Animals Saved Me
by Richard Gilbert

First Place, Creative Nonfiction Prize

1994, Indiana

My aged Labrador Retriever is dying, and I’ve come into the garage this Saturday morning to check on her. Tess has been declining for some time—I can admit that now. She’s been sleeping more and moving stiffly. When she quit eating and took to bed, I couldn’t deny her aging any longer because, undeniably, her time itself had come. She’s not even whimpering, but animals don’t dwell: they deal. And so, intentionally or in effect, they hide their pain. Anyway, I can’t let her slowly starve or die of dehydration. It’s on my shoulders to call an end to Tess’s suffering, and I have. Our veterinarian will euthanize Tess on Monday.

Tess retreated a few days ago to her thick cushion out here in our quiet attached garage; her nest is beneath the wooden stairs into the house. “Hey, Tess,” I say, squatting to pet her. She raises her head an inch from her green canvas pillow, and tries to thrust her snout forward; her tail stirs but doesn’t thump. Flies lift from her rusty black coat. Flies have found her—though it’s still spring, barely May, not even June, and cool. Our vet thinks she has extensive, advanced cancer. She’s thirteen years and four months old, a good age for a Lab. But too early, of course, for me.

I hear a car crunching up our gravel driveway, and I raise the garage door to see my wife’s coworker Rebecca approaching in her soccer-mom van. She parks in the driveway and waves, and we walk together to our front door. Halfway up the gentle paved incline, she stops and says, “Oh! How’s Tess doing? Kathy said she’s sick.”

“Not good. She’s not even drinking now. She’s staying in the garage.” I gesture to the open bay.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“No. I mean, she’s dying, Beck. Tess is an old dog. Old for a big dog, anyway.” A sound stops me—Tess barking from the garage. Hearing my voice, she’s barking. She’s calling me even though I just left her—maybe because I said her name—and it’s a gut punch. She hears me and needs me.

“It’s okay, Tess! I’m right here.”

“So what are you going to do? Have her put down?” Rebecca’s tone and the intent way she’s peering at me make me uneasy. She’s searching my eyes, her own eyes bright and intense, her head tilted solicitously to one side, her expression pert and greedy as a monkey’s. Her avid curiosity feels unseemly.

“Yes. Monday. I want to spend some time with her today and tomorrow. Then that last trip to the vet’s—”

“I may have to do that with Glad,” Rebecca says, referring to her family’s Rottweiler.

Glad? What’s wrong with her?” I picture Glad: thick, doggy, strong as an ox—if not in the prime of her life, not far past its midpoint. She seems gentle with Rebecca’s three young children, and beloved by her oldest, Melissa. I’d never liked the looks of Rottweilers, probably influenced by their fierce roles in movies, but she’s like a big nonchalant hound and won me over.

“Yeah, she’s getting impatient with the kids. She could bite someone.”

“I guess you know your dog. But I’m surprised.”

“Anyway,” she continues, glancing across our flowerbed, the late daffodil varieties still blooming, “we need a smaller dog. Missy and I have been studying breeds. We really like the Cavalier King Charles spaniel.”

Rebecca once mentioned her childhood obsession with dogs and how she’d memorized every breed. I also recall her saying she’d had to euthanize their previous dog, just before they got Glad six or seven years ago; how she’d carefully researched a replacement, or maybe said she’d always wanted a Rottweiler, a breed on her childhood list. Something about her story had sounded odd then. Now I know.

I’ve loved an array of animals since boyhood and aspire to become a farmer—I keep laying hens, supply eggs to an organic store, raise and butcher broiler chickens, and sell some of the meat to neighbors; I’m trying to act professionally in my new realm, not overly sentimental even about pets. But I love dogs, and dogs, like horses, are essentially sacred animals in our culture. Dogs are also possessions, though: short of inflicting outrageous public cruelty on them, owners hold their lives in their hands. I know some animal rights activists might view me as equally callous, since they consider animal agriculture mass murder and liken pets to slaves. My contrary sense stems partly from humans’ coevolution with dogs, cats, chickens, and livestock. But it’s not history or logic that tells me in my bones they’re wrong—it’s love.

I hand off Rebecca to Kathy and walk down the sidewalk in the mild sunshine and into the dim garage where Tess waits. We’ve had a good run together, and sometime this weekend I plan to tell her so. I’ll thank her. The span of Tess’s life, I’m surprised to see, has taken me from late youth into early middle age. I recall what Mom said last Thanksgiving, watching Tess jerk herself across the family room: “Tess has gotten old. She doesn’t have much time.”

“Oh, she’s okay,” I’d said. “She has arthritis in her shoulders from playing Frisbee. I probably need to get her on an anti-inflammatory.”

Mom didn’t argue—she saw what I couldn’t see. As on one of her previous visits when she’d told me, “You’ll never put your heart into another place like you have this one,” and I’d just looked at her. I wonder now if she sensed that the passion Kathy and I were expressing in and around our home, in an outpouring of projects and purchases, carried a seed of restlessness.


I’ll learn, in the decades ahead, it will be easy enough to remember my happiest days: the six years we’ll live here in the white colonial-style faux farmhouse Kathy and I built on eight-and-a-half acres just over a mile from the cute downtown square of Bloomington, Indiana. A fortuitous alignment of hard work and lucky timing has taken us far. Not just materially but emotionally.

Our two kids, Claire and Tom, need me. I’m busy at the publishing house where I work, and I write a popular gardening column for the local newspaper, where once I’d been a star reporter. Kathy is ascending at Indiana University, already promoted from professor to department chair. The kids attend a new elementary school built on our road. I take them camping on our land, and we fish and swim in our own pond, an acre of blue water behind our dream house. (Tess, already eight years old when we moved here, in 1989, swims too, snorting with effort as she circles us as we wade, tread water, or glide in a canoe, and the kids laugh as I yell, “Look at that big old black water rat!”) Kathy and I have busy weeks and we race around, working and running errands; we discuss squeezing in a vacation; we’ve lost ourselves in our busy lives. In landscaping that echoes our starter house, I’ve placed a pin oak in front of our manse, to shade it from the western sun. A windbreak of pines we planted as seedlings now stands twelve feet tall in rows across our homestead’s western and northern borders, a green embrace.

We’d owned the land for several years before building, and we’d planted and planned. We had the pond dug. One day soon after our house was finished, I ordered Tess to sit before my orange tractor outside the garage and I took a photo, which I tucked into a thickening album labeled “The Farm.” Now every summer I grow a patch of vegetables, and, all around us, flowers. During our first summers here, two moments—of grace? consciousness?—sink into my soul. Holding Tom in a wooden rocking chair, I sing him bedtime lullabies, his warm heft in blue footie jammies soft against my chest, and I gaze out his window at the neighbor’s two horses grazing in the long Indiana dusk. Another night, on my way to my own bed, I step into Claire’s room beside her sleeping form and am riveted by the sight of the pond glowing in her double windows: lit silver by a full moon, the crescent of water shimmers as bursts of light flash across its luminescent surface.

Mom’s visits can turn tense, since she yearns to discipline Claire, our oldest child, whom she views as needing to be taken down a notch. A sore point with me, since I feel she was destructively harsh to me as a boy; her strategy of breaking her children, through whippings and shaming, seems at best superfluous when insecurity is already the human lot. Once, shortly after she’d arrived here from her home in Florida, I found her staring at Claire, who was prattling before her on a couch—Mom looked, with her coldly fixed green eyes and still pose, like a snake about to strike a clueless mouse—and I intervened with some distraction. In another decade, I’ll overhear Mom begin to analyze her mother with one of her siblings. How, when they were growing up in backwater Atoka, Oklahoma, during the Depression, she showed affection only to one of her ten children, the first, a cherished son. How she treated the others indifferently. And probably, based on how Mom raised me, disapprovingly. My clearest memory of Grandmother is of her examining me with her dark eyes as I sulked.

Our harmonics still clash—Mom gets huffy, I get prickly—but we possess affinities, too. I’m the only one of her four children who shares her affection for books and chickens. And a few years ago, as we drove in Bloomington, she bestowed a surprising blessing. “You’re a good father,” she told me. “All you boys are. You didn’t have a good example. Your Daddy wasn’t—he didn’t take the time. But you’re good fathers.” Mom, so tough, actually marveled.

Because I’m happy, her sketchy performance as a grandmother rolls off my back. I see now, so many years later, that my happiness is why I didn’t become angry at her in that incident with Claire. (Mom saw my happiness then, of course.) In another life, when I was unhappy but didn’t know that, either, Mom gave me Tess. When she remarked on Tess’s decline, I wonder if she remembered that bright spring day, thirteen years before. I wonder at my blindness—Tess was on her last legs. Mom had handed me a cue to see and affirm that simple truth. We might have lingered, and I might’ve told her all that Tess had meant to me. Except Tess’s story wasn’t over yet, not to me; I couldn’t even imagine it would end. When Mom comes, once or twice a year, it’s celebratory, and maybe I don’t want reality to intervene.

