"You don't have to look so pleased with yourself," I said as I loaded him into the backseat. But pleased he was. He could not have looked happier had I bought him his own Caribbean island. What he did not know was that this would be his last time setting a paw in any body of salt water. His days-or rather, hours-as a beach b.u.m were behind him. "Well, Salty Dog," I said on the drive home, "you've done it this time. If dogs are banned from Dog Beach, we'll know why." It would take several more years, but in the end that's exactly what happened.

CHAPTER 21.

A Northbound Plane.

Shortly after Colleen turned two, I inadvertently set off a fateful series of events that would lead us to leave Florida. And I did it with the click of a mouse. I had wrapped up my column early for the day and found myself with a half hour to kill as I waited for my editor. On a whim I decided to check out the website of a magazine I had been subscribing to since not long after we bought our West Palm Beach house. The magazine was Organic Gardening, Organic Gardening, which was launched in 1942 by the eccentric J. I. Rodale and went on to become the bible of the back-to-the-earth movement that blossomed in the 1960s and 1970s. which was launched in 1942 by the eccentric J. I. Rodale and went on to become the bible of the back-to-the-earth movement that blossomed in the 1960s and 1970s.

Rodale had been a New York City businessman specializing in electrical switches when his health began to fail. Instead of turning to modern medicine to solve his problems, he moved from the city to a small farm outside the tiny borough of Emmaus, Pennsylvania, and began playing in the dirt. He had a deep distrust of technology and believed the modern farming and gardening methods sweeping the country, nearly all of them relying on chemical pesticides and fertilizers, were not the saviors of American agriculture they purported to be. Rodale's theory was that the chemicals were gradually poisoning the earth and all of its inhabitants. He began experimenting with farming techniques that mimicked nature. On his farm, he built huge compost piles of decaying plant matter, which, once the material had turned to rich black humus, he used as fertilizer and a natural soil builder. He covered the dirt in his garden rows with a thick carpet of straw to suppress weeds and retain moisture. He planted cover crops of clover and alfalfa and then plowed them under to return nutrients to the soil. Instead of spraying for insects, he unleashed thousands of ladybugs and other beneficial insects that devoured the destructive ones. He was a bit of a kook, but his theories proved themselves. His garden flourished and so did his health, and he trumpeted his successes in the pages of his magazine.

By the time I started reading Organic Gardening, Organic Gardening, J. I. Rodale was long dead and so was his son, Robert, who had built his father's business, Rodale Press, into a multimillion-dollar publishing company. The magazine was not very well written or edited; reading it, you got the impression it was put out by a group of dedicated but amateurish devotees of J.I.'s philosophy, serious gardeners with no professional training as journalists; later I would learn this was exactly the case. Regardless, the organic philosophy increasingly made sense to me, especially after Jenny's miscarriage and our suspicion that it might have had something to do with the pesticides we had used. By the time Colleen was born, our yard was a little organic oasis in a suburban sea of chemical weed-and-feed applications and pesticides. Pa.s.sersby often stopped to admire our thriving front garden, which I tended with increasing pa.s.sion, and they almost always asked the same question: "What do you put on it to make it look so good?" When I answered, "I don't," they looked at me uncomfortably, as though they had just stumbled upon something unspeakably subversive going on in well-ordered, h.o.m.ogeneous, conformist Boca Raton. J. I. Rodale was long dead and so was his son, Robert, who had built his father's business, Rodale Press, into a multimillion-dollar publishing company. The magazine was not very well written or edited; reading it, you got the impression it was put out by a group of dedicated but amateurish devotees of J.I.'s philosophy, serious gardeners with no professional training as journalists; later I would learn this was exactly the case. Regardless, the organic philosophy increasingly made sense to me, especially after Jenny's miscarriage and our suspicion that it might have had something to do with the pesticides we had used. By the time Colleen was born, our yard was a little organic oasis in a suburban sea of chemical weed-and-feed applications and pesticides. Pa.s.sersby often stopped to admire our thriving front garden, which I tended with increasing pa.s.sion, and they almost always asked the same question: "What do you put on it to make it look so good?" When I answered, "I don't," they looked at me uncomfortably, as though they had just stumbled upon something unspeakably subversive going on in well-ordered, h.o.m.ogeneous, conformist Boca Raton.

