Rose in a Storm (12 page)

It took Sam nearly a half hour to get up to the top rung, battered by cold, snow, and wind each step of the way. Twice the ladder shifted in the wind and he grabbed on to the drainpipe. The rake slipped out of his hand, and he had to retrieve it and begin the climb all over again.

Rose stood looking up at the base of the ladder, waiting for instructions. She could barely see Sam when he got to the top, but then she heard him muttering and grunting as he reached the rake out to try and poke some of the heavy snow off the roof.

“God, I’ve never seen so much,” he shouted down. “Get back, Rosie.”

Rose heard Sam’s “get to work” voice, shook herself off, and backed up, as the chunks of snow began to come off the roof.

Then her ears and ruff went up as she heard a fearful shout. There was a roar of moving snow, and Sam came hurtling off the ladder top. Rose darted forward as he fell to the snow below, but was forced back as a mountain of white came crashing down, first on top of him, and then on her, too. Everything went black.

NINE

R
OSE WAS NEAR THE EDGE OF THE AVALANCHE
,
STUNNED AND
buried under several feet of snow. It cut off her smell and sight, and left her in a kind of void she had never known before. But the bulk of the snow had fallen on Sam, so although she was frightened and confused, she quickly shook herself alert, and clawed her way up and out.

She couldn’t see or hear Sam, but she spotted the edge of the ladder sticking out of the snow. A huge mound had fallen off the roof, a wet and heavy blanket. The wild dog came hobbling out of the barn and stood staring at her, confused and alarmed by the noise.

Rose was, for a moment, frozen. She never experienced panic, always stayed focused on her work. Her first instinct was to go find Sam and bring him back here—to where he already was—and she actually started for the house. She was disoriented, her work plan fuzzy. She had lost track of Sam.

Then she paused, remembering that he was not in the house. She looked at the roof, at the ladder, and then at the wild dog. She ran into the barn, where Sam had gotten the ladder,
then bolted back outside to the spot where she had last seen Sam, and studied the ladder sticking out of the snow.

She focused all of her senses on the snow, closing her eyes in case she might hear or smell or intuit something by concentrating. The wild dog remained still, his brown and black ruff covered in snow, watching her.

The sheep up in the pole barn called out to her, as if she might take them to pasture, and food, but Rose ignored them. She looked up at the Blackface, and her look was clear: Stay where you are.

Rose turned back to the pile of snow. A mesmerizing rainbow of sounds flashed before her. She heard birds out in the forest, squirrels gnawing on nuts, rabbits burrowing beneath the snow, raccoons tunneling beneath tree roots, mice scampering in the corners of the barn, the barn cats slinking across the barn rafters. She heard the shrieking wind, the groan of the snow on the barn roofs, and on barn roofs miles away, the ticking of the living room clock in the farmhouse, the sound of heavy, wet snow falling.

She took all of this in—the storm, the barns, the animals, the wind, the noises and colors—and then, out of this riotous stream, a cluster of images coalesced in her mind and she locked in on the sounds and feelings close to her. She heard one group of sounds—a groan, a sigh, breathing—a few feet from where the ladder lay, and she zeroed in on the spot.

She began digging frantically. She used both of her front paws, planting her hind legs deep in the snow behind her, using them to keep her steady. Occasionally, she leaned forward and bit out chunks of snow with her teeth. Her front legs became a pinwheel, digging out one bit of snow after another, pumping, clawing, furiously, continuously.

Soon she was panting, her tongue hanging down toward
her feet. Snow and ice flew up into her face, onto her fur. She barely stopped to shake herself off, and only once or twice did she pause to gulp down some snow, having grown overheated and thirsty. Her paws were now bloody, pieces of snow stained red as they flew behind her.

She kept going, digging and digging, the front of her body inclining farther and farther down, almost falling forward into the deepening hole. Fortunately the snow was still soft and gave way to her digging.

The wild dog’s senses, she knew, were not as keen, but by watching her he knew the spot she was focusing on, and, without any kind of overt communication, Rose’s eyes led him to the left of the protruding ladder.

