few times for some stragglers-a few lambs didnt want to go, causing their mothers to hold back. But in a couple of minutes I was standing by the road, watching for cars, and Rose had brought the herky-jerky crew up behind me. I was carrying my shepherds crook for the occasion, which seemed fitting for Easter Sunday. Lets go, girl, I yelled, and off we went. The sheep were excited by the fresh spring grass in front of them, and they spread out and started grazing. I sat down on a rock and Rose sat alongside me, keeping a close eye on her charges, veering out to gather strays. She was fond of Brutus, Paulas big brown lamb, and he returned her affections. She dashed over to nuzzle him, then lay down by my side. The sun felt good on my long-chilled bones. Saint Augustines city seemed closer once more. After the sheep ate a bit, I got up and our procession resumed. Rose kept to the back, circling around from time to time to lick my hand or check out the front of the herd. Some of the ewes balked at the narrow path through the woods-no grass!-but Rose pushed them along from the rear. Our Easter parade wound its way along, the burbling water on one side, trees and brush on the other. In a few minutes we emerged across the creek from the church parking lot. The sheep spread out and started crunching on grass. Churchgoers pulling into the lot were amazed to get out of their cars and see a man, a dog, and thirty or so sheep and lambs just across the creek. The kids especially shrieked and rushed over. I was sorry I hadnt brought the donkeys, who would have given the walk an even more timely sheen. About a dozen cars emptied out, their occupants clustering on their side of the creek to wave, cheer, and wish us all a Happy Easter. Everybody loved watching Rose work, including me, the proud papa and the shepherd in this Easter rite. Rose seemed to enjoy herself, too; she preened for the crowd, puffing out her chest. Soon, the kids across the bank were cheering her on by name-Go, Rose!-as she wheeled and circled. Then the audience had to leave; the kids wanted to stay and watch, but their parents hustled them inside the church for services. It was time to head back to the farm. There was little dallying. In a few minutes we were back inside our own gates and I was showering Rose with praise. The sheep walked to the top of the paddock, spread out, and lay down with their babies to take in the sun and get some rest. We settled on the porchs wicker settee, Orsons head in my lap, Rose against my left hip. Soon they were both asleep, a rare sight in daylight. I felt blessed. THAT AFTERNOON, THE TEMPERATURE ROSE WELL INTO THE fifties, according to the thermometer behind the barn. I was drinking up the quiet; because of the holiday, there was none of the usual Sunday traffic, friends dropping by, folks who wanted to see the dogs work or visit the donkeys. Wed all have lunch together, I decided-our own version of Easter dinner. I brought both dogs out by the hay feeder behind the barn, set up my folding lawn chair, tossed some treats their way. They struggled with the idea that their task was to do nothing, but they were willing to try to relax. Id brought a bucket of special low-fat milled oats for Carol and Fanny, which I poured into a bucket a few feet away. Soon the donkeys were crunching contentedly. Id also brought out a bucket of corn and sheep feed and tossed it into the feeder. The ewes, a bit slowed down after birthing and nursing, and the lambs, playful and oblivious to danger, began inching their way down to their feeder. Stay, guys, I told the dogs. Were off the clock. This is a holiday. Where was a painter when I needed one? In a few minutes, I was at the center of a strange but lovely scene, sitting in my tacky lawn chair, Yankees cap tilted back so that my face could catch the sun, eating my tuna-fish sandwich and apple. Rose, off to my left, was staring intently, but calmly, at her sheep and lambs. Orson was asleep at my feet, taking the rays. Carol and Fanny nibbled at their oats, and every few minutes, one or another would come over and rest her head briefly on my shoulder. The ewes, who would risk nearly as much for corn as they did for their babies, had come slowly down to the feeder and were also eating with gusto, then nosing around for fresh grass. We were, in fact, a peaceable kingdom. The natural antipathy between a dog and her herd was still there-there was nothing truly peaceable in Roses gaze at the sheep-but the adversarial relationship had been suspended for a bit. And I was as calm as I ever get. I was also proud of everybody, including myself. We had worked hard for this moment, earned it; our lunch had a triumphal feeling. We had come through the move, the winter, and the lambing largely intact. For newcomers, wed suffered relatively few losses. The ewes had risen above their obsession with food to do a fine job of mothering. All they needed was shearing and hoof trimming. Almost all the lambs were fat and happy and healthy. Carol had overcome her illness and was appreciating the spring. Fanny was as loyal and loving as any dog. Rose had risen to the challenge thrust on her somewhat prematurely and saved my hide. Orson was blossoming into a dog who wanted to
