Saving Simon (19 page)

Rocky had a keen sense of where everything was, and when we put out his grain bucket, he would follow his nose to it, and this became the routine. First, his grain. Then we would open the gate and go outside. Maria would take out the brush we had brought. She would talk to him, sing to him, and sometimes give him an apple. Maria would pick the burrs out of his mane. This made him skittish at first, but he put up with it and stood still for it. After a few months, he would whinny when he felt the brush and slide over to Maria. Like donkeys, horses love to be groomed.

Maria was thorough, pulling out all of the knots in Rocky’s hair, brushing the matted coat along his side and back. At first, his hair came off in large tufts, hairballs that would blow across the pasture. But after a while, his coat looked shiny and clean. When it snowed or there were ice storms, we would go over to the farm and brush Rocky off and give him some extra grain.

At those times, we wished he were with us, or we were with him. We wished he had shelter, and it was hard to leave him out in the cold. This is a human idea about compassion, I knew. Horses once lived in the wild, and Appaloosas have long, thick coats. Just because it was hard for us didn’t mean it was hard for him.

A year passed and we became more attached to Rocky, and he to us. I thought it was time for Red to meet Rocky. We had been warned in the past that Rocky had an aggressive streak—that he was a biter and could turn hostile when surprised. So I wanted to be careful.

I took Red with me on a warm sunny day over to the Walrath farm. I approached the pasture gate calling out for Rocky as I always did to give him a chance to locate my voice and get used to it. “Hey, Rocky, it’s me, Jon. How are you doing? What’s going on?” That afternoon I told him I had a dog with me.

One of the many great things about Red is that you can totally trust him. If you tell him to stay, he will stay, and he will be staying in the same spot the next morning if you don’t release him.

I heard Rocky’s whinny when I opened the gate, and I called Red in. I put him in a lie down/stay and stood a few feet in front of him. I didn’t want him to move, but I suspected Rocky would figure out soon enough that he was there.

I saw Rocky making his way up the gently sloping pasture. He broke into a trot as he came near; he knew there was likely to be an apple. Red’s ears went up as Rocky approached, but he didn’t visibly react in any other way, as I knew he wouldn’t. There had been a horse or two at the farm in Virginia where Red was before he came to me, so he wasn’t shocked by Rocky’s presence. He didn’t seem to be shocked by anything much.

When Rocky got about ten feet from me he froze—I suspect he got wind of Red. He stopped and cocked his head. I could only imagine what the world seemed like to a blind old Appaloosa who had been in a pasture alone for more than a decade. There must have been all kinds of smells and sounds for him to interpret. For a new animal to be in the pasture so close must have seemed dangerous to him.

For several minutes he just raised his nose and sniffed. I kept talking to him to reassure him, holding out the apple. I took a few steps closer and so did he, and it took about fifteen minutes for us to get within arm’s length of each other. Rocky
eventually took the apple and worked it over carefully, raising his nose every few seconds to locate Red.

I called Red forward a few feet and had him lie down again. Rocky came close. Soon, Rocky was almost on top of Red, and very carefully, he put his nose down on Red’s back.

Red didn’t move, and I was impressed and astonished by this. His ears went down, a sign of caution, but he never moved his body an inch, never growled, barked, or startled Rocky. The old pony ran his nose over every inch of him, and then he seemed satisfied.

I took a deep breath. It was a beautiful thing to watch, and Red seemed to be signaling Rocky that he was not a threat and would not be bothering him.

I released Red and he got up. And then I saw the strangest and most wonderful thing.

Red walked about ten feet toward the barn. Rocky put his nose up to locate Red and tilted his ears, perhaps to listen for the dog’s breathing.

Red sat still, watching Rocky. Rocky walked over to Red, found him, and stood still. The two of them sat there like that for a few minutes.

Then Red got up and moved closer to the back of the barn, where I always fed Rocky his grain. This was a tricky path for Rocky. It led around old tires and brush, and I had seen him bump into the piles of old farm junk more than once. Red sat up, looking out at the field, and Rocky made his way over to the dog.

Then Red moved again right to the back of the barn door where Rocky got his grain. Rocky listened to hear where Red was going, sniffed the air, and then walked over to where the dog was sitting.

Red’s demeanor was completely different than it was with the donkeys or sheep. He was completely calm, not vigilant or alert, as he was around Simon.

And then it hit me. Red knew Rocky was blind. I don’t know how he knew, but it was clear that he knew. Perhaps it was the way Rocky sniffed or moved so carefully, perhaps it was the tentative way he walked. But it seemed to me that Red was guiding him to the back of the barn.

I was very much surprised by what I was seeing, although I had heard stories about dogs acting as guides for old and sick animals like horses. I’d had border collies for years. I’d never seen one who paid much attention to equines or animals other than sheep.

People love to project noble human motives onto dogs and other animals, but it seems an emotional response to me, not a considered one. Animals in my experience do not have motives beyond instincts and survival. They are neither “good” or “bad” in the way so many people seem to need to see them. Animals are not philosophers, they don’t have narratives and language, and they can’t consider their responses in the way human beings can.

My therapy dogs do not get up in the morning and choose to do good that day. They simply respond to attention and need—they smell and sense it and react to guidance, reinforcement, and reward. I have seen generosity in some dogs and other animals. Some will share food and some will not, but then again, instinct and other factors—such as the presence of siblings in infancy, the attentiveness of the mother, the availability of food, and human treatment—all shape the behavior of animals. None of an animal’s responses has to do with conscious reasoning as much as genetics and learned behaviors.

