No. 51: A Farm Dog Doesn’t Want Your Toys

How a Canine Friend Changed Me as a Writer

The first thing that struck me about our dog is that she had no interest in toys.

It was two years ago that a Bernese Mountain puppy arrived to our farm and spent most of the day splashing in the mud, chasing baby goats, smashing frogs, and making such a mess of herself that we went full-irony and named her Lady.

Like most overachieving owners, we bought lots of toys, but Lady could have cared less. Either she ditched them in the mud or buried them in gravel or stepped over them like detritus.

This, a far cry from the only other dog I’ve had in my life — Douggie, the French bulldog, who I babysat for 11 years and was my faithful companion through every single one of my books. Douggie was a true city dog. He wore sweaters and onesies, greeted you with a toy in his mouth, and had his own personal backpack that he carried around with his snacks. If he ever got nervous or scared, he peed his pants.

A legend, Douggie was.

But not a farm dog.

Lady is two years old now and has yet to be on a leash. (The one time I tried, on a trip to the vet, she acted like I was trying to kill her and ripped the leash out of my hand, sprinting in the opposite direction before she hooked it on a tree branch, nearly breaking her neck in the process. We never tried again.)

Instead, from the moment we got her, we aimed to keep her as free-range as we could. Her diet was a bespoke raw-meat mixture. Every few nights, we had her sleep outside instead of in the house. On walks in the woods, we wouldn’t call her name if she went off exploring and let her take her time finding her way back. We gave her baths in the giant pond, encouraging her to swim and use it as a water source. Four months in, we could even leave her outside for nights a time, knowing she’d ration her food and find her way to water.

Two years later, the extent of Lady’s competence is awesome to behold. She potty-trained herself on the basis of the fact she prefers pooping in gravel and peeing in grass or snow. She loves company, but she’s also fine on her own. She goes for swims in the pond when she’s overheated or thirsty. On walks in the woods, she’ll tear off for 30 minutes at a time, chasing the scent of wild turkeys or a herd of deer. When new goats are born, she’ll rush around cleaning each one off, preventing any kids from dying prematurely.

Plus, the sheer power in her frame. She’s rock-solid muscle, a lean 95 pounds, from her daily sprints and jumps and swims, and on the odd occasion she’s been to the city, seeing her next to other dogs is the equivalent of watching an Olympic athlete next to an accountant.

There are also downsides to a farm dog.

A city dog wants to be cozied up inside, safe and at peace.

We tried this once with Lady — taking her to my apartment in the city, where we planned to leave her while we went to see the Beetlejuice sequel. My partner was sure this would work: the apartment was warm, comfortable, and we left her food and water.

I had a sinking feeling, though, so we paced the floor of our hallway a few times just in case she started trying to get out.

Which she did. First by throwing herself against the door repeatedly. Then realizing that by throwing herself against the door the lock would click. Which led to her throwing herself against the door while simultaneously slapping her paw on the lock — before serenely sashaying out the door, into the hallway, leaving behind food and comforts because a spacious high-rise apartment is her own version of hell. (We never saw the movie.)

It slowly became clear that in giving Lady the freedom to be a dog, she’d mastered the art of being one — which left a whole lot of empty space.

Yes, she could help with managing goats and herding cows and she loved her swims and forest jaunts… but we sensed there was something missing. A challenge. Something that would give her a wild life of her own, instead of one that revolved around us.

And so, a year later, on Thanksgiving, we dropped her off at a breeding ranch (“Sex camp!” I called it a little too enthusiastically), and picked her up three days later, after which she cried and collapsed on our floor in a state of melancholia for days. (Perhaps this should be the prescription for all species and maladies, I thought.)

Her pregnancy was a breeze.

Until the end, that is.

Last Thursday, my partner had the most important game of his career as a Varsity basketball coach — namely, the semifinals of the 100th anniversary tournament that his school hosts. (He’s actually Assistant Coach, but I refer to him as The Coach because a) I know his contributions and b) I am Lady Macbeth). This game was so important that it practically brought the whole town to a standstill.

Naturally, then, Lady decided to go into labor an hour before.

First sign was a discharge of alien-green liquid, which Chat GPT told me meant imminent birth — and which my partner argued was the mucus plug coming out, which meant we had another 24-48 hours.

He is the Farmer and Animal Whisperer, so in these situations and 99% of others, he is always right. I am essentially married to the human equivalent of a Hallmark Movie Hero, who I trust to save the day while I look glamorous and crack jokes.

Which meant we both went to the game, unworried. A friend watched Lady, while over at the high school, my partner’s team electrified the town with a double-overtime buzzer-beater that was so raucous and meaningful, I’ll have to do another diary entry just to make sense of it.

At 9:13pm, we were back in the house.

Still no change in Lady’s behavior. But judging from the sheer amount of green goo everywhere, I sensed something was very wrong. My partner had no such senses. “It’ll happen in the next couple days,” he breezed.

The next morning, Lady was panting relentlessly and covered in even more green slime.

That’s when my partner said: “Is it really that green?”

I stared at him. Then I remembered.

And if you’ve read my diary before, you’ll remember too.

HE’S GREEN COLORBLIND.

First, he thinks Wicked has no point because the witch isn’t green.

Now, he thinks the infernal reptilian goo on our pregnant dog is just… I don’t know what.

We called the vet.

Nineteen minutes later, Lady was in surgery.

And just in time — a puppy was trapped sideways in the birth canal and the placental sac had ruptured, hence the green goo. The vet thought the puppy was dead, but it perked to life the moment she touched it, and he, along with his four brothers and his sisters were saved.

* * * *

Lady has been an incredible mother so far.

Within two hours, she’d taught herself to nurse and warm them under her belly, requiring very little work of us, other than making sure she doesn’t step on or smother the little rugrats.

Even now, I’m writing this while my partner is at basketball practice (his team plays the finals in four hours) and I’m alone, with a view to Lady and the puppies at the foot of the bed.

At less than 2 years old, she’s young to be a mom. And yet with this new sense of urgent purpose, she’s become a heightened, fuller version of herself. When we take her outside, she’ll pee lightning quick and dash back to the house to check on the pups, instead of taking her usual morning swim or stroll up to the goat barn. When I feed her, she’s constantly abandoning her food bowl — unheard of before this — to chase any sound from the whelp pen. When she accidentally steps on or sits on a pup, she lets out her own gasp of shock and quickly rectifies the problem. She has order and structure to her day now. And when I look in her eyes, I see something a little more distant than I used to. Like she has bigger things on her mind than a lowly human to dote on.

Watching Lady has also given me greater purpose as a writer.

The act of creation is so marvelous that sometimes we overlook it, until confronted up close. Before Friday, there was no evidence that Lady had any clue she was about to have puppies. And yet, when they appeared to her, she knew exactly what to do. Life Force just spun its web and she’s been caught in it.

That’s what writing a book feels like too. You can outline all you like. But truth is, you don’t know what to do until you’re in the thick of it. A divine bolt of inspiration that pulls you into its own vortex, and if you can tame your ego and realize the idea is bigger than you are, then there’s great fun and growth in chasing it towards its end.

YOUNG WORLD was a glorious chase. But the hard part’s over. The rabbit caught.

And now I’m about to write a new book. Another big idea. One too big to fully hold in my head. Time to humble myself once more…

Day 1 of writing will be Tuesday. The day you’re probably reading this diary entry. Until then, I’m my own pregnant dog, everything building and building until the birth process starts. With less green goo, I hope.

Your turn.

What have you learned from an animal in your life? How should I feel starting this new book?

Until next week —