Florence Walrath died at the end of 2011 at age 103, in her own bed in the house that she had loved and lived in for seventy-seven years. I did not get to know her as well as I would have liked, apart from hearing many legendary stories about her iron will, love of work, and passion for riding and swimming. That she had taken up water-skiing at age sixty was only one example of her refusal to let age define or confine her.
They took her driver’s license away near the end because she couldn’t see, and when they did that, she rode her mower up Route 22 to the lake so she could still swim. Then they took the mower away from her, too.
At the American Legion, to which her husband had belonged, the members kept an eye on her. They stopped by Florence’s house to offer help in caring for the grounds and other chores. She always said no, she was fine, but on weekends, some of the members would just show up and mow her lawn when they saw that the grass was getting too high.
By the time I met Rocky, most of the fences around his pasture had disintegrated or just fallen down, and he could have trotted out onto the busy road in the front of the house and gone anywhere. Like Florence, he wouldn’t think of it. The two of them, as she had predicted, were riding it out together.
With Florence gone, the family talked about Rocky’s future. They couldn’t bear to put him down. Florence loved him too much, and they knew that moving a blind old pony would be cruel, too much for him to bear.
So somebody came by every day to toss out some hay and grain. There was a swampy marsh out behind Rocky’s pasture and a stream that ran all year. Rocky was on his own for water. Sometimes in the summer, the marsh would dry up for a day or two, but it would always fill up eventually.
Rocky was now more alone than ever. I have no reason to think that he minded being alone, although I am certain he noticed Florence’s absence. How could he not have? I felt so bad for him, alone in this way, without his beloved human or any other animals to keep him company.
The interesting thing, when I thought about it, was that Rocky was a fortunate pony. In the wild, he would have been long dead by now, starved because he was unable to see to find food or torn apart by predators. He had been much loved and cared for in his life, and I knew that the most merciful thing would be for him to be left alone to live out his time in a place that was familiar to him. He was in so many ways the strongest and healthiest animal that I knew.
Rocky’s routine never seemed to vary much. In the morning, he would come around to the side of the house and eat the grass and clover there. When the sun got strong, he got himself into the shade of the standing barn. In the afternoon, he would follow his trail back to the stream, drink some water, and graze by the brush.
Then, at night, he would stand by the back of the barn and wait for morning. When it rained or snowed, the overhang of the barn provided some shelter. Sometimes, when Maria and I visited, he would be covered in snow, as he would have been in the wild. He did not seem to mind.
We asked the family if it would be okay for us to help take care of Rocky, and they said they would be pleased. With Florence’s death and other issues, they had a lot on their hands.
For a time, I thought about moving Rocky to Bedlam Farm. I liked the idea of him and Simon together, two symbols of mercy and compassion, each in his own way. I imagined the donkeys looking out for Rocky—helping to guide him around the pasture. I imagined his pleasure at having a herd again.
I had some friends who had horses, and they talked me out of that plan. It would be traumatic for a blind animal that age to move. The stress of the move, of having to adjust to new terrain, could kill him. However, they all agreed that he would probably love being with the donkeys. Horses, like donkeys and sheep, like being with their own kind.
Maria and I had been married just two years when I first met Rocky, and we had been reconsidering our new lives together. Bedlam Farm is an idyllic place, the 1861 farmhouse sitting astride a hill overlooking the town of West Hebron. It has beautiful views, ninety acres of pasture and woods, and a mile-long path into the woods for us to walk with the dogs. It is a kind of paradise. The four old barns have been restored, and we put in a small screened-in porch with a sweeping view of the valley.
Yet we both felt it was time to move. There were a number of things to consider. Publishing had changed, and my income was less predictable. And Bedlam Farm had been my place; I bought it before I knew Maria and had lived there, mostly alone, for six years. We both wanted a place that would be ours together, and I knew that she would love a house that she could help choose and that we would make our home together.
We both wanted a farm, a place that would be good for the donkeys, dogs, sheep, and barn cats. Maria would need a studio outside of the house to work in. I would need a room in the house for my office. We’d also need a pen for the dogs, and a standing barn for hay and storage.
But we didn’t need ninety acres. There were no longer cows or goats on the farm. I had reduced the herd of sheep from thirty-six to five; Maria sold the wool. Neither of us hunted or rode horses or was looking for more animals. We wanted a quieter, more manageable life. We put Bedlam Farm on the market and began looking around. I thought the farm would sell quickly. It did not. I thought we would find another home quickly. We did not.
Every place we looked at had a problem for us. There was a bad well in one. Another was on a floodplain. A third was isolated deep in the woods. A fourth didn’t have an outbuilding where Maria could have her studio. We realized that what we thought would be a quick transition would be a long haul.
Rocky had altered the routines and rhythms of both of our lives. We had our own animals to care for, our own dogs to walk, our own work to do. But we both loved Rocky, were drawn into the life of this animal who seemed a mystic to me, so content by himself in his pasture.