That afternoon in my office, I clicked through the screens at organicgardening.com organicgardening.com and eventually found my way to a b.u.t.ton that said "Career Opportunities." I clicked on it, why I'm still not sure. I loved my job as a columnist; loved the daily interaction I had with readers; loved the freedom to pick my own topics and be as serious or as flip-pant as I wanted to be. I loved the newsroom and the quirky, brainy, neurotic, idealistic people it attracted. I loved being in the middle of the biggest story of the day. I had no desire to leave newspapers for a sleepy publishing company in the middle of nowhere. Still, I began scrolling through the Rodale job postings, more idly curious than anything, but midway down the list I stopped cold. and eventually found my way to a b.u.t.ton that said "Career Opportunities." I clicked on it, why I'm still not sure. I loved my job as a columnist; loved the daily interaction I had with readers; loved the freedom to pick my own topics and be as serious or as flip-pant as I wanted to be. I loved the newsroom and the quirky, brainy, neurotic, idealistic people it attracted. I loved being in the middle of the biggest story of the day. I had no desire to leave newspapers for a sleepy publishing company in the middle of nowhere. Still, I began scrolling through the Rodale job postings, more idly curious than anything, but midway down the list I stopped cold. Organic Gardening, Organic Gardening, the company's flagship magazine, was seeking a new managing editor. My heart skipped a beat. I had often daydreamed about the huge difference a decent journalist could make at the magazine, and now here was my chance. It was crazy; it was ridiculous. A career editing stories about cauliflower and compost? Why would I want to do that? the company's flagship magazine, was seeking a new managing editor. My heart skipped a beat. I had often daydreamed about the huge difference a decent journalist could make at the magazine, and now here was my chance. It was crazy; it was ridiculous. A career editing stories about cauliflower and compost? Why would I want to do that?

That night I told Jenny about the opening, fully expecting her to tell me I was insane for even considering it. Instead she surprised me by encouraging me to send a resume. The idea of leaving the heat and humidity and congestion and crime of South Florida for a simpler life in the country appealed to her. She missed four seasons and hills. She missed falling leaves and spring daffodils. She missed icicles and apple cider. She wanted our kids and, as ridiculous as it sounds, our dog to experience the wonders of a winter blizzard. "Marley's never even chased a s...o...b..ll," she said, stroking his fur with her bare foot.

"Now, there's a good reason for changing careers," I said.

"You should do it just to satisfy your curiosity," she said. "See what happens. If they offer it to you, you can always turn them down."

I had to admit I shared her dream about moving north again. As much as I enjoyed our dozen years in South Florida, I was a northern native who had never learned to stop missing three things: rolling hills, changing seasons, and open land. Even as I grew to love Florida with its mild winters, spicy food, and comically irascible mix of people, I did not stop dreaming of someday escaping to my own private paradise-not a postage-stamp-sized lot in the heart of hyperprecious Boca Raton but a real piece of land where I could dig in the dirt, chop my own firewood, and tromp through the forest, my dog at my side.

I applied, fully convincing myself it was just a lark. Two weeks later the phone rang and it was J.I. Rodale's granddaughter, Maria Rodale. I had sent my letter to "Dear Human Resources" and was so surprised to be hearing from the owner of the company that I asked her to repeat her last name. Maria had taken a personal interest in the magazine her grandfather had founded, and she was intent on returning it to its former glory. She was convinced she needed a professional journalist, not another earnest organic gardener, to do that, and she wanted to take on more challenging and important stories about the environment, genetic engineering, factory farming, and the burgeoning organic movement.

I arrived for the job interview fully intending to play hard to get, but I was hooked the moment I drove out of the airport and onto the first curving, two-lane country road. At every turn was another postcard: a stone farmhouse here, a covered bridge there. Icy brooks gurgled down hillsides, and furrowed farmland stretched to the horizon like G.o.d's own golden robes. It didn't help that it was spring and every last tree in the Lehigh Valley was in full, glorious bloom. At a lonely country stop sign, I stepped out of my rental car and stood in the middle of the pavement. For as far as I could see in any direction, there was nothing but woods and meadows. Not a car, not a person, not a building. At the first pay phone I could find, I called Jenny. "You're not going to believe this place," I said.

Two months later the movers had the entire contents of our Boca house loaded into a gigantic truck. An auto carrier arrived to haul off our car and minivan. We turned the house keys over to the new owners and spent our last night in Florida sleeping on the floor of a neighbor's home, Marley sprawled out in the middle of us. "Indoor camping!" Patrick shrieked.

