The Dogs of Bedlam Farm Page 18

  “I know,” Jane said, following my gaze. “But this house is for them. They’re why I came. Why shouldn’t 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 wasn’t 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 Newfie’s 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 sister’s 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 Rose’s 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 life’s 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 Jane’s 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 we’d 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.

  AT EIGHT, JANE AND I AND ROSE DROVE AROUND THE POND to the small rise where we’d seen the sheep. I could see where they’d chewed the bark off trees. I also saw sheep droppings, but not sheep.

  I parked, let Rose out, then climbed out myself, overoptimistically carrying a rope halter a neighbor had provided. Jane, whose knee still troubled her, stood alongside the car. I scrambled up the slope and sent Rose out to my left. “Get the sheep, girl,” I yelled, her usual command. Rose sniffed and scanned, then took off. I glimpsed the animals moving in the woods, then turning and running. So much for that.

  I couldn’t see or hear Rose, but after a few minutes, she came exploding out of the woods, barking at me Lassie-style (“C’mon, Timmy, this way!”), then turning back into the trees. I followed. A short walk ahead, Rose had the ewe and the ram cornered between some downed trees and a length of old stone fence. She was crouched in front of them, barking and lunging every time they tried to flee.

  Both sheep were in pitiful condition, their wool filthy and matted, their faces too thin. My own Tunis ewes looked fat and sassy by contrast.

  When I crashed up through the underbrush, the sheep broke out of their trap, vaulting the crumbling fence and dashing off in different directions. The ram turned and butted Rose, bouncing her about ten feet. But when she got up and charged, going for his nose, he backed off, turned, and ran.

  So Rose swiveled and took off after the ewe, who was heading for the pond. The two battled for nearly half an hour, the ewe trying one path, then another, Rose always in front of her, charging, barking, nipping. The ewe was tiring—as was I—but Rose seemed as unstoppable as the Energizer Bunny.

  Finally, the ewe broke out of the woods and headed across the ice-covered pond. Rose wasn’t about to give up now; she followed the ewe onto the ice and the two slipped and slid around each other. Rose couldn’t get a firm purchase, so she coasted around the ewe on her butt—the strangest outrun I’d ever seen a border collie make. The scene went on and on, Rose and the ewe running, falling, skidding, the ewe panting but frantic, Rose tireless and focused. My sister and a growing number of neighbors—some popping out of their houses with video cameras—were cheering her on. Even as Rose slid past the scrambling ewe, she nipped at her, managing to keep herself between the ewe and the far side of the pond.

  I was afraid of falling on or through the ice, so I ran up and down along the bank, shouting praise and encouragement to my puppy. At that moment, I knew that no matter what else happened that day, Rose would get her prey. She would not be deterred.

  Finally, the ewe gave up, shuffled back across the pond and into the brush. The neighbors were whooping and applauding for Rose. But we still didn’t have the ewe.

  Panicked, she plowed into a snowdrift and stopped momentarily, a bit stunned. I lunged for her and slipped the halter over her neck.

  The poor ewe, terrified, bucked and charged and tried to escape. When she went down, gasping, I’d loosen the halter to make sure she could breathe. Up close, I saw how her eyes were sunk deep into their sockets; how, beneath her unshorn coat, she was skin and bones. When she recovered a bit, she leaped to her feet and began battling all over again, with me pulling on her head and Rose nipping at her behind.

  The epic struggle lasted another half hour before we finally dragged her, still protesting, into the neighbor’s corral, complete with a heap of hay. By now, I was so drained I wasn’t sure we had strength left for the ram, who was bigger and surely more aggressive. My sister, despite her bad knee, had been following along. She was amazed, she said, at my stamina, as I went scrambling up hills and dragging livestock around. I was amazed myself.

  We walked from the corral back to where we’d begun, and Rose took the issue out of my hands. She roared off into the woods, reappearing five minutes later with an impatient where-the-hell-are-you look, then charging back into the trees. Here we went again. The ram was at least a third larger than his companion, and far more ornery. When he butted Rose right in the head, the crack was terrifyi
ng and sent her flying. This, of course, was why rational border collie owners didn’t want to risk their dogs.

  I screamed obscenities at the ram and charged him, waving my shepherd’s crook. He plowed into my leg, knocking me down. I picked up my stick and whacked him across the nose, and he backed up, startled. Terrified for Rose, I turned to look for her. A black-and-white blur came hurling past me and attached itself to the fleeing ram’s behind.