Red was clearly a generous and tolerant dog, confident,
calm, and secure. Rocky was a solitary blind animal suddenly in the company of another animal. Red had no fear of the pony, and Rocky came to trust this strange dog who had suddenly entered his life.

So this became a daily ritual for the two of them: Rocky approaching Red, Red standing still, then moving forward, Rocky coming up behind him. Red seemed to sense where Rocky needed to go—sometimes the pole barn, sometimes the outer pasture—and he would lead him there.

Was this how animals showed compassion for one another? Border collies like Red have among the most finely honed instincts in the animal world. I never saw him show a shred of compassion to a sheep who didn’t move quickly or obey him instantly.

I believe compassion among animals is unpredictable and instinctive. Red did not experience Rocky as a sheep to be ordered around, and Rocky approached Red calmly. I thought that what I saw happening was Rocky teaching Red to be his guide dog, reinforcing behavior in a dog who loved ritualized and regular work. Red loves working and loves herding, and is eager for any task on the farm.

I think Rocky gave him one.

Animals of different species rarely interact with one another in ways we might call compassionate, but I had witnessed something remarkable. Something was going on between Red and Rocky. They had connected in the curious way animals sometimes do without talking or drama or declaration.

They simply accepted and seemed to recognize each other. Both animals were intuitive. Red was sensitive to other animals in the way working and herding dogs almost always are. And Rocky had developed powerful radar for friends and enemies—a blind pony living alone outdoors has to. Red sensed that
Rocky was infirm. Rocky sensed that Red could help him navigate his dark world.

With each visit, this very touching relationship deepened. Red would take up a position leading to wherever Rocky wanted to go—the barn, the stream, the outer pasture. Red would sit and wait for Rocky to come up and locate him. Once Rocky was on his way and no longer needed his assistance, Red would turn and come back to me, like a bus driver who has made his final stop.

We’d watch Rocky follow a well-worn path to a corner of the north pasture where he spent much of the day, rain or shine. On the way back, he had to navigate around the collapsed barn, some tires and auto parts, and ditches, rocks, and mounds of dirt. When Red was there, Rocky would sniff until he found him—he always seemed to sense or know when the dog was present. He would touch Red’s back with his nose and then Red would move five or ten yards toward the barn or the water trough.

In this way, he would lead Rocky back to the spots he knew well, and where he could always find his bearing. At first, I wasn’t entirely convinced that this was happening, but it happened day after day, time after time. When we put grain out for Rocky, Red would sit within a few feet of it and stand by or lie down until Rocky was finished eating. We saw it so many times there was really no question about what was happening.

Rocky had a Seeing Eye dog.

One day our real estate agent Kristin Preble called up to talk about the sale of Bedlam Farm. “I don’t know if you know this yet, but Florence Walrath’s house is going on the market in a
few months. I know the family would love it if you and Maria lived there. I just wanted to mention it to you.”

When I told Maria about the phone call we looked at each other and both rushed over to the house. We walked the property, peeking in windows, and saw the same things. A big parlor inside the farmhouse that would be perfect for a study for me. A former one-room schoolhouse out back that had been hauled to the farm as a workshop for Florence’s husband, Harold. It would need some work, but would be a great studio for Maria. And the surviving barn was in good shape; a lawn mower and some hay and feed could be stored there.

The farm had seventeen acres, enough land so we could walk around in the woods on our own property, but not too large for us to handle. And it was near Cambridge, a small town we both loved with a food co-op, a diner, and a great bookstore. The farmhouse had been built in 1849 and still had its original wonderful woodwork, as well as big, airy rooms. It was perfect for us.

Standing by the side of the house in that moment, I understood why I had stopped to photograph Rocky so long ago. He had called me to the farm, drawn me there. A magical helper, doing his work.

We called Kristin the next morning and told her we were interested. The first thing she said was what about the pony? If we reached an agreement on the house, would we keep him?

Of course, we’ll take him as well, we said. Of course we would.

He was the reason we were coming to live there.

SIXTEEN
 

When we decided to
sell Bedlam Farm, we had three donkeys, two barn cats, two hens and a rooster, three dogs, and a part-time pony. Three of these animals—Simon, Red, and Rocky—converged on my life at the same time and were particularly powerful creatures. I often felt I was living in the middle of this almost mystical triangle. These three animals were connected to one another in ways that would further challenge and deepen my ideas about mercy and compassion. Together they taught me so much about how animals can heal and change a human being—me.

All of my time on Bedlam Farm, all of my dogs, all of my experiences—lambing, sickness, loss, sorrow—had led me to Simon, and he had led me further along the path. The paths we were walking were not really metaphorical at all; they turned out to be quite literal experiences.

If not for Simon, I would never have been open to Rocky. If not for Simon, I would never have been open to a stranger e-mailing me and telling me that God wanted me to have a
border collie from Ireland in search of the right home. And for almost all of my life, I would have laughed at the idea that I would want a blind thirty-three-year-old Appaloosa pony.

However, I was no longer simply acquiring animals because I had the space, or because something in me was using animals to work out issues best dealt with in other ways. These were considered decisions. I felt as if these three animals came to me for particular and important reasons. And all of them had to do with my idea of grace—of living a more compassionate, considered, and meaningful life.

Simon continued to settle into the life of the farm. In most ways, he was now the dominant presence there. Before him, it had been Rose, the no-nonsense border collie who ran a tight ship and watched my back.

Simon was the largest animal on the farm, and as his body healed and he attached to us, he became a charismatic presence. He was not only the biggest animal; he made the most noise. His bray was getting louder and more raucous by the day and could be heard for miles down in the valley.