Rose in a Storm (15 page)

Rose could hear from their hearts that one was dead, frozen to death in place, and the others were weakening.

They had to move.

Though she was exhausted herself, she lunged through the snow and threw herself on one of the cows’ haunches, biting. The cow bellowed and spun, and crashed into the other two, startling Brownie and the others, the three of them stampeding in a circle, through the snow, around the wreck of their shelter, overturning a frozen feeder with some hay stuck inside.

She charged again, nipping the smaller cow on the nose, drawing blood. She could hear their hearts racing, feel the blood moving through their bodies. Brownie was the first to see the overturned hay and trot over to it. Rose was too busy watching him to notice the cow behind her lift her heavy front hoof, then swing it rearward, crashing into the side of her head.

TEN

R
OSE LAY IN A BLACK FOG
,
HER HEAD SWIRLING
,
SPRAWLED ON
top of a mound of snow.

She had never been so completely cut off from the sensory tools by which she lived, and soon the pain of breathing heavily became nearly unbearable, her ribs hurt so badly. Her head ached from the blow of the cow’s hoof. She began kicking, then barking reflexively, more and more weakly, until she stopped completely.

She closed her eyes, breathed more slowly, and tried to understand what was happening to her. She could not comprehend the sea of black she seemed to be floating in, the blurred images in her head, the sound of her weakening heart, the dark cloud that had enveloped her.

Rose understood time only in terms of dark and light, of eating and the rhythms of the farm animals, of morning bird-song and the hoot of owls and the yipping of coyotes. Now she was totally disoriented, her markers and senses useless. The snow and ice had no smell, and she was much too disoriented to see anything but an inky blackness.

Rose did not panic. Feeling as if she were sinking deeper and deeper into the earth, her resistance turned to resignation.

Death was neither a good nor a bad thing, but a thing all of its own. She sensed death closing in on her, just as she had sensed it enveloping Katie.

She accepted death and dreamed of work, and went into a near trance—a place beyond feeling and fear. Rose did not know how long she lay still, too weak after a time to struggle, unable to move. She was conscious of thirst, of hunger.

She closed her eyes, images moving more slowly now through her mind—her siblings, her mother, the sheep, the farm, Sam. She began to dream. She saw sheep grazing, sheep moving. She smelled animals in the woods, buds on trees and flowers, the smell of lambs. She dreamt of heading off belligerent rams, of walking with the farmer out into the fields, of the sweet feeling of walking the sheep back into the barns and pastures at night, when the sun set, and the farmer closed the gate, and said, “Good job, girl,” almost to himself. How warm and good that sounded, and how relieved she felt to have gotten the sheep back safely, to be able to lie in the farmhouse with Sam, to close her eyes, to rest. She heard Sam calling to her, Katie talking to her, saw her own mother licking her fur.

She dreamt of being a pup, of bats squeaking, of bees in the hive, of worms in the ground, and then, a strange dream, a dream of the wild dog, a young dog, moving cows out of a barn, running and nipping and circling. He was a strong dog, confident, with so much energy.

Then she had an image of herself, far away.

The sheep had their heads lowered, settling into the pasture. She looked up, saw the sun beginning to set over the hill. She turned and ran around the flock, in a broad, loping outrun, her tail straight back, her fur blown back in the wind, the
sounds and smells of the meadow pouring into her in a stream. Then she turned back toward the sheep. Their heads came up, they turned and began to move back through the pasture, and she was right behind them, driving back and forth—dust, grass, mud in her face, pure joy in every limb and muscle.

After a long run, every last sheep and straggler through the open gate, she would sit down, long tongue hanging. If it was hot and there was a big tub of water, she would climb into it to cool down. She would stay by the gate until Sam came and closed it, which meant she was done. It was as good a feeling as she’d ever felt, and she clung to it now.

She began to feel a release, a letting-go of the pressures of work, of life, of the responsibility, of the worry, and even of the love. She was entering a different place, one with no time, no markings, nothing but rest.

Rose entered a space quieter than she had ever known.