Cooking is how Mom expresses love. This phase of life and of my relationship with her becomes crystallized in one memory. I’m with her and my little family around our antique oak table, where we’d eaten her standing rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes. On this mild evening, overlooking our pond from our bay-windowed breakfast nook, Tess gnawing a bone nearby on the family room rug, our bellies full after Mom’s feast, we’re playing cards and laughing.


That Monday I drove to our veterinarian’s, looking blankly at trees, lawns, strip malls. Our vet walked out to the parking lot and I opened the rear door of our Mazda van. Tess lay in the luggage compartment where I’d placed her on a blanket. Her muzzle was white; her black coat was dull; her expression, always kind, was weary. The vet gave her a shot in a foreleg and the light fled her brown eyes. She went so fast.

I buried her on the far side of the pond in a grove of river birch, and planted a clump of daffodils in the raw dirt. Later, standing there, Claire, age eight, cries and Tom, five, looks pained. “Let’s make a cross,” I say, and we do. I assemble it in the basement, and there we paint it in rainbow colors: aqua sky, green trees, yellow flowers. I wonder about our Methodist church’s position on using this sacred symbol to honor a dog, and decide I don’t care. I must do something for the kids, from whom I hid Tess’s death and burial, thinking those would be too wrenching. (A mistake, in retrospect—Claire, as an adult, feels I cheated her out of a chance to say goodbye, which makes me realize I’d probably been trying to shield myself from her emotion.) Our graveside commemoration feels necessary, even profound, in honoring our feelings of gratitude and loss. As long as we live here, which I don’t know will be for only two more years, this colorful cross, screwed together from scrap boards, marks Tess’s grave.

With her death, for the first time in years I think of our first days together. I see myself as a young reporter in Florida, a skinny guy with hair like Elvis, cuddling his new puppy and beaming. When she’d run to me to give and receive love, Tess didn’t know to stop—I’d squat and call her, and get knocked on my butt, laughing, with Tess suddenly in my arms, licking my chin. Sometimes, at bedtime, I’d forget to put Tess in her crate before turning out the light and climbing into my own bed, and in the sudden darkness, the black puppy was like an iron cannonball streaking invisibly at my shins, coming hard and fast and low across my bedroom floor.

I regret my last photograph of her, in our family room here. Aiming the camera at Tom, I caught only her hindquarters in the background, accidentally, as she moved unnoticed out of the frame. As our children grew, Tess had moved to my periphery. She’d stood front and center with me for but a few years, finally shuffling to the edge of a stage grown larger than I’d dreamed possible. Increasingly, she’d lived more in Claire and Tom’s world than in mine. Their gentle panting overweight buddy. Seventy-two pounds of love. She was their first animal friend, and their first incomprehensible loss. My own stunned realization at Tess’s graveside: how fast not just canine but human lives pass. I’ll struggle to remember that insight, but what I know forever is that when you encounter an aged dog, you regard a walking vestige of someone’s former life. You see an old dream. Explaining to others the nature of that dream, let alone grasping it yourself, isn’t simple. I had a dog and then she died. There’s the basic plot, which lacks explanatory power. Knowing anything worthwhile about that event sequence takes knowing the meaning of “I” and “had” and “then.”

A dog’s death, like a human’s, throws you into the past’s jumbled narratives. Into considering a story’s beginning, middle, and end. You flash through phases, arriving at last where you stand. I was a young 26 when Tess entered my life, changing it; I was 39, a different man in different shoes, when she exited. Standing there beside Claire and Tom at Tess’s grave, I felt chastened and soberly aware, stilled for an instant in the onrush of time.


1983, Indiana

Kathy and I bought our first house, a tidy limestone ranch, 1,100 square feet, in an old development beside Bloomington’s bypass at the point where you could see, across the way, the football stadium. We’d briefly rented a log cabin on the edge of town, but this house felt permanent. A widow who’d built it with her husband had lived there alone once he passed, and then she’d died. Dusty spirea shrubs stood in a row along its back wall; the house’s picture window framed a lofty pin oak out front; hoary spinach-colored junipers sprawled along the blacktopped driveway.

Almost an acre of lawn sloped to the road, and I’d walk out past the oak with Tess, her tail raised and thrashing, and hurl a blue Frisbee toward a quince bush on our lot’s far corner. Tess ran flat-out away from me and caught the disk over her shoulder in a flying leap, like a wide receiver snagging a Hail Mary pass downfield. Somehow we’d worked out our timing. With the Frisbee captured in a decisive snap, she’d let her momentum carry her into an easy circling lope, her head nodding like a horse’s as she returned.

Every afternoon I drove my tan Mazda pickup an hour north to my job, on the night copy desk of the Indianapolis Star. A red and white Igloo lunch bucket jiggled on the seat beside me. I was learning the names of northern trees and shrubs. Weekends were for projects. Kathy and I rented a machine and blew shredded newspaper insulation into the house’s cramped attic. We rolled milky white paint onto its dry plaster walls—the bitter smell of latex paint still brings me back to that low ranch on Saville Street. The weather was clear and arid that August, autumnal; the baked clay soil cracked an inch wide in spots. Our first cat, Natalie, a gray tabby runaway who had adopted us, hunted the chipmunks that overran the yard. Inside, under the widow’s thick green wall-to-wall carpeting and its crumbling red waffled backing, we found hardwood floors; we staggered under the heavy rolls of carpet and padding, aiming for the bed of my truck. Everything was new each timeless sun-struck hour. Lingering in bed on a weekend, we felt the morning’s cool breath die in the hot blue windless afternoon.

If I want to see the face of young love, I have only to review photographs of us then. In almost every one, we’re embracing and grinning, or kissing. In our wedding picture that fall, taken by a friend of Kathy’s, we kneel in lush ryegrass I’d planted in the garden plot behind our house to enrich the soil. I’m between my wife and my dog, one arm around Kathy’s waist, over her red sweater, and the other draped over Tess’s glossy black shoulders. We’re smiling, and Tess, in this odd situation—summoned into the garden, told to sit with us facing a stranger—appears meek, abashed, lovable.

With Tess, we’d felt instantly like a family. I liked Kathy having her own relationship with Tess. It pleased me to see her kind interactions with my dog; though more reserved than I was, with my Frisbee, my commands, my jokey exhortations, Kathy had also become Tess’s master. In her brisk maternal way, it felt as if Kathy had adopted my child from a previous marriage. Which, in a sense, she had.


How well humans remember beginnings and endings. We can bookend an era easily, but middles blur, not shiny new, not dramatically or at least unmistakably over. I was 28 and Tess was two when we moved with Kathy to Bloomington. It felt as if my life had at last begun. Driving a U-Haul into that busy, prosperous town, I recall thinking The spinning threads of my being can wrap and hold fast here. That grandiose metaphor turned out to be true. But I struggled and failed to grasp the chasm between then and now—an eye blink before, I’d been a footloose journalist in Georgia and Florida, jumping to a bigger newspaper every year.

What I couldn’t see in this glorious new start, on an otherwise forgotten day in June 1983, was that Tess and I had entered our Middle Period. Which quickly became subsumed in a succession of momentous firsts with Kathy. When we bought the faded house on Saville Street, my only asset to contribute to its purchase was my name. Tess had already made her contribution, as my companion in courting this tall brunette with the big smile. Kathy took it from there. It being me. She took me from there. And if that sounds passive, I had gambled my future on her. Instead of returning to my good job on the Orlando Sentinel, after a fellowship year at Ohio State University where we’d met, here I stood beside her, with Tess. I’d followed her first to Carbondale, Illinois, where I’d worked for eight months on a little newspaper and bought my little truck, and then on to Bloomington. And though we hadn’t yet married, and I was broke, Kathy expressed her faith in me by having me co-sign our deed. I’m awed by this now, though it seemed only natural, if magnanimous, then. A sense of my humility lingers, part of my larger wonder that we’d become a couple. In my recollection, I left this unspoken. Maybe the past burns away such connective tissue from memory, like a dream that starts without preamble. But if I could go back in time, I’d order my younger self to take Kathy by the hands, look into her brown eyes, and pour out his love. She’d plucked me from oblivion. Maybe I knew then, as now, I’d end up bawling. I had written her letters and poems. Anyway, I possess photographic evidence of my devotion: all those hugs and kisses.

When I’d taken Kathy home from Carbondale to meet my parents for the first time, I’d gotten embarrassed in front of my mother by my constant displays of affection toward Kathy. I wasn’t just holding her hand—if my arm wasn’t gripping her waist, I was squeezing her shoulder or rubbing her back. “I can’t stop touching her,” I actually said to Mom in a shy mumble. “I know,” she said. “I’m afraid you’re going to grab me by mistake.” The story I prefer to tell about that historic visit involves Dad dragging out his prep-school yearbooks to show Kathy, and Mom sitting her down at the breakfast table to inquire about her family. Such major endorsements—they’d basically ignored, as politely as possible, previous women. During Mom’s friendly grilling of Kathy, I could see she identified with Kathy’s large, hard-working family, prominent in their farm town. Mom sat leaning forward and smiling, her compact frame and frosted blonde hairdo contrasting with Kathy’s height and loose brown hair. With Kathy nervous in the spotlight, I kept handing her bits of Mom’s famous oven toast, bread coated with butter and crisped to an explosive crunch. For years I joked that I’d fed Kathy eight pieces during her interrogation, until my exaggeration became our remembered truth.