Every afternoon, we found ourselves driving the thirteen miles to Florence’s farm. The house was quiet, empty now, though Florence’s collection of blue glass pieces still adorned the windowsills facing the pasture. Her spirit was very much in evidence.
When we pulled in, we would hear Rocky’s gentle neigh, and no matter where he was, he would soon make his way to the back of the barn. We would enter from the front of the barn, open a sliding door, and walk down a concrete walkway. There was a gate, the top half open to the rear, and we would see Rocky’s head bobbing. He would be waiting for us.
Rocky had a keen sense of where everything was, and when we put out his grain bucket, he would follow his nose to it, and this became the routine. First, his grain. Then we would open the gate and go outside. Maria would take out the brush we had brought. She would talk to him, sing to him, and sometimes give him an apple. Maria would pick the burrs out of his mane. This made him skittish at first, but he put up with it and stood still for it. After a few months, he would whinny when he felt the brush and slide over to Maria. Like donkeys, horses love to be groomed.
Maria was thorough, pulling out all of the knots in Rocky’s hair, brushing the matted coat along his side and back. At first, his hair came off in large tufts, hairballs that would blow across the pasture. But after a while, his coat looked shiny and clean. When it snowed or there were ice storms, we would go over to the farm and brush Rocky off and give him some extra grain.
At those times, we wished he were with us, or we were with him. We wished he had shelter, and it was hard to leave him out in the cold. This is a human idea about compassion, I knew. Horses once lived in the wild, and Appaloosas have long, thick coats. Just because it was hard for us didn’t mean it was hard for him.
A year passed and we became more attached to Rocky, and he to us. I thought it was time for Red to meet Rocky. We had been warned in the past that Rocky had an aggressive streak—that he was a biter and could turn hostile when surprised. So I wanted to be careful.
I took Red with me on a warm sunny day over to the Walrath farm. I approached the pasture gate calling out for Rocky as I always did to give him a chance to locate my voice and get used to it. “Hey, Rocky, it’s me, Jon. How are you doing? What’s going on?” That afternoon I told him I had a dog with me.
One of the many great things about Red is that you can totally trust him. If you tell him to stay, he will stay, and he will be staying in the same spot the next morning if you don’t release him.
I heard Rocky’s whinny when I opened the gate, and I called Red in. I put him in a lie down/stay and stood a few feet in front of him. I didn’t want him to move, but I suspected Rocky would figure out soon enough that he was there.
I saw Rocky making his way up the gently sloping pasture. He broke into a trot as he came near; he knew there was likely to be an apple. Red’s ears went up as Rocky approached, but he didn’t visibly react in any other way, as I knew he wouldn’t. There had been a horse or two at the farm in Virginia where Red was before he came to me, so he wasn’t shocked by Rocky’s presence. He didn’t seem to be shocked by anything much.
When Rocky got about ten feet from me he froze—I suspect he got wind of Red. He stopped and cocked his head. I could only imagine what the world seemed like to a blind old Appaloosa who had been in a pasture alone for more than a decade. There must have been all kinds of smells and sounds for him to interpret. For a new animal to be in the pasture so close must have seemed dangerous to him.
For several minutes he just raised his nose and sniffed. I kept talking to him to reassure him, holding out the apple. I took a few steps closer and so did he, and it took about fifteen minutes for us to get within arm’s length of each other. Rocky eventually took the apple and worked it over carefully, raising his nose every few seconds to locate Red.
I called Red forward a few feet and had him lie down again. Rocky came close. Soon, Rocky was almost on top of Red, and very carefully, he put his nose down on Red’s back.
Red didn’t move, and I was impressed and astonished by this. His ears went down, a sign of caution, but he never moved his body an inch, never growled, barked, or startled Rocky. The old pony ran his nose over every inch of him, and then he seemed satisfied.
I took a deep breath. It was a beautiful thing to watch, and Red seemed to be signaling Rocky that he was not a threat and would not be bothering him.
I released Red and he got up. And then I saw the strangest and most wonderful thing.
Red walked about ten feet toward the barn. Rocky put his nose up to locate Red and tilted his ears, perhaps to listen for the dog’s breathing.
Red sat still, watching Rocky. Rocky walked over to Red, found him, and stood still. The two of them sat there like that for a few minutes.
Then Red got up and moved closer to the back of the barn, where I always fed Rocky his grain. This was a tricky path for Rocky. It led around old tires and brush, and I had seen him bump into the piles of old farm junk more than once. Red sat up, looking out at the field, and Rocky made his way over to the dog.
Then Red moved again right to the back of the barn door where Rocky got his grain. Rocky listened to hear where Red was going, sniffed the air, and then walked over to where the dog was sitting.
Red’s demeanor was completely different than it was with the donkeys or sheep. He was completely calm, not vigilant or alert, as he was around Simon.
And then it hit me. Red knew Rocky was blind. I don’t know how he knew, but it was clear that he knew. Perhaps it was the way Rocky sniffed or moved so carefully, perhaps it was the tentative way he walked. But it seemed to me that Red was guiding him to the back of the barn.
