(from Appleseed Hollow)

Appleseed Hollow is a memoir of 20 years of communing with nature that Jack Lindeman spent on a farm with his artist friend in Lancaster County.

Yesterday was mostly consumed by our concern over two stray beagles suspected of killing eleven of neighbor Stephenson’s sheep and one of Elwood’s.

Elwood shot one of the dogs and was going to shoot the other one. The latter was sitting next to the corpse of its partner on the slope of the hill above Creek Road when I approached it, accompanied by Henrietta on a leash in case it proved unfriendly to me. Alas, the poor little fellow was anything but unfriendly; in fact, he was the epitome of passivity except that he was in a state of fear and trembling. I transferred the leash from Henrietta to the little beagle’s old worn collar and walked him down the hill, across the road, and around to the back porch of the farmhouse. When D. saw how thin and how full of apprehnsion the dog was, she was furious at Elwood for having so hastily taken the life of the other one. This fellow was certainly no sheep-killer and it was hardly likely that his dead partner was either.

*

The sadness of an innocent dog being shot and killed. This is the theme that has dominated life on the farm for the past few days. As D. put it, “This is exactly how innocent men are lynched by angry, ignorant mobs.” It was Elwood’s impetuosity, his blind determination to revenge the killing of his ram. He had no intention of patiently interrogating the accused assassin or assassins. Suspicion was all the evidence he needed. The sheep was dead. Two other sheep and three lambs had jumped the fence the night before, presumably in flight from whatever animal or animals were chasing them. Then came morning and the discovery of the two beagles. They scampered away in fright when Elwood and his youngest son, Bryan, approached them. It was after this that the buck was found lying on his back dead only a few yards from the fence. Later, Elwood declared that he should have shot the dogs when he first saw them and would have too if he had known about the buck then.

At the other end of the pasture, where the whole flock was now gathered, Elwood spotted the two beagles again behind a newly erected shelter for the sheep. Originally he had only borrowed the sheep to clear out the jungled portions of Appleseed Hollow, but he confessed to me the other day, rather guardedly, that he finally decided to buy them. Now they were his and one of his bucks had been killed by those dogs.

The way he told me that it happened was that he hollered at the dogs hoping to scare them away. But they didn’t seem to scare so easily. Instead, they circled around the trees acting as if they were about to have another try at the sheep, perhaps forcing one of the wooly critters to become separated from the flock and then running it down until it dropped over dead from exhaustion. If they once got started, he thought, and began racing among the sheep there was nothing he could really do about it, since he couldn’t shoot them for fear of hitting one of the sheep. Yet there was another moment of hesitation. He didn’t relish the idea of killing those dogs either. But standing next to him was little Bryan, eyeing first the dogs and then his father. The kid had already made up his mind the dogs had to be shot. He had a gun too, but no ammunition. If he had, he certainly needed no one to tell him what he had to do with it. The dogs in the meantime kept circling the trees and snarling. They were hunting dogs and if they had any power of reasoning inside their tiny heads, they surely must have respected the long dark instrument being thrust towards them. Their owner and how they must have wished for his presence who had either abandoned them or simply lost them, was probably fond of hunting himself and had doubtless taken them out with him many times in quest of rabbits and pheasants.

And how they loved to track the scent of a hare. But today their customary role was reversed, for they were the prey.

Elwood suddenly stopped shouting at the dogs. He stared down into Bryan’s eyes and then without saying a word, raised his rifle to his shoulder, bent his head slightly, and aimed at the larger of the two dogs as it trotted nervously between two apple trees. Crack! Yet it wasn ‘t a particularly loud noise. Seconds later, the sound of yelping could be heard and the two dogs started running towards the edge of the woods where it slopes down towards the road.

