Bones Would Rain from the Sky Read online

  “He smells.” With that final statement, the teacher revealed the limits of her love for all of God’s creatures. (In retrospect, I realize that had I brought in a real leper with stinking bandages or a drunk down on his luck and reeking of the gutter, the teacher’s Christian charity might have fled as quickly. But I am older now, and a touch more cynical.) I was outraged, and protested with vigor: The dog did not smell. Well, to be perfectly honest, he did not smell bad, he just smelled the way some dogs do. And that’s how God made him!

  My arguments fell on deaf ears. The teacher insisted that I take the dog outside and return, sans canine, to my chair. Sadly and slowly, I climbed the few stairs, opened the door and stood for a moment with this dog. I apologized to him, and though I lacked the words to express my deep sorrow at the powerlessness of being only five years old, I think he understood. He must have, for his power and mine were similar; his world was also full of larger, stronger people who set rules that had to be obeyed. I hugged him—the memory of that warm, slightly greasy black coat, of that rich musky dog scent has stayed with me all these years—and he leaned into me, wagging his tail. With tears in my eyes and newfound doubt in my heart, I left him standing in the sunshine and returned to Sunday school, infinitely older and wiser.

  LOVE ME, LOVE MY BEETLE

  How people interacted with and reacted to animals was endlessly educational. I learned, for instance, that many adults were not nearly as brave as they seemed. The summer that I was ten, I carried a coffee can with me at all times. Sweetly patronizing adults would ask what it was that I had in there, and ever eager to share the amazing world of nature, I would open the top and show them my pet stag beetle, Benjy. I do not know what they expected from a ten-year-old kid and a coffee can, but the three-inch-long, impressively fierce-looking Benjy was decidedly not it. A few shrieked before they could recover their composure and smile weakly at me; some actually blanched. All looked at me with new eyes after that, and quite a few never again asked what I had, no matter how provocatively I might carry a container.

  I suppose every child blessed with siblings carries resentments for youthful incidents long past. Ask me what I remember of being four years old and I’ll tell you that was the year I had turtles. Ostensibly, one of the two turtles was mine and the other belonged to my sister Sheryl. Two years younger than I am, Sheryl wanted to do everything that I did, though our interests were considerably different. She found babies (human babies!) indescribably fascinating; I found them of far less intrigue than an earthworm drying on the sidewalk after a rainstorm. Happily playing with my turtles, enjoying the prick of their tiny claws on my hand, I was mildly annoyed when Sheryl asked to hold one. But at my mother’s urging, I agreed to share the joy. More than three decades later, my lips still automatically lift into a sneer of disgust when I recall how, upon my placing a turtle upon her outstretched hand, my sister squealed, “He’s got claws!” or something to that effect and flung the hapless turtle across the room. The turtle survived the incident, which in my memory has far outlived the turtle itself.

  Sheryl has grown up since then. She now has the sense to avoid handling reptilian creatures, and I know better than to let her. Endlessly kindhearted, she loves animals best from a distance, though she does not always understand them; and there have been a few animals that she has loved up close and personal, muddy paws, drool and all. She earned high marks from me the day she discovered that an intermittent ear problem was caused by a lone dog hair curled neatly upon her left eardrum, the result of a bed shared with her dog. I love my sister, but despite that redeeming dog hair in her ear, I’ll go to my grave remembering the turtle incident.

  My father and I frequently tangled over animals. There was a pair of kittens I recklessly accepted and hid in the car overnight. It was his car, and despite my best intentions to wake up long before he did and sneak the kittens into the house, I never stirred until his roared “Suzanne!” broke the morning wide open. Those kittens taught me several lessons. First, set an alarm if you really do have to get up early. Second, don’t put kittens in your father’s car, at least not without informing him first. Last, providing food (and lots of it) and water (lots of it) is not entirely sufficient for a kitten’s needs. One must provide a litter box as well. The kittens went off to the local shelter, and I lost my allowance and quite a few privileges for a while.

