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  To Jim

  To Jen

  To Willie

  There’s a crack in everything.

  That’s how the light gets in.

  —Leonard Cohen, “Anthem”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I started this book for myself, but I finished it for someone else. I don’t know who that person might be, but if The Education of Will helps just one person as much as the book After Silence helped me, then it will be worth the five years it took for me to write it.

  Like all memoirs, this is not an autobiography. Rather, it relates a slice of my life that I hope both informs and inspires the reader about the universal themes of trauma and forgiveness, fear and love. I have done my absolute best to portray the events in the book with as much accuracy as I can manage, although I did compress and simplify Willie’s story of injury and recovery in a way that, I hope, prevents readers from getting lost in the details.

  I have changed certain names and identifying characteristics. I have also modified the details of my clients and their dogs. In a few cases I combined their stories, but everything I write about them happened during the twenty-plus years in which I did behavioral consultations.

  The Education of Will is my story—indeed, it is part of an effort to change my life story from one that worked against me to one that allows me to be closer to who I want to be. My deepest wish is that it helps others in the way that other books have helped me. However, I am not a psychologist or therapist, and nothing I write should be taken as professional advice to a reader who would be best served by consulting with someone in the appropriate profession. I hope also that this book will help readers understand that dogs, too, can be traumatized and need compassionate understanding as much as people do.

  PROLOGUE

  I was found early one morning in the desert outside the stable where I worked weekends. I had been lying on the cold, grainy sand for hours, listening to the high-pitched who-whooo? of burrowing owls and the metallic scurry of lizards. It was August 1966, and I had driven there at one in the morning in my family’s powder-blue Mustang. I’d parked and walked around to the back of the stable, the black sky pinpointed with stars and a sliver of moon. Once behind the adobe buildings that held the sweet-smelling leather of saddles and bridles, I pulled my pink T-shirt partway up and unzipped my linen shorts. I lay down on the sand as if curling up in bed, the left side of my face to the ground. It was cold. I shivered a lot. Somewhere, far away, a pack of coyotes yip-yowled to the sky.

  As I lay there, I remembered watching myself prepare to leave the house a half hour earlier, as if I were a disembodied ghost hovering over my body. I felt a kind of passive curiosity about this other creature who dressed as quietly as possible, crept into the kitchen, and picked up the keys to the car. Although I remembered nothing about driving to the stable, I could hear the horses shifting their feet in the sand as I walked behind the buildings. After I lay down, I heard a quiet squeal after a thump of hooves landed on something thick and heavy, a squabble between two mares.

  Once I positioned myself, it felt like days rather than hours until the sky began to lighten. My cheek began to hurt from the gravel underneath it, but I willed myself to stay still. All I could see was blackness, but I could smell the tangy scent of the creosote bushes and the ephemeral odor of newly cut hay. The owls hooted. The coyotes yipped. The hours dragged on as I lay in place, unable to move.

  Morning finally arrived, and the sky lightened to the mauve of a desert sunrise. It was Karl who found me: Karl, the handsome Marlboro Man who was the lead wrangler at the stable and my first teenage crush. I heard the crunch of his boots becoming louder and louder. He bent down, and I turned toward him. His face had a look of disgust that broke my heart.

  “Oh, Jesus, Trisha,” he said. “What the hell?”

  • • • • •

  I don’t remember how I got home. I have no memory of the transition between stable and house, as though stage managers had rearranged the furniture between Act One and Act Two, out of sight of the audience.

  My parents stood in the doorway, stunned and white-faced, asking me what happened.

  “I’m not really sure,” I said. “I went into the kitchen in the middle of the night to get some water, and a man grabbed me from behind. He put a damp rag over my mouth, and I passed out. He must have dragged me to the car, driven me to the stable. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the desert.”

  “Did he . . . ?” stammered my father.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Nothing like that.”

  They didn’t ask how I knew that, since supposedly I’d been unconscious. They didn’t ask why a stranger had used our car to drive me to the stable, or why he had then left on foot. They did call the police, who arrived minutes later. The patrol officer had a gun strapped to his hip; the detective wore a rumpled suit.

  I described the same scenario to them. The detective nodded and wrote notes. The officer sat quietly on our couch. Eventually, they asked if they could speak to my parents privately. I left the living room, walked numbly down the hall lined with family photos, and sat on my bed. I pulled Sniffles, a favorite stuffed animal, to my chest, and waited. I looked out the window at the saguaro cactus in the hills across the road. In just a few minutes, I heard my father’s footsteps coming down the hall. He knocked lightly and opened the door.

  “Trisha,” he said. “The police are concerned that you aren’t telling us exactly what happened. They could either ask you a lot more questions or drop the investigation if we agree not to pursue it. Would that be acceptable? To drop it?”

  I nodded, unable to speak—just as I was unable to give voice to the reason I’d orchestrated the charade in the first place.

  The police left, and my father called the editor of the local paper. A prominent businessman in Phoenix, he used his clout to keep the story under wraps. My mother warned me not to talk about it to anyone and worried how she would explain the police car to our neighbors.