The next morning I arose early and took Marley for what would be his last walk on Florida soil. He sniffed and tugged and pranced as we circled the block, stopping to lift his leg on every shrub and mailbox we came to, happily oblivious to the abrupt change I was about to foist on him. I had bought a st.u.r.dy plastic travel crate to carry him on the airplane, and following Dr. Jay's advice, I clamped open Marley's jaws after our walk and slipped a double dose of tranquilizers down his throat. By the time our neighbor dropped us off at Palm Beach International Airport, Marley was red-eyed and exceptionally mellow. We could have strapped him to a rocket and he wouldn't have minded.

In the terminal, the Grogan clan cut a fine form: two wildly excited little boys racing around in circles, a hungry baby in a stroller, two stressed-out parents, and one very stoned dog. Rounding out the lineup was the rest of our menagerie: two frogs, three goldfish, a hermit crab, a snail named Sluggy, and a box of live crickets for feeding the frogs. As we waited in line at check-in, I a.s.sembled the plastic pet carrier. It was the biggest one I could find, but when we reached the counter, a woman in uniform looked at Marley, looked at the crate, looked back at Marley, and said, "We can't allow that dog aboard in that container. He's too big for it."

"The pet store said this was the 'large dog' size," I pleaded.

"FAA regulations require that the dog can freely stand up inside and turn fully around," she explained, adding skeptically, "Go ahead, give it a try."

I opened the gate and called Marley, but he was not about to voluntarily walk into this mobile jail cell. I pushed and prodded, coaxed and cajoled; he wasn't budging. Where were the dog biscuits when I needed them? I searched my pockets for something to bribe him with, finally fishing out a tin of breath mints. This was as good as it was going to get. I took one out and held it in front of his nose. "Want a mint, Marley? Go get the mint!" and I tossed it into the crate. Sure enough, he took the bait and blithely entered the box.

The lady was right; he didn't quite fit. He had to scrunch down so his head wouldn't hit the ceiling; even with his nose touching the back wall, his b.u.t.t stuck out the open door. I scrunched his tail down and closed the gate, nudging his rear inside. "What did I tell you?" I said, hoping she would consider it a comfortable fit.

"He's got to be able to turn around," she said.

"Turn around, boy," I beckoned to him, giving a little whistle. "Come on, turn around." He shot a glance over his shoulder at me with those doper eyes, his head sc.r.a.ping the ceiling, as if awaiting instructions on just how to accomplish such a feat.

If he could not turn around, the airline was not letting him aboard the flight. I checked my watch. We had twelve minutes left to get through security, down the concourse, and onto the plane. "Come here, Marley!" I said more desperately. "Come on!" I snapped my fingers, rattled the metal gate, made kissy-kissy sounds. "Come on," I pleaded. "Turn around." I was about to drop to my knees and beg when I heard a crash, followed almost immediately by Patrick's voice.

"Oops," he said.

"The frogs are loose!" Jenny screamed, jumping into action.

"Froggy! Croaky! Come back!" the boys yelled in unison.

My wife was on all fours now, racing around the terminal as the frogs cannily stayed one hop ahead of her. Pa.s.sersby began to stop and stare. From a distance you could not see the frogs at all, just the crazy lady with the diaper bag hanging from her neck, crawling around like she had started the morning off with a little too much moonshine. From their expressions, I could tell they fully expected her to start howling at any moment.

"Excuse me a second," I said as calmly as I could to the airline worker, then joined Jenny on my hands and knees.

After doing our part to entertain the early-morning travel crowd, we finally captured Froggy and Croaky just as they were ready to make their final leap for freedom out the automatic doors. As we turned back, I heard a mighty ruckus coming from the dog crate. The entire box shivered and lurched across the floor, and when I peered in I saw that Marley had somehow gotten himself turned around. "See?" I said to the baggage supervisor. "He can turn around, no problem."

"Okay," she said with a frown. "But you're really pushing it."

Two workers lifted Marley and his crate onto a dolly and wheeled him away. The rest of us raced for our plane, arriving at the gate just as the flight attendants were closing the hatch. It occurred to me that if we missed the flight, Marley would be arriving alone in Pennsylvania, a scene of potential pandemonium I did not even want to contemplate. "Wait! We're here!" I shouted, pushing Colleen ahead of me, the boys and Jenny trailing by fifty feet.