When Elwood, Bryan, and I walked along the road, since it was easier to see into the woods from the road than push up through the brambles and undergrowth down the hill from the other side, we saw the dogs, even though they were partly concealed by the trees. One of them was definitely lying down, perhaps wounded or dead, while the other was walking around it with quick anxious steps. Some of the cars passing along the road stopped, the curiosity of the occupants having been aroused by the sight of a man and a boy standing in the middle of the road with rifles in their hands, rifles they appeared to be preparing to use. When Elwood tried to explain to the more inquisitive ones what had happened, many of them advised, “Shoot the goddamn bitches!” Then along came a young man with a blond beard wearing a red sweatshirt. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and was holding the antlers of a deer in one of his hands. Deer season had begun this very day and this young Daniel Boone had already bagged his first victim. He was treated to a variation of the story and responded with a reiteration of the advice given by the motorists.

Elwood was afraid to move any closer to the dogs. If the one he had shot was only wounded, it might be dangerous and the other one too might try to attack him. He wanted to shoot the latter, who was now lying down only a foot or so from his inert comrade. And so there we stood in the middle of the road, the three of us staring at those little dogs for half an hour as if they were a pair of lions or tigers. The longer we stared at them the bigger they seemed to grow. I soon even began expressing the opinion that those dogs were a damn sight larger than beagles. “No,” I continued very authoritatively, “they are probably foxhounds and therefore big enough to have killed a buck.” Yet at the same time I kept trying to dissuade Elwood from pumping lead into the second dog. Finally he decided to drive into town and call the local dog warden for advice as to his rights as a sheep owner.

It must have been no more than a half hour later when Elwood’s green truck came roaring down the road. I had returned to the house for lunch, at which time Kurtz dropped in for a visit and I spieled out the whole episode to him. He said he would like to have a look at the dogs. We walked down the road and were standing on the shoulder peering through the trees when Elwood drove up. The dog he shot didn’t appear to be moving. His older boy Robin was now also in the cab of the truck with him. Elwood had a happy, contented look on his face, indicating that a burden had been lifted from his mind. He leaned his head out of the window and smiling gleefully said, “He told me to shoot the other dog too.” He now knew what the law expected him to do so that what he really wanted to do all along was perfectly legal. There was no perplexing thorn pricking his conscience any longer. The decision had been made for him; the heavy responsibility was now as light as a chicken feather. “I’ll give D. fifteen minutes to catch that dog and tie it up or else I’m going to shoot it.” There was a happy twinkle of authority in his eyes. The pair of kids sitting in the cab with him were smiling admiration all over their faces as though their father had suddenly metamorphosed into an big African game hunter who has just cut down a dangerous lion and was about to do the same to another one that was equally menacing. Again he reiterated more words from the mouth of authority. “He told me if that dog gets away and kills more sheep I’ll be held responsible, and furthermore, he said that even if it only gets away I won’t receive any compensation from the state for my dead sheep.” Then somewhat apologetically, he added, “Well, what else can I do? I have no choice.” With these words, he gunned the motor and quickly disappeared around the bend in the road. Huber Kurtz, who was standing next to me, summed the situation up with a terseness I myself could not have improved upon: “What a mess!”

When I returned to the house Elwood was already on the porch with D. telling her what he had told me. In the meantime, I had formulated a strategy in my mind for luring the dog to a leash. Not knowing whether it was a male or a female, I decided to approach the dog with Henrietta accompanying me. While the two dogs were sniffing each other to get acquainted I’d snap the leash on its collar. I was sure I had detected a collar around its neck.

Elwood and his two boys climbed the bank from the road while I came at the dog from the other side, that is, from the slope halfway up the power line hill. Henrietta was on a leash and Elwood’s dog Yogi was following close behind. In mournful silence the little dog was sitting on its haunches next to what I was now conviced was the corpse of its unfortunate buddy. However, as I advanced closer he began growling. Elwood was just stepping over the wire fence a few feet behind me, holding his gun at the ready. But as soon as I saw how small and emaciated the growling dog was, I felt ashamed of myself and of Elwood too. I could hear the brittle defoliated vines and brambles being crunched beneath my feet as I moved more gingerly toward the dogs. Yet Elwood was still circumspect, thrusting his gun out in front of him like an infantryman ready for action. At last I found myself standing over the little beagle, which turned out to be a male who immediately made friends with Henrietta. Yogi merely walked away with a look of indifference in his eyes. The poor canine was all skin and bones and trembling with fright. Both his eyes were caked with mucous. Back at the house D. took him up in her arms and began stroking him.

