Jon Katz - Soul of a Dog: Reflections on the Spirits of the Animals of Bedlam Farm

THE SOUL OF A DOG

Dog, n. A subsidiary Deity designed to catch the overflow and surplus of the worlds worship.

A MBROSE B IERCE ,
The Devils Dictionary (1911)

I F I DIDNT HAVE A DOG LIKE ROSE, I WOULDNT KNOW OR care that a big fat ugly goose had lost her mate to a coyote attack and was wandering the roads of a small town nearby, hiding away in a swamp at night, at risk of being eaten by a coyote herself, or flattened by a speeding car or truck.

Because I did have Rose, word of such problems came to me quickly. Somebody was sure to call. It turned out to be my friend Becky, from Argyle, who got upset driving past the goose every morning on her way to work.

The first line of defense for animals in distress was Annie, my farm helper, a.k.a. the Bedlam Farm Goddess. Annie, rescuer of many speciesbirds, bunnies, batstried to coax the goose into her pickup, but the bird ran off into the swamp. Annie told me she didnt know what else to try.

Time to call in Rose. By the end of the day, I had no doubt, that goose would be in custody.

Rose is my right handmy entire right arm actually. On my farm, the clarion call is: Rosie, lets go to work. Thats all it takes for this ferociously energetic and whip-smart border collie to spring into action.

Rose doesnt play much, or cuddle much. She doesnt even care much about eating, and pays scant attention to treats, rightly dismissing them as bribes. Unlike most dogs I have owned, Rose doesnt crave the warm body of a human at night, preferring to patrol the farmhouse, checking through the windows on the pastures and the barns. She doesnt appreciate being cooed over, or having her belly rubbed. Apart from me, she isnt all that crazy about humans in general; she doesnt grasp the point of pleasing strangers, as they dont lead her to work. When were not working, she isnt even all that interested in me.

Shes always working, or waiting to work; its deep in her bloodlines, the result of generations of service. Anything that doesnt have to do with work is extraneous to her, an interruption, an annoyance.

When Rose approaches me, its not a bid for a pat or a biscuit, but a signal that something is wrong. A gate is open, perhaps, or a predator is about.

Theres a vulnerability about Rose, even a sweetness in her eyes, but theres no mistaking her priorities. Smart, tough, determined, she is essential, but rarely the dog that people melt over or want to take home. Yet shes a great dog.

She moves sheep, separates sick animals, alerts me to the birth of lambs, fends off stray dogs, rounds up errant goats, helps the shearer, the large-animal vet, the farrier.

Over our years together, shes proved invaluable not only to me, but to others as well. Rose regularly gets calls from panicky farmers trying to round up recalcitrant cows, collect sheep who have gone through a fence, quell barnyard riots. Shes worked in blizzards, downpours, heat waves, and bitter cold. She has never failed to get the job done. We charge a flate rate of $10 per emergency call.

Except for one late-night visit to Salem, where some sheep went wandering just before a snowstorm was expected. Rose stuck her head out the car window, all it took to persuade the sheep to hustle into the barn. No charge.

ROSIE , lets go to work! I yelled that spring afternoon, and she came flying. The goose was being sighted on Route 47 in Argyle, a densely wooded, thinly populated stretch of country road. She was a domesticated African Grey, Annie told me; her wings had been pegged, so she couldnt fly off to protect herself or find another mate. Its unusual to see a goose alone; they mate for life. The pair had probably been dumped by people who were moving or just didnt want them.

She was big and whitea good forty pounds, I guessedand loud. She honked and squawked furiously, one of her protections against predators, when we pulled up on the shoulder of the road, where Annie was already on the scene. Geese are notoriously ill-tempered, and theyre hardly helpless: They have powerful bones in their wings and peck with their beaks. But this one seemed more anxious and confused than aggressive.

Unfortunately, she had acres of marshy wetlands for shelter. Smelly, mucky, crisscrossed with vines and brush, and an incubator for flies and mosquitoes, this swamp was a good place for her to hide from humansbut it wouldnt protect her from predators.

It was a hot, humid day. The bugs were on us in minutes. Nobody would have much energy for long, not even Rose, especially if we wound up tromping around in the muck.

Sure enough, the goose, running along the roadside ahead of Annie, made for the water when she saw Rose hop out of the car. This was not going to be easy.

Rose looked around for sheep, gave Annie and me a look when she couldnt see any, and then locked in on the goose. Now she knew what shed come for. She grasped the mission.

But it was going to be a tough one. We could hear the goose shrieking and splashing in the swamp, hidden by tall grasses. Rose didnt swim, so far as I knew. When I pushed a long branch into the marsh bottom to gauge whether we could walk into it, the stick went down about four feet. No way.

Rose began pacing, looking around, glimpsing the swimming, retreating goose, looking at me. She seemed stumped, glancing from me to Annie, eyeing the goose and the murky water.

In theory, we were defeated. A broad expanse of non-navigable swamp lay between us and this hapless, frightenedand unnervingly largecreature. She was in her element, and we were out of ours.

Rose looked at me, and I looked at Rose and shrugged, as if to say, I wish I could tell you what to do, but I dont know. And I didnt, other than to call her back, get into the car, and head home.

I had no commands for this conundrum. I dont see how we can do this, Annie lamented, already sweating and muddied. All I could do was shrug.

But Rose, still pawing and peering, loped off down the road, away from the goose. It startled me, but Rose never ran away from a mission, so I waited and watched as she covered several hundred yards, then veered into the woods and disappeared.

Unlike me, she wasnt nearly ready to give up.

I worried about her plunging through the thick underbrush. It can be dangerous for dogs in the country. Rose had twice had her belly ripped open by old pieces of barbed wire hidden in thickets; once her collar snagged and she was stuck for hours until she could chew through a branch. She came home still dragging it.