Authors: Jon Katz
Dave circled the sheep, dropped down, nipped at one of the ewes, then came back.
Fran told Patricia to come out. “He passed. You did too. Nice work. Want to come in for coffee later?”
Patricia didn’t quite understand why this felt so good, but it did. She leaned over and knelt to the ground, hugging and kissing Dave. “What a good boy. I love you,” she said, and at that moment, he looked beautiful, calm, and proud, as if he had been born in that spot and had done what she’d asked every day of his life.
A
N HOUR LATER
, Patricia walked through the front door into the strange world of Gooseberry Farm. Patricia had never been in a place like it. Old overstuffed sofas and chairs lined the big living room, and cardboard boxes filled with forms were stacked up all around, as were bags of dog food, leashes,
boots and rain gear, flashlights and harnesses, balls and dog toys.
Along the walls were dozens of framed photographs of dogs, and scores of trial ribbons, agility awards, and AKC and other herding certificates.
A sofa growled at her as she went past, and only then did she realize that there were crates everywhere, dogs in almost all of them. Fran’s dogs were either working or else kept in crates, to help keep them focused. They were not pets in the sense that Patricia knew the term.
She heard talking from the rear of the room, which opened up into a big kitchen. She walked over and saw Fran seated at one end of a table, logbooks and evaluation forms scattered in front of her. Five or six other women were gathered around the table, and in the middle were steaming coffee mugs, a rasher of bacon, and a tray piled with mostly burnt corn muffins.
Five of the women had dogs tethered to their chairs—two Aussies, three border collies. Patricia had put Dave in the car and left him there. She sat down, and the women all introduced themselves. Patricia had already gathered that time with sheep was precious to these women, and if they couldn’t pay for the time, they happily worked their asses off hauling hay and doing farm chores in exchange. These women were completely at home in Fran’s kitchen.
One woman, who introduced herself as Lisa, said, “We’re here at least once a week. We all know how to eat Fran’s muffins, something that should be done very carefully.”
The other women laughed, and Patricia could sense how comfortable they were with one another, how at ease. It was strange, but she felt accepted in that kitchen, even though she had no reason to feel this way.
The talk was all dogs. About their encounters with other dogs, their training successes and failures, Internet hysterias about dog food, stories of dog bites and fights. About getting their dogs to listen to them, about the sweet feeling of working with a dog, of taking sheep out to pasture. About the trials they were entering, the ribbons they were seeking.
Patricia didn’t say much until Fran asked her about her life and work. Patricia told them she’d given up her pediatric-medicine practice a few years ago, the liability insurance so expensive, the paperwork staggering, the fights with the health-insurance companies so relentless. Plus, she had wanted to be there for her girls, to be at home, and drive them to school, and know what was going on in their lives. She was surprised to find herself starting to choke up, and she blinked back the tears. This was no place to cry.
When Patricia said she was a doctor, Fran had perked up. They needed a medical person at the trials and instinct tests, she said. People were always getting stung, falling down, spraining their ankles, getting bitten by dogs, cutting themselves on knives and fences, falling off ATVs, even blowing out their knees. Maybe Patricia could work some of the trials as the on-duty medical person in exchange for lessons.
Patricia said yes right away, a bit startled by how quickly she’d responded. She had turned down a dozen offers to join medical practices, and yet she jumped at this. But it felt natural, comfortable, and she was suddenly eager to use her skills, to have a role to play.
It was beginning to get late, and one by one, the women got up, said good-bye, collected their dogs, and left. Patricia was a bit startled to find herself still there. When everybody was gone, Fran brought her a cup of coffee. She leaned back,
shoved some of her paperwork aside, and sipped from her mug. She looked tired, Patricia thought. It was time to go. She started rise.
“About your dog,” said Fran.
Patricia eased back down into the chair. In the farmhouse, she could hear the groans, sighs, and stirrings of the dogs in crates.
“How many dogs do you have?” she asked Fran, who thought about it for a minute.
“I think twelve,” she said, then leaned forward. “So what’s the story?” she asked. “Everybody who comes here has a story. A reason to be here. Husband issues?”
Patricia flushed, then smiled.
