Rose in a Storm (14 page)

She had been with Sam, shoulder to shoulder through many farm dramas and troubles, and she felt his distress. She had experienced it many times.

It touched something deep and old within her.

In a sense, it was hers now, as well as his.

O
NCE THEY HAD CONNECTED
, Rose always knew when Katie was addressing her, and she grasped the loving nature of her words and her tone.

They had a routine. When Rose was not working with Sam, she would come looking for Katie, and Katie would turn to the dog, and ask, “You done with your work?” and Rose would wag her tail and wiggle a bit, then go stand by the boots Katie used for walking in the woods.

“I’m done with my chores, too,” Katie would say. “Let’s us
girls take a break.” Anything that was connected to people, and that involved patterns or routines, quickly became cherished work for Rose. A human being’s enthusiasm was apparent—something she picked up on instantly.

After just a few walks together, Rose got to know the coat Katie wore for them, the boots, and the other signals that even Katie didn’t know she was giving out—how she looked out the window, glanced at the door, reached for a shawl, checked the thermometer, made sure the stove was turned off.

A glance at Katie’s feet would tell Rose what was about to happen, as Rose had become a scholar of shoes. She knew the work boots Katie wore for pasture or farm work, and the hiking boots she wore for walks in the woods. The shiny black shoes meant Rose would most likely be left behind, that there was no work for her to do.

The two were connected by an invisible tether on these walks. Katie never brought a leash—Rose had never been on one, not even to go to the vet—and it was unimaginable that Rose would ever take off. Although tempted, she never chased the chipmunks or deer they encountered. Rose always kept an eye on Katie, as she did on Sam when they were out working. How could she do that if she ran away?

On their walks down the path, Rose would rush ahead, circle back, walk alongside, sniffing and listening for the sounds of the woods—the coyotes, wild turkeys, birds building nests, bats squeaking in their sleep, chipmunks and squirrels cracking nuts, deer eating berries and leaves. The various smells and sounds all brought their news to her.

Every now and then Katie would pick up a stick and toss it. Rose would leap up into the air and snatch and run it back to her. Sam never saw this, never even knew about it. Rose did not play with Sam.

They always walked to the same spot: the stump of a giant oak marking the front lawn of a farm abandoned long ago. In nice weather, Katie would sit and take out some home-baked bread. She would eat a piece, and toss another to Rose. The two of them would sit quietly together for a few minutes and soak up the sun.

“This is as still as it gets, isn’t it, Rose?” Katie said once. Something about Katie settled Rose, and although she understood none of them, she loved the words that poured out of her. Katie’s tone spoke to Rose as distinctly as any words or narratives, and Rose understood her love, her cheerfulness, the peacefulness of their walks. It was satisfying work for her.

In the farmhouse, toward the end of a day, Rose had begun to sit beside Katie up on the couch, and Katie would speak to her as she stroked her back and neck. Rose never permitted anyone else to do this.

Katie often turned to the dog and said, “It’s just us girls,” and Rose lay by Katie while she worked on her quilts or knitted her scarves. She sat underneath the computer table when Katie worked there, or on the kitchen floor when she cooked. Over time, Rose came to understand the term “girls” as work, but not the kind that her instincts led her to or that she carried images of. It was new to her, and it was good.

“I never thought I’d see it,” Sam would murmur softly when he stumbled across the two of them. He loved seeing “his women” together.

One winter day, Rose had been sitting out in the pasture, watching the sheep. There was an ice storm, and soon the dog was covered in ice. It crusted over her eyes, nose, and fur, and Katie called her inside and made her lie down by a warm stove while she gently brushed the ice out of her coat. Rose had rarely—perhaps never—felt so calm and at ease. And she’d
never let another human touch her face. Sam, whom she was profoundly attached to, did not connect with her in this way.

Sam told Katie he thought Rose had changed since she had come, and it was a sweet thing to see. “She’s too serious,” he said. “She’s a workaholic.” Katie always had the same rejoinder. “Sam, so are you!” And he knew it was so.