  The Second Battle of Jane’s Pond was on, far bloodier and nastier than the first. Rose, seemingly unfazed by her head-butting, was furious. She launched one of her boxing-ring rope-a-dopes, bewildering the enraged ram with her fancy footwork, darting, nipping, barking, and growling. The ram, turning this way and that, growing dizzy and disoriented, broke through the woods and into a neighbor’s yard, startling the chickens and ducks penned in coops. A goof. Now he was hemmed in by the coops and the house. Rose and I came flying down the hillside, me half-sliding on my butt, Rose leaping from stump to snowdrift.

  The ram charged again, but I got a halter on him. Unlike the ewe, however, the halter barely slowed him down. He dragged me along through a cluster of trash cans, a patch of garden, a pile of firewood. He was pulling me as if I were a twig, but he was gradually losing strength, struggling and reeling a bit. I was bleeding from my nose, and my leg was killing me, but I hung on for dear life. Rose was staying in his face, keeping the pressure on.

  This struggle was more prolonged. For ill-nourished creatures, these sheep had astonishing strength and energy. It took another hour before we could steer him—wheezing, snorting, gasping—toward the corral, and finally inside. It was such an effort that only days later did I think to ask Jane what would become of the animals. A local farmer would take them, she said.

  Closing the gate to the pen, I collapsed, and Rose rushed into my arms, happy and proud. She knew she had done something swell, and so did the people applauding her from all over the pond.

  We took our plaudits, but it was late in the morning. I was exhausted and I faced a long drive. I also wanted to spring Orson from the kennel before it closed for the night.

  So we drove back to Jane’s. “This was wonderful,” she said. “Thank you.”

  It was wonderful for me, too, I said.

  She apologized for not having food or coffee to offer me before I headed home.

  “I have to get used to this guest thing,” she said. “I hope you’ll come back, anyway.” I said I would, and meant it. We would not, I swore, lose each other again.

  ALL THE WAY HOME, ROSE RODE SHOTGUN, AND ALL THE WAY I praised her for her companionship, her steadfastness, her courage, and her herding skill.

  Driving down the New York State Thruway, I asked whatever higher power had brought Jane this far to help her find comfort and happiness. I loved her very much, this strange red-haired woman with her big sweet dogs and her freezer stuffed with poultry.

  I felt depleted, though, and not just from our protracted sheep roundup. My lost sister, now found, had found herself a loving place, but a place for dogs, about dogs, and dependent on dogs.

  I couldn’t decide whether or not it was a good thing to live like that. I missed Paula every day; I missed having lunch with Emma and arguing about movies. For me, dog love, wonderful as it was, wasn’t enough.

  But what about my sister? Would she be all right? Should I have done more for her, and should I do more now? I wondered if it was okay for her to end up this way—living out her life with and for a herd of loving, sick, and needy Newfoundlands.

  And here’s what I decided: Yes, it was okay, and I needed to accept it. Dogs had done what humans couldn’t: they’d brought Jane and me together again. They’d taken me to that pond and those sheep, a fittingly weird kickoff to our new relationship.

  Jane had done the best she could. She hadn’t wound up in a destructive relationship, in awful health, on pills or alcohol. She was hurting no one, meant no one harm, had devoted herself to making these sweet and soulful creatures happy.

  I also realized, driving back to what I now instinctively called home, that my own center of gravity had shifted. New Jersey was where Paula was, which made it important. But home was where my farm was, where Jacob and Anthony and my other friends and neighbors were, where Carol and Fanny would be at the hay feeder, braying happily when I pulled into the driveway. Where the sheep would look up in their detached, appraising way to see if I emerged from the truck carrying a bucket. Where Orson and I would climb the hill to see the sunrise.

  BACK AT THE FARM, I SPOKE WITH MY SISTER EVERY DAY. IT WAS still awkward at times; conversations never went on long without circling back to her dogs. She wanted to know about me, my life and my work, but there were limits. My reports were invariably interrupted by observations about her Newfies.

  At first, I found this sad, sometimes irritating. I’m exhausted, I would tell her after sleepless nights during lambing season. Get some rest, she would reply, and then: It’s Charity’s first birthday!

  But over time, I came to terms with it.