  I also forgot one night to mention to my father that a large Collie had followed me home (quite nicely once I took off my shoelaces and my belt and hooked the makeshift leash around his neck) and that I had hidden him in the small shed that housed our garbage cans. How was I to know that my father would finish his supper early and decide to take the trash cans out then? He normally didn’t take the trash out until much later. Since I had momentarily forgotten the dog, the combination of deep barking, surprised swearing and the bellowing of my name came as a shock. My allowance took yet another hit.

  A good deal did happen to me in my youth and adolescence that easily qualifies me for membership in any number of support groups and twelve-step programs. But somehow, I came through it all relatively intact, bearing only a reasonable load of baggage to sort out along my life’s journey. It may be that any child with a consuming passion is buffered against life’s blows by that very passion; it may be that the animals themselves served as both buffers and healers. I have a hard time imagining that a stamp collection would have done as well as my animal friends did.

  WHERE THE ANIMALS LEAD ME

  Through childhood and beyond, a veritable Noah’s ark of animals have accompanied me on my life’s journey. Long before I read Joseph Campbell’s wise advice to “follow your bliss,” I was already following my heart’s desire. There were other opportunities available to me in life—my high school art teachers urged me to attend art school, my English teachers pushed me toward a career as a writer. My grandfather, aware of my great love of books, offered to pay my college tuition if I agreed to become a librarian. I was surrounded by disapproval and dire warnings of inevitable failure if I pursued my dreams. My stubborn insistence on following my bliss created conflict and pain in my relation ships with those who could not understand why I spent my teenage years at a nearby stable, why I pursued an animal husbandry degree only to abandon that to leap at a chance to work with a guide dog organization and then move on from there to manage a stable and kennels and to ultimately become a trainer. At every crossroad, I took only the path that would lead me where I wanted to go—toward a deeper understanding of a life shared with animals.

  I write this book in a house filled with wonderful animals—seven dogs, seven cats, a pair of tortoises, a parrot and a box turtle. From my window, I can glimpse my horses, the donkey and some of the Scottish Highland cattle that grace our pastures. There is mud on my jeans, left there by Charlotte the pig’s affectionate greeting. I know that in the warm glow of the barn lights, my loving husband is tending to the nighttime chores, talking to calves as he hands out treats of stale bread, settling the turkeys, chickens and quail in for the night. In my relationship with each of these much-loved and complex beings, including my husband, there are ghosts and echoes of all the animals that have shared my life, and the seedlings of a wisdom crafted from both joys and sorrows. I am grateful for the immeasurable love bestowed upon me daily by my husband and my animals. Sometimes, I question whether I deserve such blessings. If I have somehow grown into a person who deserves what she has been given so freely, it is in large part the reflection of the grace and forgiveness granted to me by the animals who have accompanied me thus far on my life’s journey.

  Those who do not know better label me simply as an “animal lover” and find it charming, if odd, that a parrot flies freely through the house, that a turtle tells me quite clearly he’d like a cherry tomato for lunch, that my dogs find it not at all unusual to go for a walk in the woods with a turkey or a pig. I give these people amusing tales of waking to find a cat’s gift of a dead mole on my pillow or the inexplicable presentat
ion of a live, unhurt baby bird, and we laugh at the dogs’ latest adventures. While sometimes impressed by my knowledge of animals and their ways, many people are bemused by my insatiable lust for an ever-deeper, fuller understanding. For them, it is enough to have a pet, to “love animals.” And they leave our farm with an incomplete view of our life and of who I am.

  I am not an animal lover or a pet owner. I am, perhaps, an animal hus band in the oldest sense of the word, but it is much more than even that. These animals are my friends, my partners, my fellow travelers on life’s journey. I do not “have” animals as I have collections of art or books. I have relationships with each animal; some are more intimate than others. I try to listen as carefully to each animal as I would to any human friend.