As we settled into our seats, I finally allowed myself to exhale. We had gotten Marley squared away. We had captured the frogs. We had made the flight. Next stop, Allentown, Pennsylvania. I could relax now. Through the window I watched as a tram pulled up with the dog crate sitting on it. "Look," I said to the kids. "There's Marley." They waved out the window and called, "Hi, Waddy!"

As the engines revved and the flight attendant went over the safety precautions, I pulled out a magazine. That's when I noticed Jenny freeze in the row in front of me. Then I heard it, too. From below our feet, deep in the bowels of the plane, came a sound, m.u.f.fled but undeniable. It was pitifully mournful sound, a sort of primal call that started low and rose as it went. Oh, dear Jesus, he's down there howling. Oh, dear Jesus, he's down there howling. For the record, Labrador retrievers do not howl. Beagles howl. Wolves howl. Labs do not howl, at least not well. Marley had attempted to howl twice before, both times in answer to a pa.s.sing police siren, tossing back his head, forming his mouth into an For the record, Labrador retrievers do not howl. Beagles howl. Wolves howl. Labs do not howl, at least not well. Marley had attempted to howl twice before, both times in answer to a pa.s.sing police siren, tossing back his head, forming his mouth into an O O shape, and letting loose the most pathetic sound I have ever heard, more like he was gargling than answering the call of the wild. But now, no question about it, he was howling. shape, and letting loose the most pathetic sound I have ever heard, more like he was gargling than answering the call of the wild. But now, no question about it, he was howling.

The pa.s.sengers began to look up from their newspapers and novels. A flight attendant handing out pillows paused and c.o.c.ked her head quizzically. A woman across the aisle from us looked at her husband and asked: "Listen. Do you hear that? I think it's a dog." Jenny stared straight ahead. I stared into my magazine. If anyone asked, we were denying ownership.

"Waddy's sad," Patrick said.

No, son, I wanted to correct him, I wanted to correct him, some strange dog we have never seen before and have no knowledge of is sad. some strange dog we have never seen before and have no knowledge of is sad. But I just pulled my magazine higher over my face, following the advice of the immortal Richard Milhous Nixon: plausible deniability. The jet engines whined and the plane taxied down the runway, drowning out Marley's dirge. I pictured him down below in the dark hold, alone, scared, confused, stoned, not even able to fully stand up. I imagined the roaring engines, which in Marley's warped mind might be just another thunderous a.s.sault by random lightning bolts determined to take him out. The poor guy. I wasn't willing to admit he was mine, but I knew I would be spending the whole flight worrying about him. But I just pulled my magazine higher over my face, following the advice of the immortal Richard Milhous Nixon: plausible deniability. The jet engines whined and the plane taxied down the runway, drowning out Marley's dirge. I pictured him down below in the dark hold, alone, scared, confused, stoned, not even able to fully stand up. I imagined the roaring engines, which in Marley's warped mind might be just another thunderous a.s.sault by random lightning bolts determined to take him out. The poor guy. I wasn't willing to admit he was mine, but I knew I would be spending the whole flight worrying about him.

The airplane was barely off the ground when I heard another little crash, and this time it was Conor who said, "Oops." I looked down and then, once again, stared straight into my magazine. Plausible deniability. Plausible deniability. After several seconds, I furtively glanced around. When I was pretty sure no one was staring, I leaned forward and whispered into Jenny's ear: "Don't look now, but the crickets are loose." After several seconds, I furtively glanced around. When I was pretty sure no one was staring, I leaned forward and whispered into Jenny's ear: "Don't look now, but the crickets are loose."

CHAPTER 22.

In the Land of Pencils.

We settled into a rambling house on two acres perched on the side of a steep hill. Or perhaps it was a small mountain; the locals seemed to disagree on this point. Our property had a meadow where we could pick wild raspberries, a woods where I could chop logs to my heart's content, and a small, spring-fed creek where the kids and Marley soon found they could get exceptionally muddy. There was a fireplace and endless garden possibilities and a white-steepled church on the next hill, visible from our kitchen window when the leaves dropped in the fall.

Our new home even came with a neighbor right out of Central Casting, an orange-bearded bear of a man who lived in a 1790s stone farmhouse and on Sundays enjoyed sitting on his back porch and shooting his rifle into the woods just for fun, much to Marley's unnerved dismay. On our first day in our new house, he walked over with a bottle of homemade wild-cherry wine and a basket of the biggest blackberries I had ever seen. He introduced himself as Digger. As we surmised from the nickname, Digger made his living as an excavator. If we had any holes we needed dug or earth we wanted moved, he instructed, we were to just give a shout and he'd swing by with one of his big machines. "And if you hit a deer with your car, come get me," he said with a wink. "We'll butcher it up and split the meat before the game officer knows a thing." No doubt about it, we weren't in Boca anymore.