“Why, this poor creature,” she exclaimed, “couldn’t have harmed a lame kitten.” Then she asked, “Was the other one like this?” I shook my head sadly as I answered, “Yes, though perhaps a wee bit larger.” “Then Elwood has shot an innocent dog,” she concluded. The next day an official from the state came to investigate the dead sheep in order to verify the claim Elwood intended to file for compensation. When the official read back the report he had written on the form and came to the words “killed by two beagle dogs,” D.’s conscience or sense of justice was so piqued she couldn’t control herself and burst into a loud crescendo of protest. “At worst,” she shouted, “you can only call those dogs the alleged killers. You have no proof they’re guilty. Why stigmatize what may very well be two innocent dogs with a crime they probably never committed? This is exactly the kind of justice that is handed out to people who have been accused of some wrongdoing without ever having been proved guilty.” The official’s reaction to this unexpected tidbit of morality was a loud supercilious laugh, not fully realizing perhaps how deadly serious D. was. “What are you,lady, one of those dog nuts?” This induced a near-screaming response, “No, I am not a dog nut, but you are an ignorant brute trying to wrap up your case in a neat little package by pinning the death of a sheep on two little innocent dogs, one of which has already been shot.”

On the following day the owner of the dogs came. D. had located him via the number on the dog’s license. He was a poor old grandfatherly day laborer who was genuinely heartbroken over the fact that one of his dogs had been shot and killed. He said that the two dogs were ten years old and had been stolen from his barn, where they were tied up, at the beginning of the hunting season. He had advertised for them over the radio and in the newspaper. He insisted that both dogs were scared stiff of sheep and could not possibly have killed Elwood’s buck and eleven of neighbor Stephenson’s sheep. He was happy to recover the one dog but said that his granddaughter would cry when she learned how one of her pet beagles was shot. “The two dogs,” he tried to explain, “were simply lost and couldn’t find their way home.” He unchained the elated, tail-wagging, excited little survivor, picked him up and carried him out to his parked car in the driveway. After he had placed the dog in the front seat of his car he pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to D. saying, “I guess I ought to be thankful I got the one dog back. Here, take this for your trouble.”

Two days later I ran into Elwood at the grocery store in town and he admitted he felt like a heel, adding, “I believe those dogs were just plain scared and were trying to circle around the flock of sheep to avoid them.”

——————————

The tragic irony of an innocent bystander paying the full penalty while the culprit remains free and unsuspected fell upon us with a vengeance last night. Half our flock of sheep was wiped out by a strange dog or pack of dogs. The bloody remains were scattered over the road and in the small field in front of the barn. No doubt the same killer or killers who made a dent in Stephenson’s flock last week visited us last night. Yogi was sleeping outside on the back porch but made no commotion, or if he did, it certainly was not loud enough to warn us that something unusual was afoot. And, just think, it happened on the twenty-seventh anniversary of Pearl Harbor. What a commemorative exercise for us. Elwood was disgusted and I have sought in vain for words to register my own feelings. An innocent beagle and at least twelve sheep and three lambs are dead while the killer is still at large. The remaining sheep have been brought down from the hill and placed in the barn, barnyard, and field between the millrace and the creek. Elwood has been driving out from Christiana every hour to check on them.

I have been stunned into silence by the turmoil of tragedy which visited us today. Early this morning at about seven o’clock the killer dogs returned to the scene of yesterday’s carnage and attempted to finish their work of iniquity. They almost succeeded. As far as we can estimate at the moment, half of the proscribed sheep escaped unscathed while most of the others were mutilated rather horribly though not killed outright. However, many of the latter will probably die in a day or so.