Maybe astonishment at one’s unremarkable past is a facet of adulthood best left unremarked. Yet it does seem remarkable to me that the following year, now over thirty summers gone, we drove my subcompact pickup truck to Florida from Indiana to see my parents again. Visiting them, apparently, was what we’d do each summer. (No need to board Tess this time: she came with us, in the bed of my truck, under an aluminum topper.) Kathy’s parents had died young, and while I had no sense mine would ever pass away, I craved their knowing Kathy. I wanted to share our romance, I suppose, and to receive their blessing. Besides, though we had little free time, we had even less money, and visiting was cheap. So we left our limestone ranch on its rise and headed south. Upon reaching Georgia, we took back roads through the state’s western side, which eventually brought us to my favorite uncle’s home. After our overnight there, as we departed on the last leg of our trip, a drive of eight hours, my aunt handed us a dozen sandwiches, mostly meatloaf. Another endorsement of Kathy—an effusive one, though perishable.

As we followed our scenic route, we shared our bounty with Tess, handing her sandwiches, moist with mayonnaise and fragrant with onion, through the matching pair of sliding-glass windows in the truck’s cab and its topper.


Two years later, in May 1986, we drove home from the hospital with our newborn daughter. We got Claire inside just ahead of a violent thunderstorm. My five-foot-two mother, commanding our tiny kitchen, whipped up a late breakfast. Amid the aroma of buttermilk biscuits, Mom stirred spicy sausage gravy with a wooden spoon; our lunch of pinto beans with smoked ham hocks was already simmering. Tess stood below, hoping for spills.

Having left the Indianapolis Star’s night copy desk for more regular hours as a reporter in Bloomington, that winter I had time to hunt grouse with Tess. Cradling a heavy shotgun, I slogged through rough terrain for hour after hour, walking until my feet and hips burned, watching Tess quarter. During two hunting seasons, the only grouse we ever saw flushed out of range because I didn’t trust Tess’s nose—it had been too long since we’d chased birds. Head down, her snout buried in weeds, she sniffed frantically and her tense body ponged, her tail blurring in a furious lateral arc. She was making game! She was almost atop a bird! That became clear as a grouse rocketed away at 70 miles an hour, borne upon its own startling noise, the sound of a giant shuffling his deck of stiff cards.

I’d trained Tess to hunt, when she was a pup in Florida, by triggering and encouraging her instincts. First, I’d thrown training bumpers, tubes of white plastic, encouraging her to fetch, and later I tucked live homing pigeons in the grass to teach her to find birds. I taught her to swim in the brackish Indian River a block from where I was living, and started throwing her bumper into the water. I’d make her sit beside me as it splashed down, and then I’d thrust out a rigid hand and yell “Back!” The code in her DNA for hunting and retrieving exploded—how thrilling to see Tess hit the water in flying leaps after our plastic prey.

Four years before that grouse—ancient history—I’d shot a pheasant cock over Tess at my professor’s farm in Michigan; I’d packed him in ice and driven to Carbondale to cook him for Kathy. Even then, with my outdoorsy dream manifest, I suspected I’d rather raise and tend birds than thrash through freezing bogs trying to kill them. But there was the appeal of a working dog as a special sort of friend, a sentiment perhaps stemming from my most basic affinity, for animals themselves. This love dawned with my memory, on a farm in Georgia, and continued after my family moved to Florida. There I stood one night, at age nine, weeping and pleading for a dog before Dad. And after his assent, Mom found us one, a sullen beagle named Dolly, who refused to obey or learn tricks and who wouldn’t even lick me. Atop the dressers in my bedroom stood bubbling aquariums full of fish or pressed into silent service as terrariums for snakes I’d caught. “You’re really tuned in to animals,” Kathy once remarked, when I was raising a batch of ducklings for our pond. “You see what’s going on with them, what they need.”

“Animals,” she added, “were how you related to your parents. They were your bond. Animals saved you.” She referred to the affection Dad and I shared for his cattle in Georgia; to my blue parakeet Hattie, surely a gift from Mom, chattering in our farmhouse kitchen; to his and my laughter in Florida, years later, when Dolly’s grudging pleasure over getting belly rubs embarrassed her; to my adolescence when he got me some ducks. And how, after I hatched their eggs in an incubator in my bedroom, Mom taught me to supplement their mash with hard-boiled egg and bits of dry oatmeal.

Good memories, the usual, and then something earlier surfaced. Once, a flock of birds flew into the big windows of the Grants discount store in our Space Coast boomtown, Satellite Beach. They were sparrows or finches, dusky olive-brown with a slash of clear yellow on their upper breasts. Anyway that’s how I picture them, the scads of slight birds dotting the green concrete sidewalk. Maybe a storm had blown them in from the sea, just across Highway A1A from the store, and they’d veered into the lighted glass. Many were stunned, not dead. Mom saw that, darted into Grants, and bought a birdcage. We stuffed woozy birds inside, and took them home as pets. Soon we turned them loose, as they never settled down and, in our greed, we’d collected too many, but the incident amuses me. So earthy, so Mom. In front of Grants, a store selling parakeets and canaries, free birds!


Kathy delivered Tom on a blue and gold October morning in 1988. By then, photos of Claire often included Tess, who stood patiently as Claire stuck hats on her head or wrestled dresses over her hindquarters. A year after Tom’s arrival, we began building our dream house on the remnant of a forty-acre farm. Our little limestone ranch sold surprisingly fast, and the new owners wanted immediate possession. Kathy found a rental on the other side of the university, a board-and-batten cracker box with a fringe of brick façade below its picture window. Our temporary neighborhood was thick with other houses hard-used by generations of graduate students.

As we moved in, our nearest neighbors, two guys who had added onto their own modest house and heavily landscaped their yard, stared and turned away. Another messy family with bratty kids and a crazy dog, I imagined them thinking. Later, I saw one of them standing at the curb in front of our trash and recyclables, hands on hips, furiously shaking his head—apparently I’d placed our refuse on the wrong side of our driveway, too close to their property line. They favored Labradors themselves and owned two yellow males, the chunky show type. “Is she spayed?” one of them demanded over the fence about Tess. Their dogs were neutered, so the issue wasn’t relevant, just a judgment about our trashy dog and, by extension, our low-rent lives. They hustled their dogs inside whenever Tess entered our backyard.

Having a dog exposes you in the way having a child does. Or having a mate. Or relatives. Or anyone, really. You want your beloved to escape wobbles like the ones that shaped your own trajectory. You try to teach a pup or a kid; to support your partner; to get along with family members. But your bond makes you see others’ judgments about this entity orbiting you so closely. Vulnerability can hit with a pang. That’s just the fine print you hadn’t noticed about love.

In storage with most of our possessions was a painting of Tess, which today hangs on a walnut-paneled wall of our TV room in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. My older sister, Meg, commissioned the portrait from an artist and got Kathy to sneak some of my photographs. So many years later, I look up at Tess looking out, wearing her red nylon adolescent collar, her eyes alert and calmly concerned, her ears cocked to hear my wish. Under her painted gaze, I prepare to weatherproof her leash, a strap of brown leather, now 35 years old, with shallow scars and thin cracks in its dark surface. Only half an inch wide and a quarter-inch thick, its edges tapered and beveled round, the leash feels good to hold. I squeeze it lying limp and velvety in my palm. That first winter in Carbondale with Kathy, I pored over a small glossy catalog, debating lengths, widths, colors. I picked this six-footer made from a single piece of cowhide; instead of using steel pins to secure loops for a human hand at one end and for the collar snap at the other, its maker cut slits and cinched it back on itself and, above the snap, formed neat braids. I selected a matching leather collar, to replace the red one Tess had outgrown, and although the collar is long gone, her leash has served three successor dogs. Along its length I massage Montana Pitch Blend, a mellow amber goop of pine resin, mink oil, and beeswax, working extra into the slits and braids, which are stiffening. These strong, handsome links appear simple, yet defy my understanding—I’d never get it back together if I pulled apart its tight connections.

A few nights after treating Tess’s leash, I dreamed pit bulldogs circled me while I was out walking her. We were back in Indiana. But then Tess was gone, and alone on a muddy unpaved road, I struggled toward our white house, which in the distance appeared smaller, shaped differently, not quite in the same place. No pond glimmered behind it. I stood trembling on the dark wet road, unsure how to make my way home.


