A Dog Named Hope, 
Chapter 6

By Michael Mooney

That afternoon Sister Mary called Alice Tomey long distance, to tell her how well Hope had done her work and how exhausted she had been after. She recognized even as she spoke that there was nothing remarkable in what she said, nothing that Alice and Marcia hadn’t prepared her for. It was just her own failure to understand what they had been telling her about Hope’s condition. And when she tried to think why she should be so slow to recognize the facts of life, she realized that what she hadn’t counted on was what a remarkable creature Hope was, how full of vitality and intelligence, how full of life.

"If you think I should drive over," Alice said.

But no, said Sister Mary. It was just her own slowness in recognizing what everyone had been telling her from the start. It was a five-hour drive across the state from Sturgeon Bay, and she was a little in awe of Alice’s willingness. It was just her own astonishment, she confessed over the long-distance telephone line, at what a remarkable thing a dog could be.

Alice agreed. She spoke of the high hopes Marcia had had for the young dog to fulfill the promise of her breeding.

"And she gave her to you and to the convent," Alice continued, "because it was better for her to use those talents than not to use them."

Sister Mary didn’t know what to say. Marcia had talked that way at the farm, and Sister Mary had agreed with her, even if she hadn’t understood exactly what Marcia was saying. Hope’s extraordinary gifts, her intelligence and understanding, to say nothing of her speed and quickness in the field, made her so precious, even as the exercise of these talents might kill her. And how could you not let those talents shine forth, especially when the little dog wanted so to use them! Perhaps what Sister Mary hadn’t understood until now was that she herself one day would be responsible for giving Hope the order that would kill her.

"If you think I should come," Alice said again.

But no, Sister Mary said, a little embarrassed that she had called.

That afternoon she found time to enter the chapel. She was alone in the cool dim space, where light entered through colored-glass windows made in the depiction of the Twenty-Third Psalm, the Lord as the Shepherd, the green pastures, and the sheep. Higher up through a series of smaller clerestory windows of clear leaded glass white light streamed down into the dimness below. The mural on the curved wall behind the altar seemed very faded indeed. The places where the plaster had cracked and fallen seemed to Sister Mary more numerous, and in the light and shadow those bare places seemed almost to have obscured the picture.

The Good Shepherd’s staff was shaped like a bishop’s miter. There was no dog in the picture, and as Sister Mary stared at the Shepherd’s staff she realized that the staff was like the Good Shepherd’s dog. And then she began to understand what the psalm meant when it spoke of how the rod and staff might bring comfort.

Later that evening, after services, she went looking for Hope, to see how she was doing, wondering how she would be tomorrow and whether she herself would have the heart to bring her to her work. The lights were out up and down the dormitory hall. The carry-crate was in the hall, and beside it Hope’s water bowl, but Hope was not in the crate, and when Sister Mary opened the first door she came to and peered into the darkened room she saw the dog at the foot of the bed, who raised her head and blinked her eyes at the open doorway and the light, before she put her head back down again. The next morning at breakfast Sister Mary said nothing about where Hope had passed the night. 

Hope had her breakfast, too, not in the dining room with the others but in the dormitory hall beside her carry-crate dog house. After breakfast in the company of the other nuns she and Sister Mary walked down to the field to see how the sheep were doing in the new green pasture. That pasture did not have a woven-wire fence and had instead a three-strand electrified fence, and as Sister Mary and the others approached they could hear the pulse of the fencer. The sheep hadn’t been in that pasture for two weeks, but with the heat and dryness, the new grass was not very long. At that time of year, according to Alice’s advice, the nuns were feeding to the ewes a little grain each day to supplement their diet of alfalfa and clover. Sister Mary had along with her the pails containing the measures of grain that made up the recommended daily allotment. 

The ewes and their lambs knew the routine and ordinarily pushed up against the wooden gate, making entry into the field a problem. Then the nun with the pails of grain had to wade through their pressing mass in order to spread the grain in the feed trough. The presence of Hope, of course, changed all that.

Seeing the nuns approach in the usual way, the sheep started towards the gate. But they had gone no more than a few steps in that direction before they stopped and came together in a close knot. They saw the dog.

If Hope had entered the field at that moment, her instinct would have told her to circle out and around the sheep in order to push them back in the direction of the handler. This was not exactly what was wanted. It’s more difficult for a dog to learn to drive the sheep away. It doesn’t come naturally and is something the dog has to learn, and it was not something Marcia had taught Hope how to do.

Still, in talking to Sister Mary at the farm that day, Marcia understood that the sheep at the convent from time to time were fed grain, and that it would be a great help if the dog could hold the sheep away while the grain was brought to the trough. So she had showed Sister Mary how to call Hope to her side and get her to walk up on the sheep and in this manner drive them back. 

It takes confidence on a young dog’s part and steadiness on the part of her handler to keep the dog from doing what she’s not afraid to do and which comes naturally, which is to say circle out around the sheep in order to bring them in. At the convent that morning there was trial and error, but Hope was eager to work, quick to learn, and not easily discouraged. The sheep had respect for the dog, and at last as dog and master came out of the field, they rushed to the grain trough and fed hungrily.

Again Hope flopped down on the ground, panting with a rapid breath. Someone had thought to bring along the bowl and a water jug, and when she had put the bowl beside Hope and filled it with water, still another minute passed before the young dog brought herself to drink. Again, without getting up but with lifting only her head above the rim of the bowl, she began to do so. She drank long and noisily, and as she did, relief came to the circle of onlookers.

"It’s my fault," Sister Mary said, thinking of the way she had hesitated going forward to the trough, which had caused the young dog to bolt from her side and circle the sheep, from where she had to be called back to start again. "If she hadn’t run out around them like that..."

She didn’t complete the thought, but everyone knew what she was thinking. If Hope hadn’t made the unnecessary out-run, she wouldn’t be lying there now exhausted at their feet.

"But she seemed to understand you," one of the sisters insisted. "Not at first, of course, but watching, I could almost see her learn what you meant." 

All agreed that it was true. That was exactly what they had witnessed. On the other side of the fence the sheep made a purring sound eating grain. In their black and white habits the nuns sat down beside the fence and waited before they headed back to the barn, so they wouldn’t hurry the little dog, so they would give Sister Hope time to recover.

(to be continued)
 
 

Author Michael Mooney lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.