Elwood had just returned to Christiana feeling satisfied that everything in the barnyard and field was under control. There was no hint of any disturbance only a few minutes before the dogs made their second strike. Elwood had convinced himself that daylight had brought with it an increasing measure of safety for the surviving sheep. Barbara, in the other house on our farm, had already put Henrietta out on her rope leash. But no sooner did she return to the house than Henrietta began barking with a disturbing persistence. Barbara looked out her kitchen window and there on the bank near the waterfall were two German shepherds, one black and the other beige, attacking a black-faced sheep. She called her son Jeffrey and her daughter Debbie, who were busy downstairs getting themselves ready for school. Then she ran to the phone and tried to call us. No answer. Next she tried Elwood. He answered and she told him in an excited stuttering voice what was happening. Again she tried us. D. heard the ring but refused to answer. I finally picked up the phone. It was the dogs attempting to repeat their butchery of yesterday. I quickly slipped on shoes, pants, a sweater, and a coat and dashed out the kitchen door. Dead and near-dead bleeding sheep were scattered over the barnyard. I ran through the gate towards the slope leading down to the road and the covered bridge. But as soon as I was able to catch a view of the land on the other side of the road between the creek and the road, I stopped short and gave vent to a threatening yell, for there were the same two dogs Barbara had seen, trying to run down a ewe. They heard my yell and were obviously frightened by it, since they immediately ceased their pursuit of the sheep and turned tail, making a hectic retreat through the woods along the creek. In a few minutes I lost sight of them and with the two wire fences obstructing me, I could hardly have run after them. It was then that Elwood came driving along Creek Road in his green pick-up truck. His son Robin was with him.

We tried to track the dogs down in the truck and later in a car, but failed to catch up to them. They had made a successful getaway for the time being. A half hour later, as we were rounding up the newly dead and wounded sheep, a station wagon driven by a state official in a blue uniform and cap pulled into the driveway. He made a casual survey of the carnage, after which I suggested he speak to Barbara, who had had a much closer view of the dogs than I’d had. Elwood and I had already driven over to Libby Clark’s hollow to inspect her black dog and to the Shoves, a wealthy old couple who owned much of the land across the creek, where a large black dog and another of equal size, but brown, were reported to be living. We only saw the black one at the Shoves and I said that as far as I was concerned it could easily have been one of the culprits. I had spoken to Barbara earlier and she thought it might be worthwhile if either Elwood or I made an inquiry at the house a mile or so down the creek on the other side, where a footbridge is located. Two fairly good-sized dogs are known to be living there. And this is exactly where she took the state official. And, as we might have hoped, this was where the two killer dogs actually lived. One of them, the black one, still had bloodstains around his mouth and throat. Barbara felt certain these were the dogs. The bloodstains were irrefutable evidence, and the state dog warden agreed. When he informed the woman who answered the door about what her dogs had done she burst into tears. She said between sobs that one of the dogs, I forget which one, was a pet and slept inside the house but was usually let out early in the morning. It was then that these two canine Jekylls changed into Hydes. While the conversation about them was in progress the dogs behaved with friendly nonchalant airs. Since neither dog had a license on his collar the dog warden explained that she and her husband were subject to a fine from $300 to $800, which might be waived providing they paid for the sheep that had been killed. Her husband operates a service station in nearby Cochranville on Route 41, which was where the dog warden went after dropping Barbara off at the farm.

