Jon Katz - Izzy & Lenore

Note to Professor Chernowitz, and other readers:

No dogs die in this book.

INTRODUCTION

T he arrival of three goatsa phrase that, for most of my life, it would have shocked me to writehas altered my morning routine.

Usually my day begins with the sound of donkeys braying joyously, and a bit imperiously, the moment I open the back door. I always have donkey cookies tucked in my jacket pocketand Lulu, Fanny, Jeanette, and Jesus love their cookies.

But now I have goats, who are even more vocal, and even closer to the back door. Most evenings, before I go to sleep, I have a bowl of low-fat microwaved popcorn, and I bring the leftovers with me in the morning for Murray, Ruth, and Honey. My presentation is not sentimental: I toss the contents of the popcorn bag over the fence and the goats make quick work of it. They love popcorn, so they love me.

The animals on my farm are simple creatures. They love food, anything to do with food, and anyone who brings them food. The goats would love the UPS driver if he brought them popcorn, too.

So on a recent morning, I dumped the popcorn, walked over to give the donkeys their cookies, and scattered some dry dog food out in the barn for Winston the rooster and the gals. The chickens love dog kibble. Accordingly, they love me, as much as chickens love anything.

It was a crisp, late-autumn morning, and sunlight was oozing up over the hill and across the Black Creek Valley, rays streaming across the roof of the barn to the pasture behind it.

The sheep were making their way down the hill, a timeless, leisurely procession. My farm helper Annie, a.k.a. the Bedlam Farm Goddess, brings them hay in the morning, or else I do. So the sheep love me, too. As does Elvis, the giant steer, who appreciates carrots and apples and, now and then, a few glazed offerings from Dunkin Donuts.

And of course there were the dogs, Izzy, Rose, and the new puppy, Lenore, who bounded alongside me. Theres almost always one dog or another beside me. I share Bedlam Farm with three great dogs at the moment. Rose is the worker, Izzy is my soul mate, Lenore is sheer affection.

Rose loves me because I take her to herd sheep. Izzywell, thats a more complicated story.

Lenore, on the other hand, is not complicated: She adores me because I feed her twice a day and I keep my jeans pockets stuffed with liver treats. She has actually hopped into the UPS delivery truck, ready to elope with the driver, because he brings her treats, too.

Still, it all amounts to a great deal of love, and I take it where I can get it. I appreciate how wonderful it is to start the day with all that baahing, mooing, meowing (I left out the two barn cats, also waiting to be fed), braying, and clucking. I am, at that moment, the center of the universe, at least a small, local universe.

I wish all of last year, or most of my life, were as simple and gratifying as morning rounds on Bedlam Farm. I wish that for everyone.

These animals, I have learned, are unique, each with a distinctive personality, habits, and affections. Getting to know them has been one of the delights of my trek to rural upstate New York, where the population of my farm, Bedlam Farm, keeps expanding. I cherish the predictability of these creatures, their sociability, their contented acceptance of life. I wish I possessed even one of those traits. Im working on it.

This book is about small things, like getting a new dog that changes your outlook. And about big things, like having a dog lead you places you never imagined going.

About a frightening encounter with mental illness, a struggle to control my mind and to understand who I really amsomething I was profoundly shocked to realize I didnt know. Its about coming nose-to-nose with old ghosts.

Its beyond sobering to learn, in late middle age, that youve been running from something your whole life and didnt know it, that certain events shaping your adulthood lay buried so deeply that they could become literally dangerous.

I would learn, in this tough year, some things that wiser people have known for a while: what friendship really means. What family really means. What faith means. How to take care of myself.

And this book is about the remarkable interaction between people and animals, about which so much is said and so little understood. On many levels, I learned a lot.

Ive always been wary of people who overburden their dogs and other animals, turning their pets into emotional support systems, the focus of attachment dramas, four-legged psychics and mystic healers. So it was especially startlingchallenging, tooto be in need of some of those things myself.

CHAPTER ONE

Izzy

T he place looked like a painting of a farm, not a real one. It lacked the elements of authenticity: rusting tractor parts, rotting hay bales, old tires piled over tarps, the pungent smell of silage.

The farmhouse, astride the tallest of three rolling hills, was in perfect condition, every slate tile on the roof in place, the old clapboards trim and freshly painted. Well-tended flower gardens encircled it.

The fences were all white and upright, the pastures were freshly mown, but there wasnt an animal in sight.

Two large barns on either side of the farmhouse had also been tastefully and expensively restored. The property had the unmistakably crisp look that follows New Yorkers with money.