1981, Florida

“What about your choice of a retrieving breed? You didn’t ask me when you picked your wife. If you’re satisfied with that choice, you ought to be able to pick out a dog. If you didn’t do well in that choice, you should have learned something.”—Richard Wolters, Water Dog


You’re in an early, short, mistaken marriage. So is your wife. Not that you fight. Instead, you’re like two passive kids, equally burdened and blocked, who can’t help each other. Yet it surprises you that she can ignore such an adorable puppy that you, her husband, adore. You think a loving wife should embrace your dog and, ideally, also cut your hair. You don’t wonder if you’d embrace her cat, if she had one, which, thank God, she doesn’t. Does she?

Soon it’s time for you to leave for your fellowship year at Ohio State. You aren’t sure what your wife will do, but she comes too. You hadn’t imagined the challenge of renting a decent apartment near campus with a dog. You were a newspaper reporter, gainfully employed, but you’ve become a student with a dog. You visit squalid apartments and duplexes in scary neighborhoods. In a student ghetto, you find a decent two-bedroom, the end unit in a tired 1920s townhouse, its sooty bricks sucking light from the somber Yankee sky. Look, there’s a place on the corner to sell your blood plasma. You pay extra rent each month for Tess, and keep the place spotless.

Your wife leaves, returning once for a quick uncontested divorce in a downtown courtroom. Before ice narrows the Olentangy River, a few blocks from your apartment, you take Tess every afternoon to swim and fetch her Frisbee. The winter is long for a Florida boy, but you’re cozy, reading inside with Tess lying nearby on the stiff gray carpet. You aren’t just a broke divorced graduate student, his thick hair starting to thin, living in a threadbare apartment: you’re a guy with a great young dog who loves and needs you. Once, she growls at you when you take away her juicy steak bone, and you throw her down and yell into her face—teaching her humans have rights. Once, you playfully blow air at her with your new hair dryer, and when you’re at school she chews it apart—teaching you dogs have rights too.

In spring, you want to date a woman who is lecturing in your department while she writes her doctoral dissertation for the University of Michigan. You teach different sections of the same class, and trade handouts and ideas. But asking out Kathy scares you witless. You’re bad. She’s the first good woman, as you think of it, you haven’t run from—going all the way back to high school—though you won’t connect those dots for years. Having Tess, heedless of human shame, helps. Kathy pets her, though intimidated at first by her size—she’s a big dog, in Kathy’s eyes—and by Tess’s intense focus. After the first time you leave them alone together, Kathy admits her fear: “Sometimes Tess looks like she wants to eat me.”

“No,” you reply. “That’s love.”

Kathy plans to return to Ann Arbor before relocating, somewhere, for her first job as a professor; you plan to camp in your history professor’s farmhouse, south of Ann Arbor, and write freelance articles. And really, it’ll turn out, to see where Kathy goes. Meantime you’ll hunt pheasants with Tess, write a letter to Orvis asking to attend their wingshooting school for free so you can write about it (No thanks, comes the reply), read your professor’s old New Yorkers, and think about Kathy. She’ll accept a job, in southern Illinois. On the way to Carbondale, she’ll visit you at the farm and you’ll wander alfalfa fields together and watch Tess try to catch voles. You’ll laugh at Tess’s frantic, comically fruitless pursuit of the puny rodents. And you’ll laugh at her again that night when, smelling the bread Kathy bakes, she drools. Tess, at once goofy and comely, will seem to you the earthly embodiment of your deepening celestial love.

But first, to get you out of Columbus, your friend Bailey sells you a white Chevy Bel Air, a 1969 muscle car, and you cram its wide, gas-hungry body with your possessions. As you prepare to drive to Michigan, leaving your sedan idling at the curb, Tess prancing on its front seat, you walk into your landlord’s office. “Thank you for your tenancy,” he says. He promises to mail your damage deposit after he inspects. But he keeps the money, because he’s sleazy and because he can. That $300 constitutes most of your net worth; its loss stings far worse than your divorce—already hard to recall. In time, though, it will be as if he gave you a gift by stealing your nest egg because you’ll never forget the exact sum, which, like anyone’s remembered past, accrues interest.


I saw the film Tess in the Cineplex on Merritt Island, Florida, probably alone, late in the winter of 1981. That sense of flying solo strikes me today, as I was newly married, as does my naming a puppy after a young woman destroyed by male lust. While there’s precedent for men naming boats and horses and the like after women they find desirable, I recall feeling embarrassed when I told Mom, who’d just given me the puppy, where I got her name. To Mom’s credit, she merely nodded.

A year before, I’d given Mom and Dad a puppy. I hadn’t learned you should never surprise someone with an animal. I knew that in theory—a college girlfriend having once impulsively gotten me a puppy I made her return—but I hadn’t yet learned it. Or I believed in exceptions to the rule that you shouldn’t gift someone with an animal they hadn’t even asked for. Especially a puppy, whose housebreaking and socializing take time and effort, aside from any formal training. Yet I did it, did what my girlfriend had done to me. In 1980, newly returned to my home county in Florida from a newspaper in Georgia—back really because I was eager to share in Dad and Mom’s creation of their retirement home and nursery business—I enlisted the help of my siblings in purchasing for them a costly registered chocolate Labrador puppy from an unusually handsome field strain. Shortly afterward, Mom backed her car out of the garage and fatally squashed the pup as it ran up behind her.

But that’s not when I learned giving them a puppy had been a mistake. I learned that in spring 1981, just after my twenty-sixth birthday, when Mom gave me Tess. Awful timing. As a reporter, I put in long days. I’d applied for a year-long fellowship for journalists—way up north, at Ohio State—which the previous year I’d won but declined, and how would I go with a puppy if I got it again? I didn’t even know what I’d do with my wife if I got it. But Mom saw how desperately I wanted a Labrador—obviously why I’d given her and Dad one. So she made my dream come true by contacting a courtly family friend, George Moreland, who owned a quail-hunting plantation in southern Georgia near our old farm. She must’ve told him she needed help getting me a Lab from working stock. He drove Tess to their nursery in West Melbourne, and she called me that April morning. I drove down there fast from Cocoa Village. I recall how black the puppy looked on the emerald grass, and my and everyone’s joy.

Mister George raised pointers, not retrievers, although at big events he used Labs for fetching dead quail. I imagine a buddy owned, or helped him locate, Tess’s litter. Overwhelmed with getting a puppy, I asked no questions and got no information about the little female’s origins. No kennel name, no purebred’s registration papers, no date of birth. I started training her from books, a library with three books by Richard Wolters, who, breaking with tradition, advocated that their training start early in puppyhood. My yard was minuscule, so I walked her down to a park along the river. Our hazard there was fried chicken—bony scraps thrown into the grass by picnickers—and I had to run and take them from Tess. After four months, she was fetching trussed pigeons, unhappy but unharmed, from where I’d hidden them around Mom and Dad’s acreage. Finally, when Tess was barely five months old, I mailed in our entry fee for a field trial near Tallahassee. Such events reflect waterfowl hunters’ need for dogs that can mark fallen birds and retrieve them over long distances, while obeying hand signals if necessary, even while swimming, to find multiple birds or birds moved by currents. I had no idea how Tess would fare, never having seen another working retriever outside of my books, and I got worried. What most people want from a dog, I realized, was what I’d always enjoyed, a lovable couch slug.

What I was doing with Tess was different. Much harder, more absorbing, and electrifying when Tess took me with her on her jubilant retrieves. Together we were having new experiences, growing. “You needed to love something without constraint or fear,” my sister recalled when I asked her, years later, what she’d been trying to memorialize by giving me the painting of Tess. “No matter where you went or what you did with your life,” Meg added, “Tess didn’t demand explanations or make any real or veiled critique.” Meg’s carefully chosen words felt compassionate toward me but ripe with implication, themselves a veiled critique. I thought of our mother, who, when we were growing up, gave piercing looks and stinging whippings, spoke insults that stuck. You’re bad. Or at least that was my experience as her moody middle child, her difficult one, the kid who resisted her. Then, in late middle age and into old age, Mom stopped trying to dominate us and even started kissing us. She’d changed herself into someone much more loving. This wasn’t my mother of memory—unless, provoked, when she returned. After Kathy and I moved our family from Bloomington, amidst the initial wreckage of our new life in Ohio, I must’ve sounded too plaintive on the phone one evening. “You’re needy,” Mom said—a contemptuous slap. You’re bad. If I’m honest, my tone was pleading, for sympathy over what we’d done to ourselves. Years later, a therapist said, responding to this story, “People have needs.”

What is love? Acceptance, friendship’s bedrock—the degree of acceptance sets the depth of the relationship—also seems an essential element in love’s molten core. Acceptance affirms and encourages, and I crave it, the deeper the better. Dogs, of course, offer it totally. And part of that is they forgive your shortcomings. It’s not lack of awareness—they remember how you’ve hurt them accidentally in a stumble, and know if you’re the type who lashes out. All the same, offering their endless affection, they bestow bottomless acceptance. You’re good.