There was only one thing missing from our new bucolic existence. Minutes after we pulled into the driveway of our new house, Conor looked up at me, big tears rolling out of his eyes, and declared: "I thought there were going to be pencils in Pencilvania." For our boys, now ages seven and five, this was a near deal breaker. Given the name of the state we were adopting, both of them arrived fully expecting to see bright yellow writing implements hanging like berries from every tree and shrub, there for the plucking. They were crushed to learn otherwise.

What our property lacked in school supplies, it made up for in skunks, opossums, woodchucks, and poison ivy, which flourished along the edge of our woods and snaked up the trees, giving me hives just to look at it. One morning I glanced out the kitchen window as I fumbled with the coffeemaker and there staring back at me was a magnificent eight-point buck. Another morning a family of wild turkeys gobbled its way across the backyard. As Marley and I walked through the woods down the hill from our house one Sat.u.r.day, we came upon a mink trapper laying snares. A mink trapper! Almost in my backyard! What the Bocahontas set would have given for that connection.

Living in the country was at once peaceful, charming-and just a little lonely. The Pennsylvania Dutch were polite but cautious of outsiders. And we were definitely outsiders. After South Florida's legion crowds and lines, I should have been ecstatic about the solitude. Instead, at least in the early months, I found myself darkly ruminating over our decision to move to a place where so few others apparently wanted to live.

Marley, on the other hand, had no such misgivings. Except for the crack of Digger's gun going off, the new country lifestyle fit him splendidly. For a dog with more energy than sense, what wasn't to like? He raced across the lawn, crashed through the brambles, splashed through the creek. His life's mission was to catch one of the countless rabbits that considered my garden their own personal salad bar. He would spot a rabbit munching the lettuce and barrel off down the hill in hot pursuit, ears flapping behind him, paws pounding the ground, his bark filling the air. He was about as stealthy as a marching band and never got closer than a dozen feet before his intended prey scampered off into the woods to safety. True to his trademark, he remained eternally optimistic that success waited just around the bend. He would loop back, tail wagging, not discouraged in the least, and five minutes later do it all over again. Fortunately, he was no better at sneaking up on the skunks.

Autumn came and with it a whole new mischievous game: Attack the Leaf Pile. In Florida, trees did not shed their leaves in the fall, and Marley was positively convinced the foliage drifting down from the skies now was a gift meant just for him. As I raked the orange and yellow leaves into giant heaps, Marley would sit and watch patiently, biding his time, waiting until just the right moment to strike. Only after I had gathered a mighty towering pile would he slink forward, crouched low. Every few steps, he would stop, front paw raised, to sniff the air like a lion on the Serengeti stalking an unsuspecting gazelle. Then, just as I leaned on my rake to admire my handiwork, he would lunge, charging across the lawn in a series of bounding leaps, flying for the last several feet and landing in a giant belly flop in the middle of the pile, where he growled and rolled and flailed and scratched and snapped, and, for reasons not clear to me, fiercely chased his tail, not stopping until my neat leaf pile was scattered across the lawn again. Then he would sit up amid his his handiwork, the shredded remains of leaves clinging to his fur, and give me a self-satisfied look, as if his contribution were an integral part of the leaf-gathering process. handiwork, the shredded remains of leaves clinging to his fur, and give me a self-satisfied look, as if his contribution were an integral part of the leaf-gathering process.

Our first Christmas in Pennsylvania was supposed to be white. Jenny and I had had to do a sales job on Patrick and Conor to convince them that leaving their home and friends in Florida was for the best, and one of the big selling points was the promise of snow. Not just any kind of snow, but deep, fluffy, made-for-postcards snow, the kind that fell from the sky in big silent flakes, piled into drifts, and was of just the right consistency for shaping into snowmen. And snow for Christmas Day, well, that was best of all, the Holy Grail of northern winter experiences. We wantonly spun a Currier and Ives image for them of waking up on Christmas morning to a starkly white landscape, unblemished except for the solitary tracks of Santa's sleigh outside our front door.