The wild dog, weaker but still intense, began digging next to her. The snow flew in a steady stream behind the two dogs, forming scattered piles beneath them.

Carol looked over the fence in puzzlement, a donkey’s curiosity.

The wind and snow were so intense that the two dogs could barely see each other. After a few minutes, Rose saw that the wild dog’s paws were also bleeding, and that he was weakening. With a stare, she backed him off, and he accepted this command and sat down.

Suddenly, Rose barked, once, then twice, then in a continuous rhythm. The wild dog was puzzled by this, as were the other animals. This kind of barking was not at all familiar to them.

It was not meant for them.

B
ENEATH THE SNOW
, Sam was awakening. He was barely conscious but could feel the cold, the damp, the blackness. He remembered
only the snow sliding into him and sweeping him off the roof, and the long, black fall onto the snowy ground, and the feeling of being hammered as the snow crashed on top of him. Then he had blacked out, but now he remembered where he was, what had happened. He felt a rush of terror, but stayed calm. Lord, he thought, how deep am I?

His right arm was twisted beneath him, and the pain was excruciating. He could not move an arm or a leg, and, fighting back panic, began to murmur the Twenty-third Psalm to keep his mind from running away. He imagined Rose had been buried, too, and felt a pang for the poor dog if she were trapped beneath the snow like he was.

He struggled, trying to push upward, pressing the snow with his good left arm and then with one of his legs. It didn’t move an inch.

There was no one to hear him, or look for him, no way for him to get out. Soon he would freeze.

So this then, he thought, was the end. He remembered his father always telling him never—ever—panic. Farms were full of dangers, he’d said, and panic never helped. Sam thought of Katie, and of the idea of joining her. He thought of Rose, the dutiful creature, who would be looking for him.

Best to be calm and let the cold and darkness do their work.

He couldn’t imagine any way of digging himself out of such a mound, or of seeing light again. He felt another surge of fear in his chest and fought against it. He thought of talking to Katie, of the farm, of his parents and brothers.
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want
.

“Rose,” he whispered. “Rose.”

*   *   *

U
P ABOVE
, it was getting dark, and the farm animals were settling in for the night, both aware of and impervious to the drama unfolding around them. They’d seen the snow fall, watched Rose struggle to get up, saw Sam disappear. But none of it had any meaning for them. In their world, life was now about food and water, and their instinct to survive.

Down below, Rose stopped her digging, lifted her ears. She’d heard something. Her name. Sam’s whispered voice. She was tiring, her pace a little slower, but at this she resumed digging even harder than before.

She could see nothing but the hole she was making, and the snowy silhouette of the wild dog, who would get up and dig, and then lie down when it got to be too much. Rose let him set his own pace, but if he dug for too long, she would growl at him or give him a look, and he would back off.

Every few minutes, Rose would bark, then pause to listen, trying to focus and pick the groaning and breathing out of the cacophony of images and smells and sounds that were pouring into her head.

More blood was seeping from her paws now, and they stung sharply. Her limbs were stiff, and she was cold and hungry. But the rest of the world had virtually disappeared from her consciousness, and she saw only the hole in front of her, but was aware of the wild dog, exhausted by now, unable to dig, offering support only by his presence.

Rose had no measure of time. She could not know that this was the evening of the storm’s third day. She was aware of the gathering darkness, certainly of the deepening cold, the wind, and mounting snow, and she kept hearing ominous creaks and groans from above her. Every now and then, she looked up to see if any more snow was falling down on them.

*   *   *

S
AM HAD NO NOTION
of how long he had been under the snow, how long he had been unconscious. He felt his limbs numbing, and he was grateful he had room to move his head so at least he could breathe. He imagined it was better to die of cold than suffocation.

After a while he imagined he heard a bark, but he could not believe that it was real.

He thought he might be dreaming.

He kept reciting the Twenty-third Psalm, not because he was especially religious but rather because it was the only prayer he knew. He went over the bills, the lists of farm chores, things that needed to be repaired, plans to take the sheep and cows to market, the latest prices. The long list of farm chores was a gift as it occupied his mind, and kept him calm.

