Fault Lines - John Knoop

time them and name them. We also grade them according to fierceness of attack, ferociousness of
bark, lunging speed, pickup, staying power and kick dodging ability. The winner of this marathon
is a big steel-blue mongrel with terrific lunge, unbelievable pickup and a top speed of forty-two
miles per hour, so we name him “King of the Canine Escort Service”.
There were always beautiful dogs on the farm. The first I remember were the pre-war pair
of Irish Setters coursing around my sister and me as we played in the yard. They once gobbled
down a turd my younger brother deposited next to the sandbox. I know this surprised me: I was
not yet three years old but it has remained an indelible memory. It served as a brusque initiation
into the natural world. After the war there was a Blue Murrell collie named Robbie, a noble
beast, and one of my best friends after I saw him grab a fallen branch in his mouth and pull it out
of my path when I was sledding one day in the pasture behind the barn. I had no doubt he was
doing it for me. I would often lie in the grass with Robbie’s head on my chest, stroking his silken
coat and telling him my dreams. I was convinced that he understood every word I said to him.
A few years—and several dogs—later, when I was about twelve, I was mowing hay, a
heavy crop of first cutting clover, brome and alfalfa. Suddenly our three-year-old collie, Ginger,
bounded out of the thick grass and directly into the sickle bar of the mower, losing three legs
before I could even stop the tractor to hold her in my arms as she bled to death. She had been
running to greet me, unaware of the deadly power of the serrated blade hidden in the grass.
Devastated, and struggling to maintain my stoicism, I tried to comfort Ginger with expressions
of grief and love as the tears flowed down my cheeks and her blood soaked my jeans, its heavy
odor blending with the pungent scent of the freshly cut clover.
We’ve had a couple of luxuriously comfortable days here at 9,000 feet in Quito with one
of Naren's former classmates. It’s a cold city of stately colonial buildings and very little modern
flavor. But it does have both American Express and Thomas Cook offices, so I found a letter from
Judy. She writes that she has enjoyed the batches of scribbled pages and that she brings each
installment to the farm and reads it to my parents and brothers. She says they treat her like a
member of the family and that she really enjoys the music and food from the garden, neither of
which she has at home. When she suggested to her mother that they eat more vegetables, Sarah
told Judy to open a can of beans. I imagine Judy teasing and laughing at her mother and also
how grateful my parents are that she makes the effort to share my journal. These visits give my
parents a natural way of getting to know Judy and to think of us as a couple, so that makes me
happy. I’m sending Judy everything I’ve written since Panama.
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