Stepping up Tess’s training underscored my inadequacies as an outdoorsman. I’d never even shot at a duck, let alone possessed the accessories of waterfowling’s ancient craft—the camouflage-netted green boat, the hardwood duck calls, the corded decoys, the long-barreled shotguns—but maybe I’d have to become a hunter—for Tess. Or maybe field trials would become our substitute for actual hunting. Imagine, then, Tess on her first retrieve before the field trial’s watching gallery, gathered at the edge of a cow pasture. Tess dashed out and grabbed the bumper. She spun and returned, her ears flying. Halfway to me, she stopped. Lowered her head. Dropped the bumper. Tucked a shoulder and flipped onto her back. And began rolling ecstatically atop the first manure patty she’d ever smelled. Laughter all around. Even I laughed—what could I do?—but my face burned. I’d warned Tess off Kentucky Fried Chicken, not cow flops.

“Your first retriever?” someone asked.

Many of the field trial Labs grew huge, the muscular males often exceeding 100 pounds—rangy, powerful dogs built to traverse North America’s big landscapes. They towered over Tess, one of the few puppies run that day, but I didn’t mind that she was little, growing toward an adult weight of maybe sixty pounds. It bugged me, however, that Tess wasn’t as pretty as the other dogs. I noticed her black coat’s brown cast, her sharp face. I imagined this was the price of being bred by quail-crazy Georgians more focused on their elite setters and pointers.

Tess did better that day retrieving from a big pond. She hit the water hard and swam fast toward the bumper. She went straight out, grabbed it, and paddled back. “She’s a game little thing,” an older man said. She was—Tess was game. Whatever else she was or wasn’t, from her unknown lineage in backwoods Georgia to my inept training in suburban Florida, I took those words as truth. Some people were criticizing trial dogs for having such high energy and strong prey drive that they lacked an “off switch”—too hyper and hard-headed. Tess seemed okay—my love for her prevented my fretting much on that score—though she’d whip around excitedly, examining faces for clues a fetch session was in the offing. Even inside, she ran instead of ambled; trained not to jump on people, she’d ram them when enthused. “Purebred dogs are hyper like that,” David Bailey, my friend and coworker at the Cocoa newspaper, observed one evening about Tess. She’s not, I almost cried. She’s a field trial dog! I felt a lonely, confusing distress, especially since a cruel consensus had apparently formed: my wife gasped out in response, leaning forward while shaking her head and waving her hands in helpless mirth, “She’s dumb.”

Later, preparing to leave together for my fellowship in Ohio, my wife and I were also clearly breaking up. “Maybe we should have a baby,” she said. In a confused last-ditch way, she’d been trying harder to connect. “God no,” I said. “That’d be a disaster.” I’d married her only because she’d wanted to, the first woman who had wanted me permanently. I didn’t ask myself whether I wanted her forever. Or, honestly, at all. Looking back, I never knew her. A middle child too, she didn’t speak of her childhood either—except to mention that, as an infant, she’d stared silently for so long at her parents they’d had a doctor examine her. Her parents had come to our house shortly before our wedding, traveling from Texas to meet me and my parents. Her father, a corporate executive with a beet-red face from high blood pressure, told me that a reporter from the Wall Street Journal had showed up to cover a colleague’s retirement unshaven and wearing a tee shirt. I could hear Tess breathing hard against the door of our bedroom, where I’d sequestered her, and I thought, At least they covered his damn retirement. Her mother said almost nothing but—wordlessly staring herself—seemed both distant and overbearing. “She’s a real bitch,” Mom said later, giving me a piercing look. After they left, my wife told me they’d vetoed our notion of getting married outdoors at my parents’ nursery.

I have no photographs of that long-ago wife, but I possess one she probably took of me and Tess at the field trial, sitting beside each other on the pond’s bank, waiting our turn. Just before I sent her on her scored water retrieve, we’re intently focused. She’s on my left and sitting staunchly. Just in case, I’m holding her red collar. Her chest juts forward and her entire bowed body radiates energy. So does mine. We look out as one, our heads thrust toward the water, thick as thieves, tight as ticks, a team. Buddies. Partners.


Before she died, Mom let it slip that my first wife used to filch cash from Dad’s wallet. When she told me, my father long dead, I felt shame for what she and Dad had discovered—shame compounded by my assumption Mom had informed my sister back then. She hadn’t, Meg told me. Thankfully I’d usually gone to their nursery just with Tess. I’d trained her to find birds there with homing pigeons I’d borrowed from their neighbor, my friend Joe.

Mom loved Joe too, and Dad was jealous of our relationship with him. One evening before I left for Ohio, Dad frowned when I defended Joe’s dog he’d accused of chasing his ducks. Joe also kept ducks and chickens, so I considered it unlikely his dog killed poultry. I’ve since revised my opinion, having learned how situational a dog’s behavior can be. Anyway, Dad’s dismissive response addressed something else. Apparently repeating a saying, which I’d never heard but instantly got—and just as instantly resented—he said, apropos of my defense of my friend’s dog, “Love me, love my dog.”

Isn’t that really the issue here? Isn’t it always? Isn’t any story, told long enough, about love or a cry for love? Kathy was right, animals saved me. They gave beauty, emotional comfort, and a bridge into human relationships long before I realized the depth of my shame or blamed it on Mom. Before I realized that she’d been repeating her own mother’s example. Before I factored in my distant father’s effect on both of us. Before I’d made some of Mom’s mistakes as a parent myself, and added my own. Before I’d learned that I cannot separate my insecurity from my intrinsic nature. So lately, when I recall their silence, when I grieve what now seems my loneliness within that lonely family around the TV—surely not as forlorn as in my memory, but  awfully quiet—I try to see that my parents were doing the best they could amidst their own suffering. “They talk about ‘dysfunctional’ families,” Mom once protested, out of the blue, during the go-big 1980s. “Every family is dysfunctional.” Which goes too far, unless Mom meant that no one gets exactly what she needs. But it’s true we existed in the broad flood plain between Happy Hills and Raging River. You hiked out early, if you had sense.

At the late start of my expedition, Mom gave me a dog. Tess, the best birthday gift a mother ever gave her son, was love.Asics footwear | Air Jordan Release Dates 2021 + 2022 Updated , Ietp

How Not to Not Be Funny

Ryan Kriger

You can’t teach funny.

I wish I could. But humor is such an intuitive thing, so reliant on an appreciation of language, on lyricism, on timing, observation, and drawing abstract connections. You’re either funny or you’re not.

This is an essay on incorporating humor into writing. Not writing comedy or comedic pieces – that’s a whole different animal. I’m talking about straight prose, whether it’s genre fiction, literary, memoir – hell, it could be a cookbook – and making people chuckle while they read it. Making your reader sit back and say, “Oh, I see what she did there. That was good.”

This is not quite a how to, because see point one. It’s more a meditation on what works and what doesn’t. Except it’s less pompous than that (a meditation? Seriously. What? No.)

The first question the writer must ask herself then, is,

“Am I funny?”

If the answer is “No,” then maybe stop reading this. I’m not sure what you’ll get out of it. Go read about use of metaphor or deduplication or alliteration or something.

If you’re not sure whether or not you’re funny, here’s a quick test: Has anyone ever described you as “funny?” It likely would have happened shortly after you did something which caused someone else to laugh, to which that person said words to the effect of, “You’re funny.”[1]

If they did say that, were they being sarcastic?  If you’re not sure, they probably were. And if they weren’t, congratulations, you’re funny.

Because the thing about funny is, it really is entirely reliant on the opinion of a third-person. Inner strength is valuable but on this issue we really are seeking external validation. Maybe you make yourself laugh, and that’s great. Life is absurd and cruel and in the end we’re all dead, and if you can’t laugh at that it’s a sad, sad existence just floating through space on this wet little ball, waiting for the sun to go out. So, I hope you can find some iota of humor in it.

But if you can’t make other people find humor in it, you’re not funny.

So, you’re funny! Congratulations.

Maybe you’re ugly, maybe you’re lonely, maybe you’re sick, but at least you can make people laugh. That’s something. Right?


Right. Yes, take solace in the fact that you are able to find the right combination of words and you can present them in such a way that the listener must, involuntarily, unexpectedly, laugh. It’s like crafting a magic spell.  Words are uttered. Result: laughter. Existence altered.

And that is the key to humor: it’s unexpected. You cannot have humor without surprise.

Is it possible to categorize the different types of humor?  I suppose so, but it sounds like a dreary and humorless task. A time waster. Pointless.

Let us consider a few categories of humor – ones you are likely to run into in prose. At least, the ones I can think of.

There’s the unexpected twist; the misdirect. Where the passage zigs when it should have zagged.  AKA, the joke.  There’s a setup – a building narrative that leads the reader in a certain direction, and a punchline: the unexpected conclusion.

“He’s stuck out there. He thinks he’s totally alone and that we all gave up on him. What kind of effect does that have on a man’s psychology?” He turned back to Venkat. “I wonder what he’s thinking right now.”