She was on a sandy shore, in the shade of trees. It was cool, at the edge of a vast clear lake whose surface was so smooth she could not see a ripple. It felt like morning, just before the rise of the sun.

Across the lake, there were blue lights as far as she could see, countless lights. She swam across, and it was effortless, as if the water offered no resistance. She almost sailed to the other side, and there the lights enveloped her.

As she drew closer, she saw that the lights were the spirits of dogs. Some were sitting, others waiting, some crossing the water back to the other side. The lights were fluid, porous, disembodied, taking the forms of dogs, then lights, then dogs again.

She saw as she swam closer that the other side was filled with woods and meadows, and she heard barking and the songs of birds. Waiting for her on the shore were a female and
some puppies, and it wasn’t until she glided to the bank that she recognized them.

She saw her brothers and sisters, and with them her mother.

She was a beautiful dog, larger than Rose, with luminous brown eyes, black fur with a white blaze across the forehead, a pure border collie. She was calm, accepting, her tail wagging slightly at the sight of Rose. She was not demonstrative, just calm, loving, welcoming, pleased to see her daughter.

They touched noses, sniffed each other. Rose licked her quickly several times across the side of the nose. Her brothers and sisters were still puppies, and they knew her, and were excited, squirming and squealing and showering her with licks. They were as she had last seen them. And, perhaps, so was she. She didn’t know.

Perhaps for the first time in her life, Rose felt a measure of true rest and easiness. She had never imagined anything but work or responsibility, never thought of peace.

Around her, dogs entered the water and swam back and forth across the lake, in animal form on one side, sparkling lights and images on the other. Some were resting, others waiting to cross. They moved back and forth in a timeless pattern. It was almost painfully lovely and hypnotic to Rose. It was richer, more colorful, more nourishing than anything on the farm or in the woods, as much as she loved to run there.

After a few minutes, her mother shooed the puppies away and sat by Rose. The two of them lay down together, and rested quietly. Her mother shared images and feelings and experiences with her.

Rose showed her mother the cruel storm, Sam, Katie, the fear, the coyotes, the death and danger on the farm, in the blizzard, her sense of being overwhelmed and the stirring of
choice in her soul. And now, the black and icy fog that suffocated everything—sight, smell, sound, sense.

Rose sensed that her mother shared these images, although she did not offer sympathy or soothing. Rose did not expect it, or even quite grasp the idea. A dog’s purpose was to serve, learn, and share, not to comfort or direct. Their spirits were independent of one another, their lives and fates their own.

This was a waiting place, her mother made her understand, where the spirits of dogs came until they were called back. She herself had gone back and forth many times, and so would Rose. They would always meet here, as dogs that were connected to one another did.

It was time for Rose to go back, her mother communicated to her. It was the fate of a working dog—any dog—to be called to serve, and then called again and again. Rest was only temporary. This was a healing place, a place to replenish the spirit and the will, to provide strength and endurance for the harder life on the other side.

A place of reinvention.

Rose felt her mind grow clear, her will and purpose renewed, her instincts sharpened and strengthened.

After some time, her mother got up, touched Rose’s nose with her own, and vanished into the sea of blue shimmering, haunting lights that sparkled all around her. The puppies were gone with her.

There was no good-bye.

Rose turned and looked around her, at this beautiful and rich place, filled with smells and lights and sounds and colors—all of her senses engaged, yet peaceful. Then she slipped back into the lake, and glided, rather than swam, back to the other side. Rose sensed, up ahead, the farm and the raging storm waiting for her.

*   *   *

S
HE TRIED
to open her eyes, unsure of where she had been, or if she had really gone anywhere. Again she struggled to move, to breathe, but once more gave in to this strange state of resignation, of acceptance. She closed her eyes and all was black again.

Then she stirred.

Suddenly, Rose sensed movement above, felt pressure, heard braying, felt a soft muzzle on her nose. The ground seemed to move as she was pushed roughly to the side.

She was dizzy, confused. Her head was still ringing from the cow’s kick. Her ribs ached from landing on the snow, and she was wheezing, wet, every breath a struggle. She shook her head and began what seemed a long climb up and out of a deep hole.