The owner later called D. on the telephone and in a mea culpa tone of voice said how sorry he was and guessed that he would have to put his pair of sheep-killers to sleep. D. called the local vet asking him to come over as soon as he could to try to save some of the wounded sheep. He sent his new assistant over immediately who gave tetanus shots to those sheep he thought had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. Our barn looks as though it has been hastily revamped into a temporary field hospital for the war wounded. It is full of moaning and groaning sheep, some dying and some suffering who will probably recover. One of the wounded sheep we didn’t bring up to the barn is still sitting by the little bridge that spans the millrace. She has been standing there like a statue for a couple of hours. The veterinarian also gave Yogi a shot of penicillin because he has developed an abcess on his neck, probably the result of one of his bouts with Patches. Towards sunset a call came from one of the houses across the creek on the Shoves property. Two sheep were seen wandering over there. D. passed the word along to me and I took a run down to the creek. There they were, two young Cheviots, completely unharmed, standing under a tree on the opposite bank. Near where they were standing, half out of the water, was the corpse of another sheep. She either wasn’t able to climb the bank, or after her fatiguing run and swim slipped off the bank and didn’t have enough strength in her legs to make her way up the muddy incline again. When I first saw her I mistook her for a boulder.

We drove the long way around to the house on the other side of the creek. Before we started walking down the slope towards the water, Mrs. M, the lady who called us, handed me two fresh corncobs with which I could bait the sheep if it was necessary. D. had brought a rope along, thinking she could tie it around the neck of one of the sheep and lead it. As soon as we got within a few feet of them I tried to lure them away from the water with the corncobs, but they wouldn’t budge. I thought they were being extraordinarily cautious, yet who could blame them after their hair-raising ordeal with the two police dogs only a few hours before. I tried talking to them in a soft, soothing voice while at the same time thrusting a cob of yellow corn towards them between the two strands of barbed wire that separated us. Yet I didn’t press my lure too far for fear I might frighten them into jumping in the creek. Instead, we decided to return with Elwood tomorrow and try again. They seemed to be safe where they were for the time being. Five of the other Cheviots had escaped the dogs unscathed, one running all the way to the horse farm a mile down the road. Our statistical count at the moment is seven healthy sheep out of a total of thirty-one. How many of the wounded survivors will fully recover, not even the veterinarian could say.

While I was talking to Barbara in her hallway this evening the constable from Christiana knocked on the door. He wanted to know her last name. He told us that the dogs had already been taken away but that the one which had been claimed as a pet had been returned by the veterinarian who had taken them. A guarantee was given that he would be penned up. Neither dog, thank goodness, had rabies. The constable’s parting words were something less than reassuring, for he said that if any more sheep were killed we would know right away which dog to blame. Barbara and I looked at each other with puzzled expressions on our faces. Does this mean that we will have to live with this canine threat hanging over our sheep, chickens, and geese for the next dozen years? It appeared that the constable had been successfully persuaded by the owners that only one of the dogs was guilty. Barbara, Debbie, Jeff, and I were witnesses to the equal guilt of both dogs. One thing is for certain, and that is the poor beagle Elwood shot last week was as innocent as the five dogs who live in Appleseed Hollow.

*

One of the wounded sheep died today. Yet a number of the other injured ones show genuine signs of healing. This is indicated by some of them rising up on all four legs for the first time since they were attacked. A number of these have even begun walking about, whereas a few days ago they were absolutely immobile. One of our favorite Cheviots, Nancy, received a bad bite in the neck and was lying in the millrace yesterday more dead than alive. Today she was up and walking around even though she still doesn’t have the strength to make it to the barn. This evening, after dark, I found her lying in a field a few yards from the millrace. I placed a bundle of fresh hay beside her, which she immediately began eating, and a pot of water. What will happen to the hospital list tomorrow there is no way of telling. The field, which has been transformed into a morgue, is still littered with cadavers. The burial party has been postponed because D. insists she is not going to be rushed into burying them in some unsatisfactory corner of Appleseed Hollow.

*

D. has finally retreated from her unreasonable stand over the burial of the sheep. A mass grave has been selected at the end of the millrace closest to the other house. Since the ground is frozen and therefore difficult to dig, it will take at least one truckload of dirt to completely conceal the corpses.