LOG ENTRY: SOL 61 How come Aquaman can control whales? They’re mammals! Makes no sense.

― Andy Weir, The Martian

There’s absurdity. A situation, an image, a moment that is so strange that it elicits a laugh.

It was a bright, defrosted, pussy willow day at the onset of spring, and the newlyweds were driving cross-country in a large roast turkey.

― Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

There’s the clever observation – the connection that you never thought of before. The conclusion that is obvious in hindsight but shocking when first encountered.

Vietnam was a country where America was trying to make people stop being communists by dropping things on them from airplanes.

― Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

Similarly, there’s the witty aside. The transposition.

I don’t like novels that end happily. They depress me so much.

― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

Some words are just funny. The old vaudeville trope is that words with a hard “K” are inherently funny.

Rancho Cucamonga.


Lake Titicaca.



Names and places that defy expectations fall into this category as well. The cutesy name for the nasty beast. Basing a post-apocalyptic zombie horror story in Lake Placid or Carmel-by-the-Sea, or Shelburne.

They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

[…] Hagrid dropped the teapot

“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said.

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone[2]

There’s the sentence that starts out seriously enough, but just kind of spins off in a weird direction by degrees and finds itself taking the reader down the garden path until the original thought is lost and at some point you start to wonder if it’s going to wrap up but you’ve traveled this far and now you’re kind of curious to see how it’s going to end, whether there will be a payoff or if it will just trickle off, until you find yourself looking at your watch and remembering that you really have things to do, errands to run, and when’s the last time you spoke to your oldest friend from High School, seems like it’s been a while hasn’t it…

Yes, it has.

[Rambling sentence removed for length, but it really was a funny one let me tell you as it had this really interesting bit in the middle where it, wait… you know what? No.]

  • [Well Known Author], [Also Well Known Work of Literature] 

Pig in a Blanket by Camden Yandel

Then, there are things that are not funny.

Explaining the joke is never funny. If the reader did not laugh, no amount of exposition is going to bring them around. Then again, it’s hard to know during the writing process that the reader isn’t going to laugh, so maybe that’s not one to worry about.

Trying too hard is not funny. If it’s an explicitly humorous piece, the funny bits will either land or they won’t. And if it’s not explicitly humorous, and the writer is clearly trying to make the reader laugh, it will seem desperate. And desperation is not funny.

Unless that’s your schtick. In which case it might be. Because there really are no clearly defined rules.

Doing something humorous, and then standing aside and going, “Eh? Eh? That was pretty funny right?” Is not funny. You should never try to draw attention to the humor.

The great thing about humorous writing is, if you play it deadpan, if you just leave the joke there without drawing too much attention to it, then it’s a win-win.  If the joke lands, the reader thinks you’re funny.  If the reader never notices the joke, then they don’t think you’re unfunny, they simply didn’t realize you were going for humor.

It is only when you explicitly try to be funny, and fail, that you find yourself out on a proverbial limb without a paddle.

As it happens, some of the same rules that apply to writing, generally also apply to humor. For example, avoid excess verbiage. Get the funny across with the minimal amount of words to get at the funny. Some folks believe that a good joke is one that’s drawn out as much as possible, so when the punchline finally arrives, it feels earned.

It’s not. That’s stupid.

Callbacks are funny. But in literature that’s simply called a recurring theme.

Recurring themes are funny.

If you can take the funny bits and make them relevant to the theme of the book, such that you wend the humor, the subtext, the symbolism and all the other elements together into a luxuriant pastiche that blends together like a lovingly made lasagna after it’s been reheated three days later, then you have achieved your goal.

Because remember, the goal was never simply to be funny. Humor is just one of many tools in the writer’s toolbox, and funny for funny’s sake is nice, but if it doesn’t contribute to what you’re trying to accomplish with your writing, then you have just incorporated a distraction, not a contribution.

Now, go forth, and reheat that lasagna.

[1] If these words were uttered shortly after a pratfall, or a successful impersonation of Robert DeNiro, or perhaps you attempted to sip from a rum and coke but got the straw lodged in your nostril and then in attempting to remove the straw from your nostril you somehow got the lime wedge wedged in your ear, then yes you may be funny. But you are not the type of funny that is relevant to this essay. We are specifically, explicitly talking about word funny here. A predilection for a clever turn of phrase, and that sort of thing.
[2] Or Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, if you want to be all British about it, or snooty, or both.

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Raw Milk

Judith Hertog

I don’t know why I continue buying my groceries at Price Chopper. Of course it makes me feel bad: those flat harsh neon lights, the long aisles of cheap overabundance, the bland preprogrammed music, the complete absence of beauty. Even the name itself—Price Chopper—hurts me with its crude brutality.  But I go anyway. Every week I drive the seven miles to the commercial strip at highway-exit 20, and, with a long shopping list in hand, I make my way through those disturbingly familiar aisles.

Occasionally—every other week or so—my consumer conscience feels so soiled that I need to cleanse it by going to the co-op, the cooperative grocery store where the civilized people shop and where you can get organic strawberries in mid-December. But I always feel a bit cheated when my groceries are rung up and I realize that for the price of some fair-trade coffee and whole-wheat bread, I could have bought two days’ worth of groceries at Price Chopper.

The co-op is the place to meet neighbors and colleagues, and complain about how busy we all are and how we should get together sometime when we’re less swamped, which we all know will never happen. At Price Chopper, meanwhile, I’m in the company of the working people of America. I never know whom to side with, so I alternate between the co-op and Price Chopper and feel uncomfortable at both.

My greatest worry is that Beth, the organic farmer farther down the road from our house, will find me out. When I come home from Price Chopper I always drive through the East side of town to avoid passing her farm. I’m afraid she’ll be standing outside, wave me down for a chat, and then recognize the scent of plastic and preservatives wafting from my shopping bags. Once, when she found a plastic egg-container among the cartons that I brought to the farm for recycling, she called me back and made me take it away. “I don’t want to see any plastic at my farm,” she said sternly, and I think that’s when she started suspecting that I go to Price Chopper. I’ve been visiting her less and less.

When I stand by the dairy cooler at Price Chopper, paralyzed by that wall of milk containers, I always imagine Beth watching me. She has stomped a trail of mud and manure on the sterile floor and stands there in her dirty coveralls, straw sticking out of her uncombed gray hair, the large calloused hands planted on her hips, shaking her head and clucking in disapproval.


I’ve known Beth since we moved to this little Vermont town four years ago, when Gil got a job as a professor at the nearby college, where I now work too.

This is the first time we own our own house and have real jobs. After years of traveling and bumming along as students, it felt like an exciting new adventure to become professional grown-ups, earning real money. Gil’s job came with life insurance, childcare benefits, a retirement fund, and occasional departmental dinner parties at fine restaurants. Mine came with bi-weekly meetings and an office with a view of the trash-bin of the next-door church. At first my new life felt deeply satisfying: I had a little role of my own in society and I was providing for myself and my family. I had joined the ranks of the good, hard-working professionals of the world and now had purpose and legitimacy. Even now I get a little thrill out of saying “my job,” or “I’ve got to go to work.” But legitimacy comes with certain stipulations: you can’t come to work in clothes that look as if they’re from the Goodwill store, you can’t arrive in a car held together by duct-tape, and you’re supposed to have a house that is appropriate for inviting colleagues to dinner parties. And when you have the things you once didn’t even know you needed—the house, the cars, the washing machine, the walk-in closet—and you have the money for your children’s karate lessons, health insurance, and dental treatments, you become terrified you might lose it all.

The college where we work is one of those places that attracts students who expect to become leading national politicians or CEO’s at multi-billion-dollar corporations, students whose grandfathers founded the fraternities they belong to. And all this status and ambition is oddly placed in a wilderness of forests and mountains, in a region dotted with tiny farming towns that have been in decline since the collapse of the American wool industry in the late 19th century. The college’s wealth has been spreading out over the land like an oil spill. Retired alumni and people from the big cities have moved here because, for the price of an apartment in Manhattan or Boston, they can build a palace on a mountain top, own a 50-acre private forest, and run their business via satellite internet. Most of the descendants of the original farmers have sold their houses to newcomers and have moved to towns where the property value isn’t as inflated. Only a few stubborn “old-timers” are still hanging in, scoffing at the mansions they’re now surrounded by.


I feel affinity for this land because I imagine it must be as perplexed by all the people moving onto it and changing it according to their needs, as I am befuddled being here. I never had a clear plan for my life. I had vague visions of myself as a journalist traveling the world, a documentary photographer, or a heroic fighter for just causes. I never imagined living in a small town in Vermont with my husband and children. Suddenly I find I can no longer pretend I’m on my way to a glorious future; this is my life.