In the week leading up to the big day, the three of them sat in the window together for hours, their eyes glued on the leaden sky as if they could will it to open and discharge its load. "Come on, snow!" the kids chanted. They had never seen it; Jenny and I hadn't seen it for the last quarter of our lives. We wanted snow, but the clouds would not give it up. A few days before Christmas, the whole family piled into the minivan and drove to a farm a half mile away where we cut a spruce tree and enjoyed a free hayride and hot apple cider around a bonfire. It was the kind of cla.s.sic northern holiday moment we had missed in Florida, but one thing was absent. Where was the d.a.m.n snow? Jenny and I were beginning to regret how recklessly we had hyped the inevitable first snowfall. As we hauled our fresh-cut tree home, the sweet scent of its sap filling the van, the kids complained about getting gypped. First no pencils, now no snow; what else had their parents lied to them about?

Christmas morning found a brand-new toboggan beneath the tree and enough snow gear to outfit an excursion to Antarctica, but the view out our windows remained all bare branches, dormant lawns, and brown cornfields. I built a cheery fire in the fireplace and told the children to be patient. The snow would come when the snow would come.

New Year's arrived and still it did not come. Even Marley seemed antsy, pacing and gazing out the windows, whimpering softly, as if he too felt he had been sold a bill of goods. The kids returned to school after the holiday, and still nothing. At the breakfast table they gazed sullenly at me, the father who had betrayed them. I began making lame excuses, saying things like "Maybe little boys and girls in some other place need the snow more than we do."

"Yeah, right, Dad," Patrick said.

Three weeks into the new year, the snow finally rescued me from my purgatory of guilt. It came during the night after everyone was asleep, and Patrick was the first to sound the alarm, running into our bedroom at dawn and yanking open the blinds. "Look! Look!" he squealed. "It's here!" Jenny and I sat up in bed to behold our vindication. A white blanket covered the hillsides and cornfields and pine trees and rooftops, stretching to the horizon. "Of course, it's here," I answered nonchalantly. "What did I tell you?"

The snow was nearly a foot deep and still coming down. Soon Conor and Colleen came chugging down the hall, thumbs in mouths, blankies trailing behind them. Marley was up and stretching, banging his tail into everything, sensing the excitement. I turned to Jenny and said, "I guess going back to sleep isn't an option," and when she confirmed it was not, I turned to the kids and shouted, "Okay, snow bunnies, let's suit up!"

For the next half hour we wrestled with zippers and leggings and buckles and hoods and gloves. By the time we were done, the kids looked like mummies and our kitchen like the staging area for the Winter Olympics. And competing in the Goof on Ice Downhill Compet.i.tion, Large Canine Division, was...Marley the Dog. I opened the front door and before anyone else could step out, Marley blasted past us, knocking the well-bundled Colleen over in the process. The instant his paws. .h.i.t the strange white stuff-Ah, wet! Ah, cold!-he had second thoughts and attempted an abrupt about-face. As anyone who has ever driven a car in snow knows, sudden braking coupled with tight U-turns is never a good idea.

Marley went into a full skid, his rear end spinning out in front of him. He dropped down on one flank briefly before bouncing upright again just in time to somersault down the front porch steps and headfirst into a snowdrift. When he popped back up a second later, he looked like a giant powdered doughnut. Except for a black nose and two brown eyes, he was completely dusted in white. The Abominable Snowdog. Marley did not know what to make of this foreign substance. He jammed his nose deep into it and let loose a violent sneeze. He snapped at it and rubbed his face in it. Then, as if an invisible hand reached down from the heavens and jabbed him with a giant shot of adrenaline, he took off at full throttle, racing around the yard in a series of giant, loping leaps interrupted every several feet by a random somersault or nosedive. Snow was almost as much fun as raiding the neighbors' trash.

To follow Marley's tracks in the snow was to begin to understand his warped mind. His path was filled with abrupt twists and turns and about-faces, with erratic loops and figure-eights, with corkscrews and triple lutzes, as though he were following some bizarre algorithm that only he could understand. Soon the kids were taking his lead, spinning and rolling and frolicking, snow packing into every crease and crevice of their outerwear. Jenny came out with b.u.t.tered toast, mugs of hot cocoa, and an announcement: school was canceled. I knew there was no way I was getting my little two-wheel-drive Nissan out the driveway anytime soon, let alone up and down the unplowed mountain roads, and I declared an official snow day for me, too.