work but was also learning how to be still. I hadnt done so badly myself. I composed, in my head, an after-lunch speech to the assembled company, praising the ewes for their fortitude, thanking the donkeys for their faithful affection. I nearly raised my water bottle in a salute to Rose and Orson, and I reserved a few kudos for humans, too: Anthony, Ray and Joanne, Paula. Myself. I didnt give the speech, of course. Talking at length to animals is a no-no when you spend the winter alone with them. Just one of those ground rules, like no more than one scotch on a dark and stormy night. OVER THE NEXT COUPLE OF WEEKS, THE GRASS GREW TALLER and greener; I stopped feeding the ewes hay and grain as the pastures grew lush. In late April, a shearer came to denude the flock and I sold its fleece to a local spinner-my first revenue from the farm, I bragged to Paula, though it amounted to $3.50 and a dozen eggs. It was time for one of my biggest decisions about the sheep: who would go and who would stay. Some friends urged me to keep them all; I had sufficient pasture for a flock of thirty. And after all, wed been through a lot together. Carolyn was willing to let me keep them. But Anthony and my other Hebron neighbors brooked no sentimentality. These were livestock, livelihood. I felt in the middle of these camps. These sheep werent pets. If I were going to call my place a farm, I had to make sensible choices in the interest of the flock. For herding purposes, fifteen sheep was plenty. With thirty, the trough and the training pen would get crowded and it would be difficult to steer them all into the barn for vet visits and shearing. Id have to order twice as much hay, after Id already invested a daunting fortune in barns, fencing, and feed. Besides, I felt increasingly conscious of the trials of the farmers around me. How could I justify keeping twice as many animals as I needed, eating hay and costing money? A true farmer struggling to make ends meet who heard about that wouldnt like it. Yet I felt more attached to the ewes after lambing. How much more intimately involved with animals could you get? Id land in the middle, I decided. Some sheep had to go, but I would keep a slightly expanded flock. A number of people had called, offering to buy sheep-people with herding dogs who wanted dog-broke sheep, several butchers seeking mutton or lamb, locals who wanted pets for their kids. I said no to them all. Instead, I called Bob Wood, a farmer over in Pawlet, and we struck a deal: hed add some of my sheep to his own flock and transport the others to market in Rutland, and wed split the proceeds. Dr. Alderink came by to review the herd with me. She pointed out the ewes that looked most vital and those that appeared weaker. I consulted my notes so I could weed out the poor mothers, those whod abandoned their lambs or been careless with them. The devoted black-faced ewe with twins? A keeper. The one whod stranded Murphy with inadequate milk? She had to go. I planned for ewes and lambs to either go or stay together. Though they were no longer nursing, the lambs were still likely to stay close by their mothers; I didnt want to separate them. On a rainy Sunday night, Bob Wood drove over with a wooden box in his truck bed. Rose and I gathered the herd and pushed them into the barn, where Bob and I grappled to load my designated sheep into the truck. The scene was chaotic, ewes and lambs bellowing and scattering every which way, Bob and I lunging and grunting and cursing. It took a good ninety minutes, and when he finally left-full of praise for Rose, and leaving me a bottle of his own maple syrup as a gift-I suddenly saw the black-faced ewe racing around, looking for her babies. Somehow I had put her twins on Bobs truck by mistake. I knew better than to call him and try to reshuffle the flock. So I left the barnyard. It was hard, I told Anthony. He and Holly had invited me for dinner. He rolled his eyes. But all night, I couldnt sleep, listening to the ewe bleating for her twins. Im so sorry, girl, I told her next morning when Rose and I took the sheep to the meadow across the street. She ate hungrily, but paused frequently to look around forlornly and complain. For two days, as the ewe baahed fruitlessly, I cursed my carelessness. She settled down on the third day, consoled somewhat by the bits of carrot I slipped her when the others werent watching. In fact, she became my favorite, the one whod put her nose in my hand for a scratch. Still, Id done her wrong. But I had twenty healthy sheep, my herd for the foreseeable future. They were all responsive to Rose (though she still favored Brutus), and she seemed easy and confident with this number. They would have a good summer. The artesian well was running, providing a constant supply of fresh, clean water. I had plenty of pasture. The vet had given them all their shots, their hooves had been trimmed and their fleece shorn. Barring some unforeseen obstacle, they could munch their way clear to the first frost. Already I was thinking ahead to future pleasures and ventures. A Lab breeder in Pawlet Id visited a couple of times raises some of the most beautiful dogs Ive ever seen, and she was expecting a litter. Annie, who works at Gardenworks, down the road, asked me the other day if I wanted two young goats. And my friend Sheila wondered whether I might consider giving a home to her gimpy rooster, affable but lame and getting on in years. I identified with him. I didnt need any of these new additions, Paula pointed out. She was right, but that had never stopped me before.