This morning when I awakened and looked through the bathroom window I noticed reddish bodies moving about in the barnyard. At first I thought it was the ponies. In a few minutes, however, I realized that what I was looking at was the bloodstained wool of the wounded sheep.

Elwood was able to entice the two stranded Cheviots on the other side of the creek into rope collars. He brought them back in his truck this evening.

*

In the barn this morning we found three sheep and one lamb dead. Nancy finally made her way up to the barnyard under her own power. The ewe known as Freckles, who is the mother of the only surviving lamb both mother and offspring are black-faced is still rather wobbly. For some reason, no doubt related to her suffering, she seems excessively thirsty. She also is continually drooling. Elwood doesn’t think she will survive.

The dead sheep and lambs are still lying in the field above the driveway in front of the barn. The burial will not come off until tomorrow morning. The cadavers will be covered with a truckload of dirt.

*

By noon today the dead sheep, along with the executed beagle, will be buried under that truckload of dirt at the end of the millrace. Two or three of the more mutilated survivors are showing a decided interest in water, which is abnormal for sheep. The others appear to be mending well. Later this afternoon I noticed the chickens were pecking at the dry blood on the ground where the dead sheep had been lying.

*

D. cut Nancy’s collar off. She remarked beforehand that the poor ewe was suffering even more because the collar was rubbing against the exposed flesh on her neck. I noticed when I fed the sheep this morning she was unable to raise her head. I fed her some oats from the pot we use as a dipper by leaning over the stall boards and holding it as low as I possibly could. She did fine until her disabled sister Freckles came into the stall from the barnyard to push her aside.

*

Nancy finally died. This morning we found her in one of the stalls, lying on her stomach wheezing. D. is convinced she had pneumonia. Anyway, while there was still some life left in her, D. decided to call the vet, who got here a little after noon. He stood her up on her legs and gave her a camphor injection, which he said would break up the congestion in her head from within. He also left a cold powder which must be dissolved in water before it is administered. D. asked him if Vicks might also help. He said it might. I drove into Christiana for a bottle and D. rubbed some of it on Nancy’s nose. Not long after this treatment was completed she was down on her stomach again, breathing harder this time. We barricaded her in one of the stalls because we were putting the ponies inside the barn on account of the weatherman’s prediction of snow tonight and tomorrow.

It was an hour after D. had applied the Vicks to Nancy’s nose that I brought the ponies into the barn. I then noticed our favorite ewe lying on her side in a seemingly lifeless state. A closer examination of her verified my suspicion. What finally finished her off is hard to say. The vet diagnosed her cold condition as being entirely in her head and not in her chest. There was an infection on her face where she had been bitten by the dogs and another one on her rump where she had been badly mauled. This reduces the number of live sheep to fifteen. The vet cut off Freckles’ dangling ear and disinfected the whole side of her head. The heavy rainfall washed the bloodstains from the wool of the injured sheep. They all appear to be definitely on the road to recovery.

*

We were somewhat peeved at Elwood for not having shown up for two days. Tonight, with D. holding the wheelbarrow, I lifted the heavy carcass of poor Nancy onto it after having dragged the dead ewe out of the second stall a few hours earlier. It had been lying in the stall for three days.

Earlier today Barbara informed me that some of the limbs and heads of the dead sheep, which were supposed to have been buried under the truckload of dirt last week, not more than twenty-five yards from her house, were beginning to peep through their earthly cover. If this were darkest Africa instead of Lancaster County, USA, hyenas and jackals would surely be invading our happy vale.

*

Elwood finally got around to trying to bury Nancy. I say “trying” because the ground is so hard it is impossible to make more than a faint dent in it with our sharpest pick or to scrape off enough dirt to conceal her carcass. I also found Barbara’s alarm over the protuberances beneath the truckload of dirt no exaggeration. The dirt is spread so thin in places that if the sheep were miraculously to come alive they could easily resume their grazing positions in the field without being aware of ever having been buried.

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