I sc.r.a.ped the snow away from the stone circle I had built that fall for backyard campfires and soon had a crackling blaze going. The kids glided screaming down the hill in the toboggan, past the campfire and to the edge of the woods, Marley chasing behind them. I looked at Jenny and asked, "If someone had told you a year ago that your kids would be sledding right out their back door, would you have believed them?"

"Not a chance," she said, then wound up and unleashed a s...o...b..ll that thumped me in the chest. The snow was in her hair, a blush in her cheeks, her breath rising in a cloud above her.

"Come here and kiss me," I said.

Later, as the kids warmed themselves by the fire, I decided to try a run on the toboggan, something I hadn't done since I was a teenager. "Care to join me?" I asked Jenny.

"Sorry, Jean Claude, you're on your own," she said.

I positioned the toboggan at the top of the hill and lay back on it, propped up on my elbows, my feet tucked inside its nose. I began rocking to get moving. Not often did Marley have the opportunity to look down at me, and having me p.r.o.ne like that was tantamount to an invitation. He sidled up to me and sniffed my face. "What do you want?" I asked, and that was all the welcome he needed. He clambered aboard, straddling me and dropping onto my chest. "Get off me, you big lug!" I screamed. But it was too late. We were already creeping forward, gathering speed as we began our descent.

"Bon voyage!" Jenny yelled behind us.

Off we went, snow flying, Marley plastered on top of me, licking me l.u.s.tily all over my face as we careered down the slope. With our combined weight, we had considerably more momentum than the kids had, and we barreled past the point where their tracks petered out. "Hold on, Marley!" I screamed. "We're going into the woods!"

We shot past a large walnut tree, then between two wild cherry trees, miraculously avoiding all unyielding objects as we crashed through the underbrush, brambles tearing at us. It suddenly occurred to me that just up ahead was the bank leading down several feet to the creek, still unfrozen. I tried to kick my feet out to use as brakes, but they were stuck. The bank was steep, nearly a sheer drop-off, and we were going over. I had time only to wrap my arms around Marley, squeeze my eyes shut, and yell, "Whoaaaaaa!"

Our toboggan shot over the bank and dropped out from beneath us. I felt like I was in one of those cla.s.sic cartoon moments, suspended in midair for an endless second before falling to ruinous injury. Only in this cartoon I was welded to a madly salivating Labrador retriever. We clung to each other as we crash-landed into a s...o...b..nk with a soft poof poof and, hanging half off the toboggan, slid to the water's edge. I opened my eyes and took stock of my condition. I could wiggle my toes and fingers and rotate my neck; nothing was broken. Marley was up and prancing around me, eager to do it all over again. I stood up with a groan and, brushing myself off, said, "I'm getting too old for this stuff." In the months ahead it would become increasingly obvious that Marley was, too. and, hanging half off the toboggan, slid to the water's edge. I opened my eyes and took stock of my condition. I could wiggle my toes and fingers and rotate my neck; nothing was broken. Marley was up and prancing around me, eager to do it all over again. I stood up with a groan and, brushing myself off, said, "I'm getting too old for this stuff." In the months ahead it would become increasingly obvious that Marley was, too.

Sometime toward the end of that first winter in Pennsylvania I began to notice Marley had moved quietly out of middle age and into retirement. He had turned nine that December, and ever so slightly he was slowing down. He still had his bursts of unbridled, adrenaline-pumped energy, as he did on the day of the first snowfall, but they were briefer now and farther apart. He was content to snooze most of the day, and on walks he tired before I did, a first in our relationship. One late-winter day, the temperature above freezing and the scent of spring thaw in the air, I walked him down our hill and up the next one, even steeper than ours, where the white church perched on the crest beside an old cemetery filled with Civil War veterans. It was a walk I took often and one that even the previous fall Marley had made without visible effort, despite the angle of the climb, which always got us both panting. This time, though, he was falling behind. I coaxed him along, calling out words of encouragement, but it was like watching a toy slowly wind down as its battery went dead. Marley just did not have the oomph needed to make it to the top. I stopped to let him rest before continuing, something I had never had to do before. "You're not going soft on me, are you?" I asked, leaning over and stroking his face with my gloved hands. He looked up at me, his eyes bright, his nose wet, not at all concerned about his flagging energy. He had a contented but tuckered-out look on his face, as though life got no better than this, sitting along the side of a country road on a crisp late-winter's day with your master at your side. "If you think I'm carrying you," I said, "forget it."