  I usually call her around sundown now, when I can look out my tall living-room window at the barn and the shadows lengthening behind the barn. I always feel grateful, lucky to be surrounded by such beauty, and lucky to be able to talk with my sister again.

  Part of me still feels I only have a part of my sister back, that I share her with some Newfoundlands. But so what?

  For some people, dogs and other animals are the only beings they can trust. Dogs show them it’s okay to love again, no matter the trauma or mistreatment they have suffered. Sometimes, dogs lead the way back. But even when they don’t, it isn’t my place to make judgments about these people’s choices. Jane was happy and at peace. Her home was an oasis of calm and affection. If dogs had brought that about, then good for them.

  Chapter Eleven

  LAMBING SEASON

  AT ABOUT FOUR A.M. ON MARCH 3, ROSE AND I STOOD A BIT uncertainly, looking up at the small paddock behind the barn. Ewe number 57—that was the number on her tag, and except for the shaggy Paula and old Minnie, I’d given the sheep no other names—was in labor. She was stomping the ground, circling, panting. Lambing season was officially under way.

  I’d never developed much love for these sheep, but I’d worked hard to take the best possible care of them. It was a bit presumptuous, probably. Lots of people could train dogs better than I could; sheep farmers knew vastly more about sheep and lambing; anyone who’d lived here a few years knew more about winter.

  But plain old determination is underrated; it can take you far. It had brought me through five strange and challenging months to this very disquieting night. I was now responsible for multiple ruminant lives, and my goal was to have uniformly healthy, well-cared-for lambs; I didn’t want to lose a single one.

  It was beautiful but cold, twenty-two below and windy, according to my all-weather radio channel. Shepherds don’t like icy gusts when lambs are born. I found myself staring into the paddock every few minutes, eager to get mother and baby into the safety of the barn as quickly as possible after the birth.

  Apart from our one agitated ewe, the paddock was eerily quiet. Rose and the flock were rarely as calm together as they were tonight. The ewes we usually shuttled around were lying down, untroubled and still. Rose wasn’t harassing them, and they seemed curiously unbothered by her. All the creatures in the paddock—me, Rose, the sheep—had wordlessly agreed to suspend our normal behavior.

  Lambing purists probably would have been horrified, and maybe border collie snobs, too, but I’d decided Rose should be present for every birth. I couldn’t trust Orson around tiny lambs—he’d be thinking snacks—but with Rose, I had a chance to experiment. I wanted her to see the lambs join our little encampment, rather than simply encounter them one morning in the pasture. I wanted her to be comfortable around them and to see them as creatures under her care. Her job description was about to change radically; so was mine.

  I’d brought a high-powered flashlight out
side with me, along with a sling that my friend Joanne Smith had given me for toting newborns, a set of surgical gloves, scissors, a bottle of iodine, a tube of lubricant, and a towel. Plus—to keep the lamb midwife going—a granola bar and a mug of tea.

  The ewe was moaning and tossing her head. I saw the fluid sac emerge, then burst. The birth should follow in a couple of hours. I was shivering with cold, but mesmerized by her struggle.

  After a while, she lay down on her side, groaned and pushed, her tail up. I didn’t want to get too close, but Rose crept up, sniffed the ewe’s face, gave her a quick lick, and then came back to me. The ewe, who normally moved away from Rose on sight, didn’t budge.

  Rose had never seen lambing before; I wondered which old border collie instinct was being awakened. I, on the other hand, had seen several lambs born while helping Carolyn during previous lambing seasons in Pennsylvania. But those weren’t my sheep. This was different.

  Rose seemed hypnotized, sitting perfectly still, taking in this strange behavior. We kept watch for nearly two hours, pacing a bit to try to keep warm. I didn’t want to miss the first birth, but as dawn approached, I was growing numb with cold.

  Remembering my frostbite and the doctor’s hypothermia warnings, I decided to put on additional layers of clothing. I took Rose inside the house, fed her and Orson, and made myself a pot of coffee. This was something Orson really couldn’t be part of, so after breakfast I gave him a pat and tucked him safely away.

  I tried to warm my hands. Then, in my Michelin Man outfit of multiple layers of clothing and long underwear, I headed back out with Rose.

  Life at the farm had become a series of scheduled shocks: I knew certain challenges were approaching, but when they arrived—sheep, donkeys, winter, lambs—bedlam followed anyway. There’s a difference between conceptualizing something and living it.