  After that, the house filled up with silence, like water rising in a fish tank. No one asked me what had really happened. No one asked me if I was okay or what could have possibly motivated me to do such a thing.

  We tiptoed around each other for days, talking about what we’d eat for dinner or what was on television. Then the incident sank into the past, as if buried in wet sand after a flash flood.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The border collie puppy had eyes like fuzzy diamonds and fur so soft that my hands melted into it as if they had lost their bones. He was eight weeks old when I met him, sitting on the grass at his breeder’s, with the sheep in the lambing shed bawling to their babies and the crickets buzzing in the woods behind the farmhouse. I didn’t need another dog. I already had three, and I wasn’t looking for a puppy.

  I was busy. Busy seeing clients whose pets had serious behavior problems, teaching at the University of Wisconsin, cohosting a radio show, giving speeches on canine behavior, writing books, and running a dog-training business. I didn’t need more to do.

  But I had heard of a litter that was closely related to my once-in-a-lifetime dog, Cool Hand Luke. Luke had not only changed my life, he might have saved it, in a made-for-television moment when I came close to being horribly hurt and he could have died. I’d been pinned in a corner of a horse stall by a Scottish Blackface ewe who had just had a lamb and perceived me as a hungry
wolf intent on killing her newborn. When she ducked her head and charged me the first time, I dodged to the right and laughed it off. Then she charged again and just missed me. Her head smashed into the barn wall so hard that a confetti of paint flakes fell from the ceiling. She charged once more and I retreated to a corner, looking around for a piece of wood, a bucket, anything I could use to protect myself.

  We don’t go through life aware of our own fragility until we have nothing but our own bodies to protect ourselves. No horns. No thick skin and fur. No bristles or claws. Useless little teeth. Put us up against an animal with a built-in security system and we come up short. I’d spent years as an applied animal behaviorist dealing with aggressive dogs. I was used to snarling canines of all kinds who would have bitten me if I’d made the wrong move. But I hadn’t expected to be trapped in the corner of a barn by a crazed ewe.

  Crystal the ewe charged again and grazed my thigh. She was known for her bad temper, but she was a sheep, not a two-thousand-pound bull or a muscled-up dog threatening to put me in the hospital. But my irritation began to morph into fear. I couldn’t seem to get out of the corner and out of the pen. I was alone on the farm, and if I were badly injured, I wouldn’t be missed for days.

  That’s when I heard it: thwap! Luke’s paws hit the top of the four-foot stall as he scrambled over the pen like a military dog on maneuvers and hit the ground between Crystal and me. As she turned her attention to him, I scrambled toward the gate. Crystal tucked her head down so far that her chin was tucked under her chest, exposing only her two-inch-thick skull and curved horns. She went for Luke. He charged back, biting at her skull to keep her at bay while I made it out of the gate. After two more charges, Luke made his own escape. A thin stream of blood trickled from his mouth. Two of his front teeth had been broken off.

  It is one thing to love a dog, to love him so much that sometimes you ache just talking about him. It is another thing altogether to know that he risked his life to save you from serious injury. But Luke was more than the star of this one dramatic moment; he was one of those old souls whose love of life leaves you glowing in its presence. I once wrote about Luke: “I imagine his death as if all the oxygen is sucked out of the air, and I am expected to live without it.” Of course he died, and of course I didn’t—but it took me years to stop grieving his untimely death from kidney failure when he was only twelve years old.

  That was why the prospect of bringing home his nephew two years later was so seductive, despite having a house full of other dogs. All the dogs in Luke’s line are famous for their noble dispositions; I had high hopes that this litter would have a pup with some of Luke’s personality. Intellectually, I knew full well that every dog is unique, and dogs like Luke are hard to find. But still, how could I pass up the chance that one of the pups of the litter would replicate some of Luke’s brilliance?

  When I arrived to evaluate the litter, I pretended, mostly to myself, that I was making a careful and considered choice. The puppies tussled on the ground, interrupting their play only to leap after butterflies, sniff my jeans, or lick my face with velveteen tongues. I focused on the two male pups, since I had three females at home already. One male was a big, flashy boy with a wide white collar of fur, the other a bit plainer. I couldn’t decide between them.

  The breeder allowed to me to take them both home for a three-day trial period. It was a win/win—the pups would be exposed to a new environment at an important age, and I would see how they got along with my other dogs. After a few days, I could decide if one of them was right for me.

  When I got home, the boys tumbled out of the crate as if out of a clown car. In turn, they met my three other dogs, each of whom performed a leading role at the farm. Tulip, the elderly Great Pyrenees whose radiance of white fur charmed everyone she met, was struggling with irritable bowel syndrome and a progressive neuromuscular disease. She’d been in the critical care unit at the local vet school three times that year. After each incident, she recovered and went back to being the farm’s jokester, a cross between an oversize seal pup and a benevolent polar bear. For twelve years she had multitasked as the farm’s protector and stand-up comedian. I felt I owed her anything I could do to keep her comfortable.

