by Jon Katz
Armed with patience (and a lot of beef jerky), a hopeless romantic wins his girlfriend by winning over her dog.
So there I was, just past 60, alone on a remote farm in upstate New York, looking for a second chance at happiness. All that stood in my way was a dog: a rottweiler-shepherd mix who was fiercely protective of the woman I loved. A few years earlier, I had offered the use of one of my barns to a quiet, sensitive artist named Maria. She had left her art behind some years before and wanted to start creating it again. I let her use the barn as her studio in exchange for helping with my animals (a herd of sheep, four donkeys, four chickens, three dogs, and two cats). At the time, we were both married, and neither of us ever imagined getting divorced. But then suddenly both of our marriages ended, and we began to develop a friendship.
Seeing more of Maria meant seeing more of her dog, Frieda. But whenever I approached the barn, Frieda would fling herself against the door in a frenzy, barking ferociously. Frieda had quite a back story. She’d been dumped, pregnant, on the side of the New York State Thruway in the lower Adirondacks by a man who had been using her as a guard dog. Frieda spent several years living in the wild before making her way to a college campus, where she was captured and brought to a shelter. She languished there for many months until Maria walked through the door and took her home. They were the perfect pair, the human-canine version of Thelma and Louise, united in their devotion to each other and in their great distrust of men.
After her divorce, Maria came to life making art in her barn studio, and more and more she came over to the farmhouse to visit with me. As our relationship evolved that fall, she started spending nights there, too. But Frieda was so threatening to me and my own dogs that we had to leave her in the barn—in a big crate lined with blankets, bones, and toys, and warmed by a wood stove. I was falling in love with Maria, and I hoped she would agree to marry me one day, but I knew I had to work things out with Frieda first.
Without any better ideas, I launched my Beef Jerky Campaign. I bought $500 worth of the stuff, and every morning I’d open the barn door, toss a piece of jerky in, and run. Gradually, I moved things along, entering the barn while Frieda growled. After many months of steady work, Frieda got to the point where she would let me put a leash on her and walk her several times a day. I plied her with beef jerky and did obedience training every chance I got. My goal was to get her into the house by Christmas, as a surprise for Maria, evidence of my commitment and good faith. The odds, though, were not good. We had made great progress, but I still couldn’t imagine how I could get her into the house without risking the lives of my Lab and border collies.
One night, I had a dream. Frieda and I were walking in the Adirondacks, and she ran ahead. When I got to the end of the trail, Frieda was waiting for me. “What do I have to do to get through to you?” I pleaded. And a voice said, “Trust me.” This was the one thing I had not done. On Christmas Eve, I decided it was time: I walked Frieda across the road from her barn to the farmhouse. I opened the door and held my breath. My dogs all stared as Frieda walked over to the wood stove and lay down beside it. When Maria came home, she burst into tears. A year later, Maria and I were married. That was three years ago. Frieda is now in charge of guarding my office while I write. As you can imagine, nobody bothers me.