Beth’s farm was the attraction that persuaded us to buy the house. As impressionable, inexperienced buyers we paid more attention to the view down the road, the wrap-around porch, and the chickadees and cardinals at the birdfeeder than to the soundness of the foundation and the insulation of the windows. As we were on our way back from the open house and had to stop our car to let Beth cross the road with a struggling calf, we made up our minds. I imagined how my city friends would feel twinges of envious disbelief when I’d tell them that “I’ve just come back from the farm down the road to get eggs,” and I imagined my children fondly looking back at a childhood of petting piglets and milking cows.

Although I imagined Beth’s farm as a fixture in the landscape, she had, in fact, just moved in a few months before us. The renovated old farmhouse had first been rented to business students from the college’s MBA program. But the family who’d bought the property, along with their house on a hilltop and the surrounding forests, had liked the idea of sponsoring an organic farm and leased it to Beth at a discount in return for a supply of organic produce and handmade cheeses.

So now, while the town is being overrun by urban professionals who are lobbying for town-wide broadband access, Beth is trying to reverse time. She has reinstalled the 19th century copper plumbing, has disconnected the central heating system to replace it with a woodstove, and uses the color-coordinated bathrooms to store farm equipment and bins filled with sauerkraut. I often see her drive by my house on her vintage tractor, perched solemnly on the saddle, pulling a towering stack of hay bales that balance dangerously on a cart behind the tractor. She won’t see me waving from my office window, because she needs all her attention to fight the wobbly steering wheel.

Occasionally she has young helpers who drift to the farm for various reasons: idealistic young people who are training to start their own farms and live off the grid; college kids who are trying to figure out what to do with their lives; and difficult teenagers who have exhausted their parents’ tolerance. Beth rules them all with an iron hand and makes them toil, weeding the vegetable plots, kneading dough, and milking cows at the break of day. On summer nights, driving past the farm after having attended a board meeting at Miki’s daycare or having picked up Dina from a play-date, I sometimes see them all sitting around the bonfire, drinking homebrewed beer and eating sourdough bread with freshly churned butter. I feel a pang of envy when I see the sparks flying up into the evening sky and the dark silhouettes outlined against the flames.

I make an effort to befriend those barefoot kids with their dreadlocks and clothes that smell of sweat and cow shit—I want them to know I’m not all that different from them, just a bit older. But they come and go too fast for me to remember their names. When you’re eighteen, time moves along a different scale: six months is a brief eternity, while for me it’s how long it takes to finally replace the depleted batteries in the smoke detector. As soon as her young helpers are gone, Beth usually finds some fault in them that makes their departure sound like a relief:

“Louisa… yeah, she went off to college. She wasn’t much of a help anyway,” says Beth while pressing freshly minced pork into sausage skins.

“Matthew,” she says, rolling her eyes, “he was so overprotected!”

Few escape Beth’s judgments. Even the people who support the farm by buying Beth’s produce and cheeses don’t satisfy her.

“Look at them,” she says and points with her chin at the people who park their station wagons along the road to grab a bunch of collard greens from the farm stand, “Always rushing, to and from their jobs!” I admire the fierceness of Beth’s judgments and her commitment to doing what’s right. I don’t have the courage to judge anyone; I’m afraid they’ll judge me in return.


For a while I thought I was exempt from her judgment. For the first two years that we lived here I visited the farm almost every day. In the afternoons, after I had picked up Dina and Miki from daycare, I’d walk them to the farm—I’d never drive. Rain or shine, we’d go. I had to show Beth that I was serious about exposing my children to farm life. So in 20-degree weather I’d pack Dina and Miki into snowsuits, snow boots, hats, scarves, and mittens, and we’d head to the farm, walking until their faces were so frozen that they could no longer open their mouths to complain of the cold. I’d defrost them by Beth’s woodstove, and she’d offer us chocolates or cheese. When she wasn’t busy she’d invite us into the backroom, where a sagging couch stood beside a small woodstove and where Beth kept her books and her FM radio on which she listens to the weekly Metropolitan Opera broadcast. She’d serve us strong tea in cracked mismatched china and splash fresh cream in it. Then she’d update me on the happenings at the farm—the pregnant cow who still hadn’t given birth; the chickens’ satisfaction with their new coop; the plans for the new clay oven… Or I’d ask her about town politics—about the accusations that the police chief was too authoritarian or about the council’s passionate debates on whether or not to restore the bandstand on the town green. I didn’t know who was wrong or right (to me everyone’s opinion always seems perfectly plausible from their point of view) but I counted on Beth to be outraged by what someone had said or done.

“People these days just think they’ve got it all coming to them,” Beth said, shaking her head in disapproval at modernity.

I didn’t know enough about town politics to understand whom that remark was aimed at, but I didn’t want her to think of me as spoiled. I’ve never understood which past it is in Beth’s mind that the present doesn’t measure up to—Vermont in the 1920s? Early 19th century rural America? Her childhood in the 1950s?—but I want her to approve of me.


One day when we arrived at the farm Dina pointed at two halves of a frozen pork carcass hanging from the big oak tree in front of the farm, “Hey, that must be Linda!” she said. Linda was a sick little piglet that Beth had adopted from another farm. Already the previous summer, when Beth let Dina hold Linda’s milk bottle and the eager little piglet pulled impatiently at the nipple, it was clear that Linda would end up in the freezer.

Dina walked up to the oak tree and studied the carcass attentively.

“Is that her belly?” she asked and pointed at the empty cavity from which the organs had been removed. I was immensely proud of Dina’s stoicism, as she stood there beneath the frozen pork carcass, unblinkingly facing the facts of life, only five years old, but more at ease with mortality and impermanence than most adults. She didn’t need to dress up reality with sentimental stories and children’s books’ piggies: here was Linda hanging from a tree, ready to be turned into sausage, and Dina was studying pig anatomy. This was a child who lived up to Beth’s expectations!

But then I ruined the scene by taking a picture. I often take along my camera on my walks. I email pictures of my life to friends in other parts of the world to have them share in my wonder at being here. I hid my camera in my pocket when Beth came out. I know she thinks life must be lived, not photographed.


The farm is very popular with parents of young children: people who grew up in cities and still can’t get over the fact that, unlike themselves, their children know real cows and real pigs before they see them in picture books. The farm gets especially busy around holidays, when the townspeople have their relatives over from the big cities and send them to the farm to impress them with a peek at real country life.

One Easter weekend a shiny SUV with a New Jersey license plate turned into Beth’s driveway. Out of the car stepped a woman who looked as if she had never set foot on unpaved ground, and a little girl in a ridiculously clean dress. As they maneuvered between the puddles, trying to keep their shoes clean, I imagined Beth watching from the kitchen window in contempt.

When they reached the pen with the two little orphan piglets who were letting themselves be petted by Dina and Miki, the mother nervously placed her hand on the little girl’s shoulder.

“Aren’t they cute?” the mother said, watching the piglets suck on Dina and Miki’s fingers. Immediately Beth stood beside us, her arms sternly crossed over her chest.

“If you think these are cute, eat them!” she cut in. “I’m sick and tired of people who pet cute little farm animals and then buy factory meat at the supermarket.”

“Do you know what they do to these cute little animals?” she asked the little girl, kneeling down to pick up one of the squealing piglets and holding it near the girl’s face. “They lock them up in little cages. They cut off their tails, and before these poor animals ever see real sunlight, they turn them into bacon and pork chops.” The mother, unprepared for such rural directness, withdrew into a bland, impenetrable smile: she always buys certified organic!

But I know the remark wasn’t directed at her. It was for me. I’m the one who lets her kids pet little piglets and then shops at Price Chopper. Beth knows.


Beth must also know that when I made a stew out of a chunk of beef she gave me from her freezer, I defiled it by adding factory-farmed Price Chopper carrots and onions. I always feel her watching over my shoulder, snorting in contempt at all my wrong choices. So, as I imagine her standing behind me at the milk cooler in Price Chopper, I try to placate her by choosing the heavy glass bottles from the local creamery, which Price Chopper sells to advertise its support of local businesses. They are unwieldy, heavy bottles that strain our refrigerator shelf, and that, when empty, need to be hauled back to a supermarket to be returned for the deposit. Our porch is lined with empty bottles, in which the residue milk has turned green and sprouted colonies of fuzzy fungi. I shudder at the thought that those bottles may be reused for our next portion of milk.

When I get home from the store and Gil helps me carry in groceries, I always see a flicker of annoyance in his eyes when I unload two or three heavy glass bottles, which, when you clang them together carelessly, break and spill their contents all over the kitchen floor.  He doesn’t ask me why I insist on buying the glass bottles—there are so many other things I do that don’t make sense to him, and in a marriage one must compromise—but I know he prefers those convenient 1-gallon containers of Price Chopper milk that never spoils. He doesn’t realize the milk from the local creamery is my secret compromise.

Beth has unprocessed, fresh milk from cows I personally know, ready at her farm, just a ten-minute walk from my house.