  Pippy Tay, a fifteen-year-old border collie, had always been a paragon of health. For years, she was Watson to my Sherlock, assisting me in teasing out the reasons why so many of my clients’ dogs were aggressive to members of their own species. Over the years I’d seen at least a hundred dogs standing stiff-legged and snarling while Pippy bowed and curtsied a safe distance away. Within minutes, the visiting dog would melt like ice cream in the sun, and soon they would be playing, while my clients’ eyes filled with tears of happiness. But Pippy was losing her eyesight and hearing and had long since been retired. I was thrilled she had done so well for so long; I had never counted on her living to the ripe old age of fifteen. Like Tulip, she now needed a lot of care.

  My third dog, Lassie, a twelve-year-old border collie, was the baby of the group. Vital and energetic, my go-to dog on sheep and still as playful as a puppy, Lassie nonetheless suffered from chronic bladder infections that belied her youthful looks. We spent untold hours with veterinarians trying to figure out what was wrong.

  You might say that this was not an ideal time to get a puppy. You would be right. I calculated that I had been bringing my dogs to the vet 2.4 times a week for almost half a year. You know it’s bad when you take the time to figure that out. With a decimal.

  Did I really have the energy to raise a puppy? To be on guard at all times, to take the pup outside every ten minutes, and to gently remove the shoes, the remote control, or the pillow from its mouth? I had wanted a young dog for several years but had decided to wait until Pippy died. But even in old age, Pippy was thrilled when puppies visited, so I began to rethink my plan. Besides, I needed something healthy and joyful to make me laugh, to remind me that there was more to life than a slow spiral toward death.

  Both pups settled into the farm quickly enough, following the tracks of chipmunks behind the house, playing with toys on the threadbare Oriental rug in the living room. But one of them followed me everywhere and seemed to care deeply about what I was doing and where I was going. His brother was better-looking but a bit more independent. Every time I gazed down at the plain one, he was looking up at me with soft, radiant eyes.

  What is it about eyes that convey so much information but whose qualities seem beyond language? We have so few words to describe the depth of spirit and emotion conveyed by eyes that they all seem a bit trite. But it was his eyes that hooked me. I’d look down at this black-and-white fluff ball, and he’d gaze at me, his eyes looking deep into mine. Imploringly, as if always asking me a question. I didn’t know what it was, but somehow it seemed imperative that I find the answer. I knew by the end of the first day that I couldn’t let him go. I named him Will.

  • • • • •

  That night, Will and I cuddled together on the living room floor, his little puppy body curled up on my stomach while the three girls encircled us. I stroked their bellies and scratched their ears and murmured to them that life was good, and no matter what happened next, love and determination would see us through.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I live on a farm in southern Wisconsin, a twelve-acre parcel that I cherish and curse and can’t imagine living without. The farm is tiny compared to the properties of my neighbors, who live on a hundred, two hundred, four hundred acres. I envy them their huge open fields and hour-long walks through the woods. But I fell in love with my land in 1982, the moment when I stepped out of a Realtor’s car and stood on the hill overlooking the house.

  I had already looked at the farmhouse—your basic black-and-white two-story structure replicated around the countryside like huge dice settled into the hills, with white siding, black window frames, and a porch sagging off the front of the house. The inside was a mess. There had been a fire upstairs, and the ceilings were black with smoke. The previous tenant
s had attempted to repair the damage done by the earlier renters—labeled “them hippies” by the neighbors—but the walls underneath the fake walnut paneling had so many cracks, it was unclear exactly what was holding up the house.

  After the house tour, the Realtor drove me up a steep, rocky road to the field that overlooked the house and the valley in which it sat. As if in a dream, I walked out of the car and turned around 360 degrees to soak in the view of rolling hills covered by an oak-hickory forest. I trotted to the highest point of the field, where I could see the hills of Blue Mounds State Park. Huge white oak trees surrounded the field, their thick horizontal branches proclaiming access to the sun as they grew from acorns into guardians of the woods.

  I looked down at the house nestled between the hills that cradled it like a cupped set of hands. I didn’t care about the house—all I cared about was the view. As I stood at the highest point of the field, surrounded by hills and forest, I felt lighter, happier, as if something inside had softened in a way that made me stronger. I turned to the Realtor and blurted out, “This is it.”

  For years I had dreamed of living in the country in my own house, after decades in small apartments that smelled like cabbage or rented houses that could be sold out from under me at a moment’s notice. But I never really believed it could happen until I stood in that field, turning around in circles, transfixed by the view. Over thirty years later, I still walk up the farm road and look at the surrounding hills, in awe that I live here. This is my farm, my land, my refuge.

  I have lived on that farm by myself; with my ex-husband, Patrick; and now with my “third time’s a charm” husband, Jim. I can’t imagine being here without him. His voice is warm and kind and makes me happy to hear it. Before he retired, I used to call his office just to hear him speak his name on his answering machine. He likes my voice, too; that’s how we met, from a voice message I left when I answered his personal ad in the newspaper, saying that I lived in the country with a flock of sheep. When he tried to call me back, the box number assigned to my message had expired. He told me later that he couldn’t give up trying to find me because he loved my voice so much. He took out an ad in the paper that said in extra-large letters, “TRISHA WITH SHEEP, please call me.”