“I’ve been divorced twice,” Fran said. “Both nice guys. But I mean, come on, who could be married to me and live with twelve dogs? Sorry for asking, but a lot of the women here—well, you don’t see many husbands, and that’s because there aren’t that many. I don’t know if there’s a connection or not.” She laughed and Patricia laughed too. Paul certainly wouldn’t want to live with twelve dogs. He could do without any, really.
“No, it’s the dog that got me out here. The dog was driving us crazy. Driving Paul crazy.”
Fran nodded. “They were meant to work, and without work, they don’t really know how to live. They get crazy and they make people crazy. Out here, they get sane. They find themselves.”
Patricia had an odd feeling, as if she were at some gate and about to pass through it. She liked these women, these people. They were different. But they were real, down to earth, passionate. She had the sense that loyalty was a big
thing here, and there was something loving about them too, something dependable.
“Let’s take your dog out to herd some sheep,” Fran said. She reached up into the closet and grabbed a flask of brandy, then put on her safari hat and cape. “You have a couple of hours?”
Fran tossed her a long leather leash that wrapped around a person’s shoulder. “A shepherd’s leash,” she said. “You can have the dog on it, and keep your hands free.”
Patricia clipped it on over her shoulders and around her waist, a seven-foot leather leash that hung from the side. Fran opened one of the crates and Sam, one of her older border collies, zoomed out. Then she handed Patricia a can of bug spray and a flashlight.
They walked out of the farmhouse together and over to the pasture gate, Patricia stopping along the way to get Dave from the car and attach the leash to his collar.
The sheep—there were more than a hundred—saw the dogs and began to gather in a block and move away. Fran opened the gate. She told Sam to stay, and he did, ears up, waiting. She looked over at Dave.
“Let him go,” Fran said. “Sam is here for backup. He knows the drill. Trust him. You know, at the heart of it, the dog and the sheep know what to do. Sometimes we just have to remind the dogs we’re part of it.”
Fran turned to Sam, and said, “Get out there,” and he tore off and ran wide and to the left of the sheep.
Patricia leaned over and patted Dave. “Be good,” she said, and she unclipped the leather lead. Dave looked up at her, as if he could hardly believe it, and then took off. At first, the sheep started to run, but Dave ran wide of them and got behind them. Fran yelled at Sam to come bye, and he came
over to the right of the sheep, so they had nowhere to go but toward Fran and Patricia. They came rushing through the gate, Dave on one side, Sam on the other.
Fran said, “We’re bracing them. They can’t really go anywhere but straight ahead.”
The sheep, flanked by the two border collies, picked up steam and ran out behind the farmhouse and down a path through some woods—the two women walking rapidly behind—and then into a vast, open unfenced pasture on the far side of the house.
Fran whistled and Sam dropped down, almost vanishing into the grass.
She looked at Patricia. The sun was setting, the hills and pasture shrouded in mist. There was a rich smell of manure and fresh grass.
“Our ancestors did it,” Fran said. “There’s nobody in human history that didn’t herd sheep with dogs at one point or another. Except maybe the Eskimos.”
The wind rustled the grass, and there was a chill in the air. Dave walked steadily along the flank of the flock, watching the sheep closely. Patricia was struck by how calm he was.
“It isn’t him who’s calmed down, it’s you,” Fran offered. “The dog is just a mirror. He reads you. You’ve trained him and so you’ve set him free from all the craziness we put into their lives. People don’t get that. It isn’t them; it’s us.”
Then she looked out at the sheep. “They’re trying to settle,” Fran said. “When the sheep settle, the dog calms down if they’re any good. It’s where the dog and sheep both want to be. That’s their natural position. The sheep grazing, the dog keeping an eye on things.” Sam lay still, watching, as if he were teaching Dave, who was moving, but slowly, with authority.
“Tell him to lie down.”
Patricia looked up and shouted, a bit louder than she had meant: “Dave. Down!” Dave slowed, turned and looked at her, as if he didn’t quite believe it.
“Easy,” said Fran softly. “Convince him you know what you’re doing. Pretend.”
Patricia raised her hand, and then dropped it. “Down,” she said, so quietly she couldn’t imagine that he’d heard it.