The sun bathed over him, and I noticed just how much gray had crept into his tawny face. Because his fur was so light, the effect was subtle but undeniable. His whole muzzle and a good part of his brow had turned from buff to white. Without us quite realizing it, our eternal puppy had become a senior citizen.

That's not to say he was any better behaved. Marley was still up to all his old antics, simply at a more leisurely pace. He still stole food off the children's plates. He still flipped open the lid of the kitchen trash can with his nose and rummaged inside. He still strained at his leash. Still swallowed a wide a.s.sortment of household objects. Still drank out of the bathtub and trailed water from his gullet. And when the skies darkened and thunder rumbled, he still panicked and, if alone, turned destructive. One day we arrived home to find Marley in a lather and Conor's mattress splayed open down to the coils.

Over the years, we had become philosophical about the damage, which had become much less frequent now that we were away from Florida's daily storm patterns. In a dog's life, some plaster would fall, some cushions would open, some rugs would shred. Like any relationship, this one had its costs. They were costs we came to accept and balance against the joy and amus.e.m.e.nt and protection and companionship he gave us. We could have bought a small yacht with what we spent on our dog and all the things he destroyed. Then again, how many yachts wait by the door all day for your return? How many live for the moment they can climb in your lap or ride down the hill with you on a toboggan, licking your face?

Marley had earned his place in our family. Like a quirky but beloved uncle, he was what he was. He would never be La.s.sie or Benji or Old Yeller; he would never reach Westminster or even the county fair. We knew that now. We accepted him for the dog he was, and loved him all the more for it.

"You old geezer," I said to him on the side of the road that late-winter day, scruffing his neck. Our goal, the cemetery, was still a steep climb ahead. But just as in life, I was figuring out, the destination was less important than the journey. I dropped to one knee, running my hands down his sides, and said, "Let's just sit here for a while." When he was ready, we turned back down the hill and poked our way home.

CHAPTER 23.

Poultry on Parade.

That spring we decided to try our hand at animal husbandry. We owned two acres in the country now; it only seemed right to share it with a farm animal or two. Besides, I was editor of Organic Gardening, Organic Gardening, a magazine that had long celebrated the incorporation of animals-and their manure-into a healthy, well-balanced garden. "A cow would be fun," Jenny suggested. a magazine that had long celebrated the incorporation of animals-and their manure-into a healthy, well-balanced garden. "A cow would be fun," Jenny suggested.

"A cow?" I asked. "Are you crazy? We don't even have a barn; how can we have a cow? Where do you suggest we keep it, in the garage next to the minivan?"

"How about sheep?" she said. "Sheep are cute." I shot her my well-practiced you're-not-being-practical look.

"A goat? Goats are adorable."

In the end we settled on poultry. For any gardener who has sworn off chemical pesticides and fertilizers, chickens made a lot of sense. They were inexpensive and relatively low-maintenance. They needed only a small coop and a few cups of cracked corn each morning to be happy. Not only did they provide fresh eggs, but, when let loose to roam, they spent their days studiously scouring the property, eating bugs and grubs, devouring ticks, scratching up the soil like efficient little rototillers, and fertilizing with their high-nitrogen droppings as they went. Each evening at dusk they returned to their coop on their own. What wasn't to like? A chicken was an organic gardener's best friend. Chickens made perfect sense. Besides, as Jenny pointed out, they pa.s.sed the cuteness test.

Chickens it was. Jenny had become friendly with a mom from school who lived on a farm and said she'd be happy to give us some chicks from the next clutch of eggs to hatch. I told Digger about our plans, and he agreed a few hens around the place made sense. Digger had a large coop of his own in which he kept a flock of chickens for both eggs and meat.

"Just one word of warning," he said, folding his meaty arms across his chest. "Whatever you do, don't let the kids name them. Once you name 'em, they're no longer poultry, they're pets."

"Right," I said. Chicken farming, I knew, had no room for sentimentality. Hens could live fifteen years or more but only produced eggs in their first couple of years. When they stopped laying, it was time for the stewing pot. That was just part of managing a flock.

Digger looked hard at me, as if divining what I was up against, and added, "Once you name them, it's all over."

"Absolutely," I agreed. "No names."

The next evening I pulled into the driveway from work, and the three kids raced out of the house to greet me, each cradling a newborn chick. Jenny was behind them with a fourth in her hands. Her friend, Donna, had brought the baby birds over that afternoon. They were barely a day old and peered up at me with c.o.c.ked heads as if to ask, "Are you my mama?"