  To be sure, tending to the needs of so many creatures gives shape and rhythm to my life and to my husband’s. Our plans and goals are often delayed or altered in response to crises as simple as an unexpected puddle on the floor or as complicated as caring for a critically ill or dying animal. There are times when we chafe, individually and together, against the constraints of a life with so many animals in our care. But the immediate and undeniable reality of the animal world grounds us in ways we cannot fully articulate though we can feel it working its peaceful magic deep within our hearts and minds. Fortunately, my husband understands that he did not marry an “animal lover” but someone who travels daily in the company of animals, forever trying to be open to the places they may take me, to the sights and sounds I might have missed were it not for them.

  To travel in the company of animals is to walk with angels, guides, guardians, jesters, shadows and mirrors. I cannot imagine how it is to travel bereft of such excellent companions. In my journey, seeking to know animals more fully, wandering in their foreign lands, struggling for fluency in these other tongues, I found much more than just the animals themselves. As all travelers do, no matter how far they may go, no matter how exotic the terrain or bizarre the culture, I discovered myself.

  The thirst for a deeper understanding of animals and the desire for relationships with them is not unique to me. Everywhere I go, I find others who are equally passionate about animals, who want to know more. With great joy, I have made it my life’s work to help others better understand the dogs with whom they share their lives, and to help them explore new depths in their relationships with animals. This is not a onesided process of simply explaining the beautiful nuances of canine communications or the structures and protocol of canine culture. It is important to understand how and why our dogs behave the way they do and to open ourselves to a different perspective on the world: the dog’s perspective of life, love and relationships. This book offers the reader the knowledge that is necessary to more fully appreciate these gentle predators who share our beds, and with this knowledge comes new insights and greater awareness.

  But more than that is needed. Relationships—if they are to achieve the depth and intimacy that makes our souls sing—are built on far more than good information about how and why others act as they do. As with any relationship, a fuller understanding of ourselves and what we bring to the table is necessary. Of all the gifts that animals can offer, perhaps the greatest is this opportunity to delve deep inside ourselves. Without judgment or timetables, with patience and an amazing capacity for forgiveness, animals are the ideal guides through our inner landscapes. In moments of glorious agreement as well as moments of frustrated disconnection, our relationships with our dogs serve us well, gently nudging us to a greater understanding of the dynamics of two beings in willing partnership and to new insights into who we are. Once we begin the journey toward the authentic connections we long for, we cannot help but be profoundly changed, often in ways we did not expect but welcome wholeheartedly. A life lived in relationship with an animal has the power to make us both fully human and more fully humane. And this spills over, as a fullness of soul inevitably does, to other relationships, weaving its magic across our entire lives.

  This book is for those who also may have spent their youth considering the world from beneath the dining room table, for those who wished as desperately as I did for a tail to wag. It is also for those who never once licked a knee or barked at the pizza deliveryman. It is a book for those who would become fluent in Dog and other tongues, and for those who would learn for the first time these most eloquent of languages. It is for those whose hearts have been shaped and filled by animals now gone, and for those whose hearts have yet to be broken as only an animal can break them. Most of all, this book is for those who would journey through life with dogs and other animals as their fellow travelers, and in doing so, perhaps discover themselves.

  2

  A BLACK DOG’S PRAYERS

  With an eye made quiet by the power

  Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

  We see into the life of things.

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  I BELIEVE THAT I HAVE SEEN DOGS PRAYING to whatever gods dogs pray to, their prayers as silent but surely as heartfelt as our own. And this dog was praying for the leash to break. He did not strain against the tether that bound him to his owner but sat quietly as far away as the long tracking lead allowed. He sat with his back to us, a gleaming black stillness of dog against the lush green field. As he stared intently across the pasture and beyond, I had no doubts that should the leash break, his escape route was already plotted. The pasture fence that stood between him and freedom served more as a reminder than a meaningful barrier, meant to contain only content dogs who did not pray such prayers and my gentle, elderly horses, who obeyed even a thin string as a boundary. In my mind’s eye, this dog would clear the sagging wire fence with one effortless bound and be gone, a black arrow moving quickly away from us to somewhere more interesting. But his prayers went unanswered, and so he sat, the uninterested blankness of his back a clear message to us as we watched him.