“These kids need real milk. Not that watered-down crap that they call ‘milk’ in the stores,” Beth would say when I still came by on my daily walk with the kids. “I want you to read something about the importance of natural foods and fresh milk for small children. I’ll give it to you next time.” I’d nod enthusiastically and hope she’d forget because my children don’t like the taste of raw milk, and Gil frowned every time he saw Beth’s creamy yellow milk in the fridge. He doesn’t believe in the timeless continuity of farming traditions and the superiority of natural foods. He says people used to die of unpasteurized milk. So I’d try to drink the half-gallon of farm milk all by myself every week. I love the taste of fresh milk, but Beth’s milk had a bad aftertaste because I knew it was actually intended for my children and I was lying to her.

At the end of the week I’d pour out the spoiled leftovers, the fatty yellow crust clogging up the sink, and I’d return the empty bottle to Beth. She’d say how happy she was that my children were getting some good nutrients, and I—afraid to disappoint her—would nod and encourage her to give me a new bottle. I stopped visiting her because I could no longer stand my own lies. I haven’t gotten my weekly portion of milk for almost two years now, but I know the milk is still waiting there for me, and I tell myself that soon, when I’m less busy, I’ll make better choices and start going to the farm again.

I love the idea of getting my produce from the neighborhood farm, and I love the idea of walking down the road to get my milk. The beauty here is heartbreaking: the morning fog drifting between the trees in the swamp; the red neon “open” sign of Bill’s lawnmower repair shop reflected on the wet pavement in front of his trailer; the smell of wood smoke coming from Mr. Chapman’s chimney; Beth’s cows grazing under the bare apple trees; I even love the potholed, cracked asphalt. As I walked down to Beth’s, I used to think to myself, Look at me! This is me walking down a Vermont country road, on my way to get my milk. And I knew this is what my life was supposed to be like.

I’d wave at Mr. Chapman, who’d peek from the window in his woodcutting workshop. I’d stop for some gossip with my neighbor Jennifer, who, the first time we chatted, startled me when, as an aside in our small talk about the hiking trails in our neighborhood, mentioned that she and Rob, her aloof, furniture-building husband, like to make love by the pond on their neighbors’ property. I’d pass, with some contempt, the mailboxes of the other neighbors, the ones with long driveways leading up to newly built houses on top of wooded hills, the ones with cathedral ceilings, exercise rooms, and marble countertops. And then I’d pause for a few minutes to discuss the weather with Bill, who’d be standing in the doorway of his trailer. When we had just moved into our house, clueless and lawnmower-less, we let the weeds grow so high that one day Bill showed up and said he was going to mow for us. Gil and I—clumsy city people—watched in embarrassment as Bill steered his tractor-mower through the thigh-high weeds. When Bill’s wife died a year later, I went over every other day to bring him food because I thought that’s what a neighbor is supposed to do. I felt very virtuous when I came to pick up the empty dishes and I even considered offering to tutor Josh, Bill’s grandson, who had been placed with his grandparents because his mother, Bill’s daughter, couldn’t take care of him. I felt sorry for the taciturn 11-year-old, who, I heard from Bill, had trouble keeping up at school. I thought that now that his grandmother was gone, I should offer some motherly care. But I didn’t know how to talk to a troubled 11-year-old and I worried Bill would think me a sentimental snoop if I meddled too much in his family affairs. So I let it go.

I haven’t made my walks in a long while. I’ve gotten busy, too busy to allow myself to be distracted by the beauty here. I’m busier than anyone should be—busy making a living, taking care of my family, going grocery shopping, making deadlines, always rushing, always running behind, always making lists of things I know I don’t have time for: fix the drafty windows, clean out the closets, organize my computer files, assess our retirement plan, organize play-dates for the children, find a mechanic to check out the squeak in my car, schedule dentist appointments, and, at the bottom of the list I add: get milk.

I could, of course, drive to the farm to get my milk, but the main appeal of Beth’s milk is the walk to get it. When, in the middle of a snowstorm, I’d put on my snow-pants and brave the weather for a bottle of creamy, yellow milk, I felt I was part of a timeless landscape that I shared with generations of farmers, and it didn’t matter if it was me or someone from a previous century walking down the icy road.

It’s not only that I’m too busy to visit. I’m afraid that Beth disapproves of my busyness. I’m afraid I can’t drink her milk if my principles are as muddled as my shopping choices. I’m afraid of the absolute loyalty Beth demands. I don’t know what role she expects me to play, but I don’t think I can live up to it.


Gil doesn’t worry about Beth’s opinion of him. He enjoys watching her plow a field with a traditional wooden plow pulled by her big Belgian horse and he likes to observe the progress on the big wooden barn that she’s erecting single-handedly, but he’s skeptical about her ideal of traditional farming – he thinks it’s superstitious to believe that the past was any better than the present.

“It’s impressive how hard she works!” he says with bemused interest, as if the pointlessness of her activities makes her efforts even more remarkable. He says it with the same tone he reserves for me when I’m up all night working on a futile experiment like chronicling every thought I had in the course of a day. I could interpret his tone as condescending, but I choose to think of it as a mystified sympathy for passions that are foreign to him. He sees most of life as pointless activity, but he’s intrigued by other people’s investment in it. He lives at a different scale. The world outside his books doesn’t really interest him. He doesn’t care if his vegetables come from Beth’s or from the Price Chopper. They all taste the same to him. Gil doesn’t get blinded with enthusiasm, which is what I like about him. When I am sentimental, swept away by fanciful ideas or superstitions, he snaps me back.


When the moon is full, I always expect an email from my mother asking me if I watched it. “Wasn’t it beautiful?” she’ll ask, “Did you go out for a night walk?” She monitors me to make sure I’m not wasting my time being busy, that I don’t forget to lose myself in beauty and poetry. Gil’s placidity disturbs her. She’s afraid I’ll become as impassive and practical as he.

And often when I receive her email, I have been too busy to look at the moon. Instead of losing myself in the beauty of the universe, I cook dinner, read stories to the kids, put them in bed, and then I sit down at my computer to get some more work done.  Sometimes, anticipating my mother’s email interrogation, I go out quickly to take a quick peek at the moon, just so I’ll be able to tell her that, yes, I have seen the moon and, yes, it was beautiful: a big ivory globe rising above the trees whose stark purple shadows form patterns on the glittering snow. But the truth is that I feel sad because it was cold and I went back inside right away, knowing I should have stayed out longer. I should have put on my long down jacket, and I should have taken a flashlight and walked down to Townfarm Road to see the moonlight reflect off the White Mountains in the distance, across the Connecticut River.  But instead, I turned around and slipped back into the warm house, back to my computer, telling myself I’d take that full-moon walk next month, when I’m less busy.


Maybe that’s why I care so much about what Beth thinks of me. I have strayed from the person I should have become, someone who lives more fully, someone who isn’t reasonable and doesn’t make compromises.  To achieve Beth’s kind of stubbornness, you need to have strong passions. But I’m not convinced of anything.

Since I stopped making my walks, I’ve become an outsider again in my neighborhood. Last summer my neighbor Jennifer gave me some tomato plants. I hadn’t asked for them—I barely have time to spend with my children, let alone take on responsibility for a vegetable garden—but a week later Jennifer asked me how the tomatoes were doing, so I plowed a patch of earth and planted them. Then I almost let them die because I forgot to water. Jennifer, uninhibited about her own nosiness, told me she had entered our garden to check out the vegetable patch and had noticed that the tomato plants needed better care. She pressured me into halfhearted attempts at keeping the plants alive. I occasionally watered them, just enough to help the shriveled leaves survive until the next rain, and by the time I remembered to weed the plot, it had become so overgrown that I could no longer distinguish the tomato plants from the weeds. Four months later, my garden yielded exactly two tomatoes, which I cut up ceremoniously and ate with great gravity. I still feel guilty when I look out my window and see the bare sticks that those pitiful plants had been leaning against. Since then Jennifer hasn’t offered me any more treasures from her garden, no apples like the year before, no pumpkins, and no honey from Rob’s hives.

Bill and I are again strangers to each other. We haven’t talked since last spring. Josh has grown over the past two years. He’s in middle school now. He’s a heavy-set, brooding teenager who almost looks like the adult man he’ll soon be. The innocence has left his face. Sometimes I see him outside in the meadow, disciplining the new dog: Josh raising his fist and the dog cowering on the ground.


Art by Matt Monk

Judith Hertog was born in Amsterdam and moved to Israel as a teenager. After having spent several years in Asia, she ended up settling in Vermont with her family. Judith can communicate in six languages but lost track of who or where she is. She writes to find out. Her writing has appeared in publications such as The New York Times, The Sun, Tin House, Tablet Magazine, Tricycle Magazine, Hotel Amerika, Crab Orchard Review, the Dartmouth Alumni Magazine, and many others. She has received honors and fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center, Virginia Center for Creative Arts, The Marble House Project, and The Watermill Center. Judith studied History and Religion at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. She also obtained graduate degrees in journalism and TESOL from Indiana University, and an MFA in creative writing from Bennington College.

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