Talking to Animals by Jon Katz

Author:Jon Katz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

Rose was to save my life more than once. We talked to one another so often and in so many different ways that it became second nature to me. When we went out to work in the mornings, I simply pictured the tasks we were there to perform—moving the sheep, taking them out to the pasture, bringing them into the barn, holding them in place for the vet.

When I was anxious about a ram, Rose would get in front of him and back him off. When I lost a cell phone, I closed my eyes and pictured it and Rose went and found it.

Rose filled so many crucial roles in my life that had previously been missing or that hadn’t been fully realized by those who were supposed to play them.

She was my mother—she was devoted to me, loved me, offered her life to protect me.

She was my partner—she shared the joy and travail of the farm.

She was my teacher—she helped me come to a wiser understanding of animals, far beyond the experience of having a pet.

She was my spiritual guide. The wolf lived and was present in Rose. She would turn into something wild and powerful in an instant; she connected to the animal world. And that was the mystical part, she was, in some ways, unreachable, beyond my comprehension. There were parts of her I could not talk to, could never understand, that she would never show me.

I loved Bedlam Farm. I wrote eight books there; it was a beautiful and inspiring place for me. It was the place where Rose and I lived together, worked together, learned together. It took a physical toll on both of us, though; the winters were brutal, the labor hard and unrelenting, the pastures steep and challenging.

Rose took more of a beating than I did. She was butted by rams, run over by ewes, raked by hidden barbed wire. Her paws were shredded on rocks, sliced by glass and nails. Every day was hard for her in different ways, and she had only one speed: fast.

One morning, I woke up and she was not lying by my side. She was not patrolling the hallway outside my bedroom. She was not looking out the window to check on her sheep.

I heard her call out to me, “Help me.” The message was clear and sharp. I got up, grabbed my robe, and ran downstairs. I knew she was at the back door. It was the only place she would go if she was struggling and could not get to me.

I found her lying there in a pool of vomit. She was trembling and breathing heavily; spittle ran down her chin. She had had the first accident of her life with me, a puddle of urine on the floor.

“Oh, Rose, Rose,” I said, dropping to my knees. I held her, leaned over her, whispered in her ear that I was there, that I would help her. Her sharp and clear eyes were clouded and glazed; she seemed disoriented.

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