Sam was claustrophobic, and he feared falling into that hysteria. The pain in his arm and his side was becoming unbearable. He had lost feeling in his toes and fingers.

He had heard that freezing to death was one of the more pleasant ways to die, in that you ironically felt warm and just went to sleep. Being buried alive was something else, but he forced his mind elsewhere. What if he could join Katie? What if Rose was there as well? So many people believed it—his parents had—that maybe it could be true. Would dogs go to heaven? Would he? Katie had, he knew that. Would there be work for him and Rose to do? He loved his farm, but his life was a struggle. Perhaps …

Sam’s thoughts were interrupted by a series of excited barks, close now. Something was scratching around his chest.

*   *   *

R
OSE SANK INTO
a state of absolute focus. She dug and dug and dug, aware neither of pain nor cold, only of Sam beneath the snow.

She now knew precisely where Sam was, heard his breathing, his heartbeat, sensed his resignation. They were together again, only this snow between them. He was alive. Her work had never been clearer, or her purpose so intense in every part of her.

The snow kicked up in steady bursts behind her. She was possessed. The sheep looked down at this eerie scene in wonder and confusion.

A
BRUPTLY
, Sam felt the wind on his face. He looked up and saw huge flakes of snow blotting the dark sky above. He felt a tongue licking furiously at his face. Rose was whining in excitement, circling, licking and nipping at him.

He raised his head, pushed himself up a bit with his left arm, popping up into the sweet cold air. His face was covered with more licks, and Rose, usually reserved, was squirming in excitement. She nipped him again at his ear.

Whenever Sam fell, Rose always rushed over and nipped at his ear until he got up, and she began nipping now. Get up, get up.

“Hey, girl,” he said, struggling to focus and orient himself, then to sit up and crawl out of the snow. Nothing of the visible surroundings made any sense. “Did you dig me out? Are you okay?”

He rolled over onto his left side, and Rose came closer,
licking him now in a more workmanlike manner, clearing the snow and ice off his face.

Sam pulled himself out of the hole, slowly, crying out in pain, while Rose whined and circled him. He felt an odd, painful relief at being back in the open air, even in this awful storm. He couldn’t get over what Rose had done—that she had devised and executed a plan to rescue him. It was no easier to believe the enormous pile of snow in a mound behind where she had been digging.

He looked over at the wild dog, lying in the snow, panting, his own old paws bleeding and torn. So he had been digging, too. Sam nodded to him, a kind of thanks.

He looked up to see how the barn was. The gutters were torn off, along with a chunk of slate and wood.

When he tried to move, Sam shouted out in pain. Rose stepped back, focused again. Sam knew he was seriously injured.

And he saw that Rose was hurt as well. He looked down at the blood in the snow, then noticed her paws. He shook his head.

“Thanks, Rose. Thanks. Good girl.” Rose’s tail was wagging steadily. But it was no time for praise. She still had work to do. The snow was falling thickly, the wind blowing furiously, the cold bitter, relentless, and Sam couldn’t move.

Sam could feel his right arm dangling, and his right knee was in so much pain he could barely move. He knew it would be a long crawl back to the farmhouse, that he had no hope of standing or walking, but he also knew he had better get there, get inside, and get help. He would not last much longer outside.

Sam looked at his watch. It was just after eight p.m. He
feared frostbite in his fingers or toes. He figured he had been in the snow for nearly an hour, and Rose, who was hobbling, had probably been digging the whole time. He leaned over and patted her head, and she licked his hand.

He moved slowly, pulling himself through the snow until the pain was too much, then taking a breath. He had to keep going. He had to stop dwelling on the cold. There was a first-aid kit in the bathroom. He thought of the emergency plan the state police had set up for crises, and he knew where the flare gun was in the pantry. According to the plan, watchers would be looking for flares in the morning, at midday, and then again in the evening. He might be past the evening’s appointed time. He’d probably have to hold out until morning.

Every farmer knew the plan. More than one had used it—in floods, fires, when tractors fell over, or limbs got caught in hayers, or cows kicked someone in the head.