She felt the nuzzle again. She heard a braying. She was being pushed, forced to get up. She opened her eyes and looked into the face of Carol, the donkey.

She and Carol had little to do with each other. Rose did not like donkeys or horses; they were too independent and flighty, and they returned the feeling. Carol had even kicked her once, just like this cow—and tried more times than that.

But now Carol was gentle, encouraging, much as Rose often was with Sam when he fell. The donkey’s message was clear. Get up. She had used her warm nose and hooves to move Rose, stir her.

Rose gradually came to her senses, and she slowly got to her feet, looking back toward the cows.

As she returned to full consciousness, she was suddenly back in the storm, on top of the mass of collapsed snow by the barn, trying to get her bearings, trying to grasp where she was, what had happened. But she couldn’t, not really. Images
streamed through her mind—Sam, the wild dog, the sheep, the storm, the ice, the cows and steers, the goats, Winston.

And then the image of the cows became clear. She turned to see how they were doing, and she heard their hearts beating, saw the steam coming from their noses. They were all right now.

The wild dog came out of the barn and sat behind her. He clambered over the snow, as if to lead her somewhere, and she followed, weakly.

He paused, turned to lick at her bleeding paws, to sniff at her, to push her along gently. She permitted this. He led her to the side of the barn, and through the opening. She followed him in, out of the worst of the wind and snow, and fell asleep on a bale of hay.

Rose did not wonder how Carol had come to walk through the snow and awaken her. Or why. It didn’t matter.

W
HEN
R
OSE
woke up later she was shaken, drained, startled by what she saw. It was now full daylight, and she was in the big barn. But she had no sense of how long she had been away from the house, in the snow, and then asleep. Every part of her was in pain, especially her sides, which ached with every breath.

It was still snowing, but more lightly now. The wind was quieter. Rose could feel the storm beginning to ebb for the moment, though she knew there was more coming. She could also sense life was still far from normal, for her or the rest of the animals on the farm and in the woods.

Snow had blown in through the sides of the barn. Two or three parts of the roof had collapsed, and debris was scattered across the floor. It was quiet, a dark jumble of machines, feed
bags, wet hay, droppings, even rotting eggs. The cold staved off some of the smell and decay. But while the barn was hardly warm, it was still protected from the worst of the wind and snow and ice outside.

It was, for now at least, a refuge for her, a place to regain her energy, prepare for what came next. There was also something close to gratitude, appreciation for the donkey that had somehow awakened her. The blackness had been closing in, and then, just as suddenly, there was light.

Now, she heard a sharp series of cracks from the barn walls—the pipes in the water heating coil system, used to ferry water in the winter, had burst. Just a trickle of water came out, and the animals settled again quickly. Against the cold and wind picking up just outside the barn, the noise seemed minor.

Things in the barn seemed different now. Rose felt the absence of animal movement, shifting, searching for food. It was quiet. Farm animals, especially sheep, were usually wary of Rose, but today there was the absence of fear. The animals—the chickens, the cats, and a cow that had squeezed in through the open door—were all looking at her, which was unusual. Her map seemed to sharpen.

Either she had changed, or all of the animals were reacting to her differently.

Rose had no real relationship with these animals—the cats, chickens, cows. Unlike sheep, they were more independent sorts and rarely needed to be herded or moved. Usually they seemed as confounded by her as she was by them. But here she was in this new reality, inside the barn in the middle of a raging storm with a mix of creatures who almost never would be found together in such close quarters.

It was strange, if not unprecedented, this curious gathering. How odd it would appear to Sam if he could see it. The different species of the farm coexisted, but they were always in their own predictable places, always with their own kind, steered there by some kind of self-awareness that was at the limit of Sam’s, and most people’s, understanding of animal consciousness.

Sam would have been amazed by a number of curious things. He would have seen Rose and the wild dog lying next to each other, licking each other’s wounds, cleaning each other’s fur, joined in a bond that only the two of them shared.