  If dogs do pray, it may be that they pray as we do, for what we long for, for what we need, and for solutions to situations they can neither solve nor escape. Not all dog prayers are serious ones. My husband’s Golden Retriever, Molson, prays frequently and gleefully while we are cooking. As far as we can tell, she prays for us to drop entire cartons of eggs (which we sometimes do), to lose control of whatever is on the cutting board (which happens frequently), and for us to turn our attention away from fresh bread cooling on the counter (we are slow learners). Molson sometimes smiles in her sleep, and we suspect that she is remembering our wedding day, a day when her prayers were answered in a way that may well rank as one of the greatest moments of her life.

  The wedding cake had been carefully transported home to the farm, where we were to be married, and placed in the cool of the basement, an area unavailable to the dogs. The cake’s arrival and resting place did not escape Molson’s notice. Ever watchful, she waited for her opportunity amidst the chaos of preparations for an at-home wedding and reception. Inevitably, someone left a door open, and without drawing any attention to herself, Molson seized the moment and disappeared.

  I had finished bathing the horses so that they looked beautiful for their part in the ceremony, and as I stepped into the basement to put away the bucket and sponge, I was surprised to be greeted by Molson. The ecstatic look on her face was quickly explained by the mound of icing on her nose. Groaning with disbelief, I looked at the cake, which now read, “Congratulations Suzanne and—“ The entire corner of the cake with John’s name had been eaten. For a long superstitious moment, I stood wondering if this was an omen to be heeded or some form of canine commentary on our wedding plans. (Our guests, when served the mutilated cake, also ventured a few interpretations, but they nonetheless ate the cake without hesitation.) Never before or since have Molson’s food prayers been answered in such a spectacular way. But she continues to pray, and sometimes, the kitchen gods answer.

  Molson’s prayers are simple ones, easy to interpret. But this black dog’s prayers were complicated ones, filled with sorrow and anger and love and pain
. To step into a dog’s mind requires that you step into his paws and see the world through his eyes. To understand his prayers, you must look for what lights his entire being with joy, and look also for what dims that light. As I talked with Wendy, the dog’s owner; I was searching for an understanding of what might make a dog hold himself apart from us. He was clearly loved and cared for with meticulous attention—every inch of his body glowed with well-being, and there was no evidence of his past, when he wandered a city’s street, unloved and fend ing for himself. The intervening years of good food and love had polished this nameless street urchin into a handsome, funny and intelligent dog named Chance. And yet there he sat, removed from us, his mind distant and uninterested. Something had gone wrong; why else would a dog pray as he did for the leash to break so that he might gallop away?

  Any relationship is a complicated thing at best, springing as it does from an intersection of two lives; two sets of desires, interests and fears; two different perspectives and understandings of the shared world. In our relationships with animals, we find additional mysteries of other languages and cultures quite unlike our own. While the differences between us and animals both charm and attract, they also serve to complicate the whole affair. I am quite certain that every dog on earth goes to his grave mystified by certain human behaviors. My own dogs adore water in any form except that which is found in a bathtub accompanied by dog shampoo. As a result, they are very often wet, especially in the summer when their wading pool is constantly available to them. While on most nights I welcome the comfort of their warm bodies as I sleep, there is something less than delightful about snuggling up to hot, wet dogs. As I shoo them from bed for reasons they cannot comprehend, they throw themselves on the floor with dramatic sighs and expressions that reveal the truth of John Steinbeck’s comment, “I have seen a look in dogs’ eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that dogs think humans are nuts.”