{"product_id":"izzy-lenore-isbn-9780812977745","title":"Izzy \u0026 Lenore","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this wonderful book, Jon Katz, the owner of Bedlam Farm, learns once again about  the unexpected places animals can take us. As trained hospice volunteers visiting  homes and nursing facilities in upstate New York, Katz and his affectionate and intuitive  border collie Izzy bring comfort and canine companionship to people who most need  it. An eighty-year-old Alzheimer’s patient smiles for the first time in months when  she feels Izzy’s soft fur. A retired logger joyfully remembers his own beloved dog.  As Izzy bonds with patients and Katz focuses on their families, the author begins  to come to terms with his own life, discovering dark realities he has never confronted.  Meanwhile, Lenore, a spirited, bright-eyed black Labrador puppy, arrives at Bedlam  Farm. Her genial personality and boundless capacity for affection steer Katz out  of the shadows, rekindle his love of working with dogs, and restore his connection  to the farm and the animals and people around him.\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“With wisdom and grace, [Katz] unlocks the canine soul and the complicated wonders that lie within and offers powerful insights to anyone who has ever struggled with, and loved, a troubled animal.”—John Grogan, author of \u003ci\u003eMarley \u0026amp; Me\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Katz’s world–of animals and humans and their combined generosity of spirit–is a place you’re glad you’ve been.”—\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of our most talented and perceptive canine chroniclers.”—\u003ci\u003eAKC Gazette\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling . . . Amidst swirling emotions and personal tangles, \u003cb\u003eIzzy \u0026amp; Lenore \u003c\/b\u003eis a gem of a showcase of man and dog at their best.”—\u003ci\u003eCityDog\u003c\/i\u003e magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Will make you smile, weep and perhaps look at the four-legged creature in your own life with a little more appreciation and love.”—\u003ci\u003eFredericksburg Free Lance-Star\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What could be better than man’s best friend? Two of them, of course.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Post, r\u003c\/i\u003eequired readingJon Katz has written eighteen books–six novels and twelve works of nonfiction–including \u003cb\u003eIzzy \u0026amp; Lenore, Dog Days, A Good Dog, A Dog Year, The Dogs of Bedlam Farm, The New Work of Dogs,\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eKatz on Dogs\u003c\/b\u003e. A two-time finalist for the National Magazine Award, he writes columns about dogs and rural life for the online magazine \u003ci\u003eSlate, \u003c\/i\u003eand has written for \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Rolling Stone, GQ,\u003c\/i\u003e and the \u003ci\u003eAKC Gazette\u003c\/i\u003e. Katz is also a photographer, a member of the Association of Pet Dog Trainers, and co-host of the radio show \u003ci\u003eDog Talk \u003c\/i\u003eon Northeast Public Radio. He lives on Bedlam Farm in upstate New York with his dogs, sheep, steers and cow, donkeys, barn cat, irritable rooster Winston, and three hens.\u003ci\u003eIzzy Katz, Volunteer\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The county health department was housed in  a small wooden annex in run-down Fort Edward, near the county jail. I parked the  Blazer and opened the rear door for Izzy, who disembarked, sniffed around, then paused  to look at me, awaiting instructions. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “This way, boy,” I said, and he trotted along  next to me toward the annex, ignoring a dog being walked nearby, a number of trucks  and cars in motion, other people walking through the parking lot. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the door,  he walked inside, scanned the half dozen people in the meeting room, and headed straight  for Keith Mann, a muscular, bald man in a polo shirt emblazoned with the Washington  County logo. Keith was running the series of hospice volunteer training sessions,  held in the annex over several weeks. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Izzy sat down in front of Keith and put his  nose in his hand. Keith handed us our name tags, as if it were perfectly ordinary  to have trainees with either two legs or four. One said: “Izzy Katz, Volunteer.”  \u003cbr\u003e This training would test both of us. I had a book coming out, so I was about to  start an extended tour. Insanely busy running the farm, I was already harried and  drained, struggling to find time to write. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Besides, hospice work was no simple  undertaking. The training alone was thorough and demanding, involving considerable  role-playing, reading, and memorizing. The volunteer’s handbook weighed a good three  pounds. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As a former police reporter, I’d seen plenty of bodies, but I’d rarely  known anything about the people who died. Here, I would be going into homes and nursing  facilities, getting to know people who were failing, getting to know their families,  too–and ultimately seeing them die. How would I handle that? Could I do a good job,  or would it be one of those projects I sometimes took on obsessively and then, exhausted,  had to drop? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’d gone back and forth about making this commitment. I didn’t want  to start something I couldn’t finish, yet I was learning the hard way how unpredictable  and cluttered my life had become. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At first, I’d thought that my busy schedule,  complete with book tour, might cause the program to cut me some slack. Could I really  drive three nights a week, for several weeks, to Fort Edward? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But it was clear,  as Keith explained the volunteer training to me, that there would be no slack, no  shortcuts–and that there shouldn’t be. The hospice program needed to make quite sure  that the people who entered patients’ homes, where the psychological and physical  issues were often intense, knew what they were doing and could handle what they encountered.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Accordingly, our training involved talks with social workers, doctors, and other  volunteers, field trips to the homes of patients, quizzes–and constant monitoring  by hospice staff, alert for weaknesses or problems that might arise. I found my motives  questioned again and again. I actually had to defend my desire to enlist. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Keith  was a skilled instructor, adhering strictly to his orientation and lesson plans–but  he also kept a sharp eye on the volunteers to see how we reacted. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From the outset,  at least one volunteer paid rapt attention. Izzy sat staring at Keith throughout  nearly the entire session. Sometimes, I did look down to see Izzy dozing. But usually  he was locked onto Keith, as if listening intently to every word. I half expected  him to take notes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When we took a break, Izzy followed me outside, where he found  a bush to mark, then came back in and approached each of the other volunteers, putting  his nose in their laps or on their knees. If they responded, he stayed a while. If  they didn’t, he moved on. Keith always brought a biscuit or two, so Izzy made sure  to visit him during the break. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Several things struck me during our early training.  Izzy seemed to have an innate sense of appropriateness. He never disrupted the talks  or meetings by barking, whining, or even moving much. He understood that the breaks  were a time for socializing but the rest of the session was work. \u003cbr\u003e Six other volunteers  were going through the training with us, all arrayed around a conference table, listening  to lectures, watching slides, talking about our own lives and our abilities to enter  other people’s. Through it all, Izzy sat by my side or, often, at Keith’s feet, taking  it all in. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In a sense, hospice training challenges volunteers to go against the  grain of what we ordinarily think of as support, concern, and affection. Normally,  if I see people in distress, I try to reassure them, to tell them things will get  better, that they’re doing fine. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hospice training teaches you to do the very opposite.  In hospice, the ending will always be the same: The patient will not recover; there  will be no eleventh-hour happy ending. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reassurances and conventional wisdoms can’ t really help the dying or those who love them. Each person, family or friend, will  experience death in their own intensely personal way, and I have no tonics for them,  no words of cheer. I must leave my own experiences, perceptions, and responses at  the door and permit them to face and experience death in whatever way they choose.  My role is to listen, and help only in the ways that I’m asked to. It’s an extraordinarily  sensitive situation. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yet the work seems so crucial. Hospice workers often talk  about the mistreatment of the dying, by which they mean not cruelty but the natural  human tendency to shun death, to avoid the dying and retreat from even thoughts or  discussions about it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hospice families tell me all the time about the pain of having  friends stop calling or visiting, of seeing them turn away from them at the supermarket,  simply flee in the face of death’s awesome finality. \u003cbr\u003e So we leave them, often quite  alone, to their fates, to the struggles with our health-care system, to a culture  too busy and distracted–or uncomfortable–to pay much attention. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The last thing  these people need is some well-meaning volunteer who attempts to cheer them up, offer  suggestions on how to die, or tell them how to grieve. All we can do is provide some  companionship and comfort along the way. It’s a humbling mission. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To bring a dog  into these homes seemed an even greater challenge. Patients are often in emotional  or physical distress, hooked up to oxygen or IVs, and taking potent medications.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lots of dogs do therapy work, but hospice requires something a dog really can’t  be trained to do–figure out for himself how to be loving, appropriate, and sensitive  to the dying. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To be a hospice dog, Izzy had to be tested by a vet, who issued a  certificate attesting to his temperament. I did considerable calming training, praising  him for being calm, practicing moving around furniture and other obstacles. We tried  him out in several strangers’ homes and in a nursing home with a PA system and lots  of medical equipment around. And, of course, he attended all our training sessions,  where nurses and social workers were watching him carefully. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But the truth was,  I had no clear idea how to prepare Izzy. His own instincts and personality, I thought,  would prove more critical than any training in determining whether he could do this  work. All I could do was bring him along, into patients’ homes and lives, and see  what he could offer. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All through the spring and summer, we trekked to Fort Edward,  with a sandwich and fruit in a paper bag for me and a few biscuits for Izzy. Keith  kept a water bowl in the annex kitchen for him. The volunteers were an extraordinarily  generous group of people who seemed quite willing to accept us both, and Izzy was  happy to see each of them at every session. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was daunted at first, by the detailed  thoroughness of the training, though I would soon enough be grateful for it. We practiced  what to say, what to look for, how to listen. We learned to fill out forms and reports.  There was a long list of things to avoid saying–like “Buck up! You’ll be okay!” The  sessions were wearying, but also gratifying. By the time they concluded, I felt ready.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can’t say I know for certain why I wanted to sign up. Perhaps weathering middle  age makes one more aware of death, more thoughtful about it. Perhaps, as my work  life intensified, I wanted to make sure I had a grounding, a meaningful commitment  to help me see life in perspective, to keep my spiritual self alive. Maybe I wanted  see if there was a way to share this work with a dog. Maybe all of the above.Author of Dog Days; New York Times bestseller","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301723295973,"sku":"NP9780812977745","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812977745.jpg?v=1767730293","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/izzy-lenore-isbn-9780812977745","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}