I was very much surprised by what I was seeing, although I had heard stories about dogs acting as guides for old and sick animals like horses. I’d had border collies for years. I’d never seen one who paid much attention to equines or animals other than sheep.
People love to project noble human motives onto dogs and other animals, but it seems an emotional response to me, not a considered one. Animals in my experience do not have motives beyond instincts and survival. They are neither “good” or “bad” in the way so many people seem to need to see them. Animals are not philosophers, they don’t have narratives and language, and they can’t consider their responses in the way human beings can.
My therapy dogs do not get up in the morning and choose to do good that day. They simply respond to attention and need—they smell and sense it and react to guidance, reinforcement, and reward. I have seen generosity in some dogs and other animals. Some will share food and some will not, but then again, instinct and other factors—such as the presence of siblings in infancy, the attentiveness of the mother, the availability of food, and human treatment—all shape the behavior of animals. None of an animal’s responses has to do with conscious reasoning as much as genetics and learned behaviors.
Red was clearly a generous and tolerant dog, confident, calm, and secure. Rocky was a solitary blind animal suddenly in the company of another animal. Red had no fear of the pony, and Rocky came to trust this strange dog who had suddenly entered his life.
So this became a daily ritual for the two of them: Rocky approaching Red, Red standing still, then moving forward, Rocky coming up behind him. Red seemed to sense where Rocky needed to go—sometimes the pole barn, sometimes the outer pasture—and he would lead him there.
Was this how animals showed compassion for one another? Border collies like Red have among the most finely honed instincts in the animal world. I never saw him show a shred of compassion to a sheep who didn’t move quickly or obey him instantly.
I believe compassion among animals is unpredictable and instinctive. Red did not experience Rocky as a sheep to be ordered around, and Rocky approached Red calmly. I thought that what I saw happening was Rocky teaching Red to be his guide dog, reinforcing behavior in a dog who loved ritualized and regular work. Red loves working and loves herding, and is eager for any task on the farm.
I think Rocky gave him one.
Animals of different species rarely interact with one another in ways we might call compassionate, but I had witnessed something remarkable. Something was going on between Red and Rocky. They had connected in the curious way animals sometimes do without talking or drama or declaration.
They simply accepted and seemed to recognize each other. Both animals were intuitive. Red was sensitive to other animals in the way working and herding dogs almost always are. And Rocky had developed powerful radar for friends and enemies—a blind pony living alone outdoors has to. Red sensed that Rocky was infirm. Rocky sensed that Red could help him navigate his dark world.
With each visit, this very touching relationship deepened. Red would take up a position leading to wherever Rocky wanted to go—the barn, the stream, the outer pasture. Red would sit and wait for Rocky to come up and locate him. Once Rocky was on his way and no longer needed his assistance, Red would turn and come back to me, like a bus driver who has made his final stop.
We’d watch Rocky follow a well-worn path to a corner of the north pasture where he spent much of the day, rain or shine. On the way back, he had to navigate around the collapsed barn, some tires and auto parts, and ditches, rocks, and mounds of dirt. When Red was there, Rocky would sniff until he found him—he always seemed to sense or know when the dog was present. He would touch Red’s back with his nose and then Red would move five or ten yards toward the barn or the water trough.
In this way, he would lead Rocky back to the spots he knew well, and where he could always find his bearing. At first, I wasn’t entirely convinced that this was happening, but it happened day after day, time after time. When we put grain out for Rocky, Red would sit within a few feet of it and stand by or lie down until Rocky was finished eating. We saw it so many times there was really no question about what was happening.
Rocky had a Seeing Eye dog.
One day our real estate agent Kristin Preble called up to talk about the sale of Bedlam Farm. “I don’t know if you know this yet, but Florence Walrath’s house is going on the market in a few months. I know the family would love it if you and Maria lived there. I just wanted to mention it to you.”
When I told Maria about the phone call we looked at each other and both rushed over to the house. We walked the property, peeking in windows, and saw the same things. A big parlor inside the farmhouse that would be perfect for a study for me. A former one-room schoolhouse out back that had been hauled to the farm as a workshop for Florence’s husband, Harold. It would need some work, but would be a great studio for Maria. And the surviving barn was in good shape; a lawn mower and some hay and feed could be stored there.
The farm had seventeen acres, enough land so we could walk around in the woods on our own property, but not too large for us to handle. And it was near Cambridge, a small town we both loved with a food co-op, a diner, and a great bookstore. The farmhouse had been built in 1849 and still had its original wonderful woodwork, as well as big, airy rooms. It was perfect for us.
Standing by the side of the house in that moment, I understood why I had stopped to photograph Rocky so long ago. He had called me to the farm, drawn me there. A magical helper, doing his work.
We called Kristin the next morning and told her we were interested. The first thing she said was what about the pony? If we reached an agreement on the house, would we keep him?
Of course, we’ll take him as well, we said. Of course we would.
He was the reason we were coming to live there.