Rose thought of Katie often during the day, even when she was working. But there had been one particular day when she was inexplicably drawn to Katie and followed her through the house, even balking at going outside to work. Katie noticed it right away, and so did Sam. Rose had sensed something wrong, something out of place.

She could smell it, almost see it.

Over the next months, Katie became much more still and quiet, the spirit beginning to drain from her. She did not smell or speak or breathe the same way. Rose did not understand right away. Katie was still there, but in a different form.

One day, Katie lay down in the bedroom upstairs where she and Sam slept, and she did not leave the room again. There were no walks in the morning, or in the evening, no time on the couch. Sam didn’t call Rose out to work for some days after that, but left her in the room with Katie.

Rose had the feeling she had when she worked, that there was something to do. She jumped up onto the bed and lay still beside Katie, sometimes for hours.

At first Rose was puzzled. She expected Katie to get up. But soon, she adapted to the new routine, and her map changed once again.

When she woke up each morning, the first thing Katie saw was Rose, prompting an increasingly rare smile. Rose usually lay down alongside her on the bed, eyes open, watching her.
Sometimes, if Katie was calm and at ease, Rose would drift off to sleep. But mostly, she simply watched her, listening to the sound of her breathing, the beating of her heart.

The two became inseparable. Sam saw this and encouraged it. He would leave Rose inside and go do the farm chores and tend the crops himself, unless he had to move the sheep or cows.

Rose noticed his approval. Love was a kind of attention that Rose saw clearly, and responded to powerfully.

Before Katie, work had meant one thing to Rose, but now it meant another thing entirely.

Rose felt the power in Katie’s looks and words. She was keenly aware of the illness and loved the attention, and soon, she connected the two.

Katie didn’t often feel like talking anymore, not even to Sam. It was too hard when everyone wanted her to be happy, to be better, and she felt she was failing them. Rose wanted nothing from her, was content just to listen. So she did. It became her work with Katie, as important as moving the sheep. Rose, the most energetic and restless of creatures, was a surprisingly gifted listener, focused and patient. She never tired of listening to Katie, focused on her with her ingrained intensity, and she felt increasingly protective of her. When anyone other than Sam came into the room, she would growl, raise her hackles, have to be shushed by Katie or Sam, or even led away.

Often she raised her nose to pick up Katie’s scent, read her body. The scent had changed, and Rose understood what the smell meant. It pulled her closer to Katie, made her more attentive. Even when she heard the sheep moving outside—she was always listening to them move—she was drawn to stay close. She sensed that her presence was calming, she saw the
look on Sam’s face when she lay next to Katie, and knew that this was where she needed to be.

Rose was transformed in that room, alert to every sound, no longer just the frenetic working dog she’d been. She connected with the sickness and pain in Katie—and Katie understood that healing her, helping her, soothing her, had become Rose’s purpose.

Rose heard her heartbeat flicker, then race, then slow. She caught the smells and heat of the growing thing, and of the medicines, the change in skin color, the fear and restlessness, the smell of the sweat, the overall disturbance in the body. She saw Katie’s spirit weaken. She heard the gasps and cries of pain, the changing rhythm of her breathing. She knew everything that was happening inside Katie’s body, reacted to it, lying still, moving closer, licking Katie’s hand.

She saw other people, other images, from other times, people in beds, in rooms, in fields, turning to her, to others like her, needing attention, needing the feel of her, the focus of her.

“Please stay,” she heard Katie ask her one morning.

She understood the command “stay” and sensed the power of the plea behind it.

When Katie took her in her arms one night, she spoke in words that seemed to contain concern for Rose. Rose watched her closely as she spoke, and wondered at the sadness and affection in her voice. She tilted her ears and widened her blue eyes in puzzlement, wondering if this might be a command for some kind of work.

She stayed in the room, leaving only when Sam called her out and tried to make her eat. She rarely did. Once in a while he tried to get her outside, but she rarely went anymore.

