Bedlam Farm Blog Journal by Jon Katz

I named my first farm “Bedlam Farm” after the Bethlehem Asylum in London, which the public came to call “Bedlem” Hospital because of the chaos around the hospital, where hundreds of London residents  gathered on weekends to throw tomatoes and rocks at the patients there.

It was, they said, bedlam.

There was a crossing in my little hamlet of West Hebron, N.Y., that was very quiet these days but was once so busy there were several hotels at the main intersection of the town with another road.

My life was chaotic and insane at the time – I was pretty insane and probably still am – and the name perfectly reflect my life and my grappling with the first farm I had ever set foot on in my life. I just happened to own it and write five books there and live there by myself with dogs, sheep and donkeys.

Bedlam didn’t say half of it.

So now I have a new dog, I am calling him Bedlam Bud. Some days, he is sweet and quiet, some days, his remaining testosterone starts bubbling up and life if havoc here.

This morning, he ran out and ran off a bunch of birds who were nibbling bugs 50 feet away. Then he ran into the barn, ate chicken droppings, and jumped high up on a bale of hay, which he promptly peed on.

“Why do you need to see on our hay?,” I said, “it costs $5 a bale.” He didn’t respond.

I wasn’t even done shouting at him for the bird assault when he was peeing on our hay. He came tearing out – he is quite responsive eventually – and ran up to the fence and started barking furiously at the donkeys until I yelled at him to stop.

Then he tore under the gate and into the pasture where he scared the wits out of Giselle, who was lying down and chewing her cud. She hopped up fast as Bud dive-bombed her and then ran around the block.

I called to him to come down to the rear pasture with me, and he did, leaping upon a huge mound of donkey droppings. More shouting. With Bud, you don’t have to shout long or loud, one or two yells with do it, and he cheerfully comes, and then looks for another target. Yelling doesn’t bother him a flick.

He took one more shot at the sheep and then tore out of the pasture and under the fence, and did five or six runs around the car, for reasons that were not clear to me.

He was happy to see two chickens pecking away a few yards away and buzzed right between them, sending them off clucking and indignant. They did not, however, run a way. Bud is losing some of his menace.

Then he saw the two barn cats dozing on the porch bench built by Ed Gulley and before I could open my mouth, he was sitting alongside of them, a little surprised that they hadn’t fled.

There was a stare down, but Bud has met his match with the barn cats, they have seen worse than him, and are not easily impressed. They just stared at him in a “we dare you” sort of way, and refused to move. The barn cats can take care of themselves.

Then I shouted at him to come, which he did.

I haven’t yelled at Bud for a week, but I yelled at him a dozen times this morning, and he was having hell of a time all throughout.  I brought him into the house, gave him something to chew on, then told Maria all of the things he had done, all the trouble he had gotten into in just seconds.

Bud is not aggressive, he never harms his targets or nips or growls at them. He is either claiming his turf or just having fun. He absolutely loves it when I am shouting at  him, and I hate to shout at dogs, but I also need to defend the other animals on the farm. And the funny thing is, I think the animals are getting used to him.

I get more upset than they do.

We should call him “Bedlam Bud,” I said.

Maria just smiled and looked at me. “You just really love that dog, she said laughing as I sputtered and cursed.”

I guess it’s true, he reminds me of me. He is completely unpredictable, he loves to do what he is not supposed to do, he means no real harm, and has a genius for getting into trouble.

If I’ve learned after writing on the Internet for half of my life it’s that when you ask for feedback, you will get some. And you won’t like some of it.

About 98 per cent of it will be useful, but the other two per cent can get dicey, and will sometimes challenge my own sense of myself as touch and battle-scarred.

Nobody is too big to be hurt, just ask any Hollywood star. You need a big ego to put your thoughts out there, and even a big ego can get punctured, like a big hot air balloon.

Yesterday, I put up the fourth podcast that Maria and I recorded – our official podcast goes up next week.  And yes, most of the feedback was positive and encouraging, we were delighted and encouraged by it.

But I rarely post praise on my blogs, it’s the other stuff I learn from and that sometimes need to be addressed. Praise doesn’t make me re-think myself.

Social media and the Internet is another story.

Social media promotes rudeness, presumption, false intimacy and plain old boorish manners. It’s just too easy to hit the “send” button, there is no penalty for not thinking.

There is the idea that if you put yourself out into the world, you are “asking for it” in the same way women are “asking for it” when they wear attractive clothing.

My rule for online etiquette is to never write any message I would not want my grandmother to read or hear. And to never say anything in a digital message that I would not say to somebody’s face if I were sitting face to face in their living room.

For me, feedback is not a license, but an opportunity to be useful or helpful.

This morning, I got this message – the requested feedback to the podcast-  from Barb V., a fan of mine and a lover of the blog and my photos.

I am a huge fan of Jane Jenni personality buttons, I buy them buy the bushel and pass them out to people who want or relish some personality. Mostly, I give them to the Mansion aides, we have a sort of ritual.

I love the sayings and double meanings on them.

I try to show appreciation for them and the work they do.

They work so hard and in such difficult circumstances, they make little money and work above and beyond. They care about what they do, it is a calling, not just a job for most.

Once a week or so I give them money for pizza, they love pizza. It breaks the drain and rigor of the day.

I have brought Aroma Therapy kits for use in the office, where they gather. And I bring them flowers once in awhile, and buttons, 20 or 30  once a month.

It’s a ritual, when I bring a bag of 20 or 30 buttons someone takes out a paper plate and leaves a note saying people can take whichever button they like. I get the buttons at the Battenkill Book Store, Connie Brooks e-mails me when they come in.

I brought some today. The aides scarf them up quickly, and once in awhile I see someone wearing them. After a few days, I don’t see them, I suspect they get lost, are given to siblings and kids, or are only warn  at home.

They sell out quickly at the book store, I often have to wait for Connie to re-order them so I buy some more, as I did today. I love giving personality buttons to people. I wear them myself, although they do seem to disappear.

(Photo by Maria Wulf)

I write about different things, but my recent books  have all been about dogs and animals, and when I meet people, they often say “oh, I know you, you’re the dog writer.”

Maria took this photograph of me this morning, as I was writing on the blog. Bud had just jumped up into my lap, he was curious about what I was doing up there. He loves to stare at the screen.

Fate comes alongside to put her head on my knee for scratching.

Red takes up his usual position lying right behind me, where he always is. I guess maybe I am a dog writer.