But although he was at least a hundred yards away, Dave dropped to the ground. The sheep slowed, and then lowered their heads. They spread out and began grazing. It seemed as if they had been waiting for this to happen all along. The reddish sun dropped below the hills behind the sheep, and Patricia almost wanted to cry; it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
She called out to Dave, and to her surprise, he came running over to her, touched his nose against her knee, then turned and ran back behind the sheep.
She looked over to Fran, who was watching the sheep, nodding.
How wonderful and strange, Patricia thought to herself. Almost beyond understanding.
That this is my world. And I have found it.
J
AMES AND
K
IPPER ROUNDED THE HILL AT THE TOP OF THE
pasture—it was little used now, and overgrown with weeds and scrub—to make their daily check on the farm’s boundaries and fences. The two of them would have made a lovely pastoral painting, the still-handsome, blue-eyed, tall, and craggy old farmer with his white shock of windswept hair, and the intense and purposeful low-to-the-ground black-and-white border collie, moving rapidly but off kilter on his three legs.
James and Kipper had been patrolling the farm and its sheep and cows for many years now, twice a day, rain or shine. There was little to patrol these days, just a dozen sheep, mostly older ones James couldn’t bear to send off to market.
Kipper knew every inch of the farm, and if there was so much as a new piece of paper blown by the wind, he would
go to it, sniff it, mark it. The industrious dog was better than any land surveyor, thought James.
It was Kipper who alerted him now that something was wrong. His ears went back on his head, which he lowered almost level to the ground, dropping into a quiet crouch. He let out a low growl, and the fur on his back stood straight up.
James scanned the trees and bushes in front of him. His eyes were not what they used to be. He reached into his pocket and put his spectacles on. He saw nothing.
He turned and looked at Kipper, following the old dog’s nose straight toward a tangle of old fence posts and barbed wire. Then he saw it.
“Hold it, Kipper,” he said. “Steady there. Be careful.” He took a step forward, a small one.
T
HERE WAS A TIME
when James could stalk right up the hill without taking a deep breath, but now it took more determination. He paused two or three times on the way up, and Kipper paused with him, sitting or lying down when he stopped. He didn’t know if this was a courtesy, or if Kipper was tired too. After all, he was twelve now.
“Old dogs,” James liked to whisper, “two old dogs.”
The walks were still magic. The smell of the barns, the hay, the flowers, and air, the manure, flitting shadows, the soil, the grip of the wind, the powerful formations of clouds steaming by, the spectacle of the sun fighting through and streaming across the valley.
He could have gone to Florida, like the other farmers, or moved into town, into one of those little ugly split-levels that were built, unlike farms, to be maintenance free. Or he
could’ve gone to North Carolina, or into one of those assisted-care places where you gave them all your money and you took a bus to the market and doctor’s appointments.
But he would truly rather be dead than to be in an ugly little house, or dependent on so many other people. And what would he do in retirement? There seemed to him nothing to do in that situation but die. How many stories had he heard of the old farmers who sold off their land, went off to trailers and condos, and were dead within weeks and months? A man had to have a purpose, had to have something meaningful to do.
And there was Kipper to think of.
He and Kipper were like extensions of each other; each reacted to the other’s thoughts, read the other’s mind, worked together in a seamless ballet.
Still, James had always expected that he and Helen would be facing old age together, and it had never crossed his mind that she would leave him like that, so quickly, so completely. Helen had been a farmwife, just as he was a farmer. She took care of the house, he took care of everything else, and the two of them had worked hard decade after decade, side by side.
So now it was just him and Kipper, and if Kipper left, then maybe it would be time to sell the farm and go live somewhere else. He would think about that when the time came.
In the mornings, when he and Kipper took to the fences, he heard a thousand ghosts from the past, and he wondered if the dog did too. Cows, steers, dairy and beef, goats, five hundred sheep. Potatoes and corn, alfalfa and grain. Once, he had two helpers, and it took the three of them a full day
just to get the animals moved, watered, tended, and fed, to keep water troughs up, to move the manure, run the tractor, fix the fences, patch the barn. There was never enough time.