One night, Sam locked Rose in the barn with the sheep and told her to go to sleep. Confused, then alarmed, she barked
and whined as she heard people, machines, and noises from in and around the farmhouse. In the morning, Sam finally let her out and she raced upstairs into the bedroom.

Katie was gone. Her scent remained, her spirit, her clothes and shoes, but not Katie herself.

Rose began looking for her, racing through the house, unable to fathom where she’d gone.

After all her fruitless searching, Rose slipped back into Katie’s bedroom and crawled under her bed and did not move until Sam finally thought to look for her there.

But the sadness didn’t go away. A great emptiness settled over her. Every morning, Rose looked for Katie in the house, on the path, in the woods. Every night, she returned to the house and ran to the bedroom upstairs. She did not find Katie, could not pick up a fresh scent.

Rose had lost some of her purpose.

Katie had become a part of her. But she was not on the farm, not in the farmhouse, not in the woods, with Sam. Like so many of the images in Rose’s mind, Katie’s slowly began to recede, absorbed into her memory, fused with the other images in her consciousness. And she adapted, as she always had. She never left Katie, yet she almost reflexively moved on.

Now Rose went for the same walk almost every morning, and every afternoon, by herself. And each day, she lay down by the stump and waited for Katie to bring her some bread, though she never came.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t ever find her. Rose would look for her every day for the rest of her life, and perhaps beyond. Sometimes she dreamed of Katie, dreamed of walking in the woods, sitting in the kitchen, lying under the sewing machine.

*   *   *

S
AM HAD KNOWN
after the first doctor’s visit that Katie would not live long.

At first, he was surprised by Rose’s attachment to his dying wife, but when he thought about it, it made sense. One way or another, Rose seemed to know everything, and there was no limit to her faithfulness. He had also witnessed her growing connection to Katie. Of course Rose knew, and of course she would be there.

And so, as often happened, he got out of Rose’s way and let her do her work. He had never been good with words or emotions, and although his love for Katie was deep, he almost never knew what to say. Even though he knew better, he couldn’t help trying to cheer Katie up, to reassure her. But she was too smart for that, he knew, and there was no good news, would not be any.

So he was increasingly grateful to Rose, whose presence put no pressure on Katie. She gave her nothing but love and relief and companionship as he tended to the farm. As Katie’s illness worsened, Rose’s grasp of her work with Katie only seemed to grow. By the end it was an astonishing and powerful thing to see.

Katie was worried about Rose, and told Sam so. She took on so much, she said. Would she be broken in spirit? Would she feel as if she had failed? Would she know she had done her best?

Sam tried to reassure her. She’s a dog, he said. A wonderful dog, but still a dog. They move on. It’s their way.

Later, he regretted locking Rose in the barn when Katie passed away. He had meant to shield her, protect her from seeing her beloved Katie die, to make sure she didn’t think she had failed. But it had been a mistake. Sam had always made certain Rose saw all of the comings and goings on the farm.
That was how she kept her map. But now he feared Rose would never stop looking for Katie, would always think she was coming home.

And in this he was correct.

N
OW
R
OSE KEPT VIGIL
for Sam on this awful winter night.

She saw his anguish and hurt while he lay on the couch, saw that he was worse, damaged in some way, and in great pain.

But the images that kept recurring to her now were of the lamb being hauled away by the coyotes and the ewe calling to her for help. The danger was outside. And it was getting light again.

R
OSE HEARD A BELLOWING
. The cows. She had barely paid attention to them, she had been too distracted by the coyotes and Sam. Rose had seen that animals reacted to cold differently. Sheep, with all of their wool, huddled together for warmth. Cows, with their big exposed sides, had to keep moving to escape the cold. She had seen them during other storms, circling, moving, staying out of the wind.

She went out the back door of the farmhouse, around to the other side of the barn—an easier path, protected from the wind—and squeezed through the gate. Brownie was lowing softly, with three cows standing still next to him, out in the open. Rose saw that the shelter where they usually went in cold weather had collapsed under the weight of the snow.

She started to go get Sam, then stopped, an image of him gasping in pain flashing in her mind. She could sense that several of the cows were barely breathing.