The Pitbull with the Pink Collar

My name is Sherri, and animal rescue is to me what crack is to a junkie. After adopting two dogs and three cats from our city animal shelter, I wanted to do more.

Calling that place a “shelter” was like calling a death camp “camp”. Not much sheltering, and precious few animals left out the front door. George Mooney, director of Animal Control Services—ACS—kept changing the rules for adoption and how long the animals were held before being euthanized. His changes never favored the animals.

Homemade cookies finally convinced Mooney to let me take photos of the animals to post on Facebook, with hopes of finding their “furever” homes. My Facebook followers were passionate about sharing the pictures, encouraging friends to adopt or foster, and pleading for rescues. We were only saving about one in five, but that was better than the previous one in twenty.

Last June I almost chucked the whole effort when I got too attached to the pitbull with the pink collar.

The name on the kennel info card was #13298. When I took her picture, the tan pit with the ridiculous girly collar looked at me with eyes full of trust and hope. Maybe a little fear, too. My chest hurt with the anticipated grief of what probably awaited this sweet girl.

Then I noticed the tag and rushed into Mooney’s office. “George, did you see the rabies tag on the tan pittie?”

He munched a cookie, not looking up from his newspaper. “It’s old, Sherri. Not worth checking.”

I returned to the kennel and copied the tag ID and veterinarian’s phone number. Back in Mooney’s office, I held out the paper. “Here. Call.”

He poked the numbers on the phone with the enthusiasm usually reserved for filing taxes. During his exchange with the vet, he scribbled, hung up, then made another call. I heard the screechy tone, indicating a non-working number. With raised, I-told-you-so eyebrows, Mooney returned to his newspaper. In his scribbles, I saw the dog’s name: Rose.

After going home to the warm welcome of my menagerie, I posted the day’s pictures. The immediate barrage of comments under Rose’s proved that I wasn’t the only one she had enchanted. They included lots of useless “poor baby” and “beautiful girl” drek, but also a pledge of $20 to any rescue that pulled her. Ten had shared her picture to increase her exposure.

By the next morning, comments topped sixty, her picture had been shared twenty-four times, and pledges topped seventy-five dollars. I called every rescue I knew. They were all sympathetic, but full, and seventy-five bucks wouldn’t magically create a foster home or make space.

When I returned to ACS, seven hours remained between Rose and The Rainbow Bridge. This was a fact of life in the hellhole known as ACS, but something about Rose made it more unbearable than usual. Every time I peeked into her kennel, her eyes lit up, and the pink collar made her look like she was ready for a party—not her own wake.

I became insufferable on Facebook, making repeated pleas. Pledges climbed, but no rescuer appeared.

Then I got a message from Deborah Bergen, one of the pledgers. “My husband and I are coming for Rose. It’s a 2-1/2-hour drive.”

I replied, “She has 2 hours. I’ll try to delay.”

We exchanged numbers. Then I charged into Mooney’s office.

“You can’t put Rose down! She has adopters, but they won’t be here ‘til five-thirty.”

“We close at five. She’s not staying another day on taxpayers’ money.”

“George, you’re a heartless piece of crap.”

I called Deborah. “Can you go faster?”

 “Tony’s already got the accelerator to the floor.” Background wind noise confirmed her response.

Other animals still needed saving, so I took pictures, soothed frightened inmates, and distributed treats. But my mind was on Rose.

By 4:55 I had bitten my fingernails down past my elbows. My phone rang, and I answered to Deborah’s sobbing. “Three miles. Cop stopped us.” The connection broke.

Mooney emerged from his office, heading toward Rose’s kennel. I sprang at him, clutching his arm. “No! You will not touch that dog!”

“If you want to keep taking pictures of your sad little friends, you’ll back off before I have you banned from here. Forever.”

I released his arm while screaming profanities that even longshoremen reserve for special occasions. Then I crumpled against the wall.

As Mooney came out of the kennel with Rose on a lead, she looked scared and confused. Her face seemed to say, “Sherri, I thought you had this handled.” I doubled over, about to puke, as the click of her nails on the cement grew fainter.

When the outer door burst open, I was only aware of black, shiny boots and a deep, rumbling voice. “Mooney! What the fuck are you doing with that dog? We just gave this nice couple an official, high-speed escort so they could take her home.”

Through watery vision, I saw a uniformed officer with two other people. I turned to see Mooney pivot, his face taut with rage. Rose heeled, then sat, taking in the show.

Mooney was fired soon after Rose’s miracle adoption. Apparently, Officer Lepage, the “official escort” and animal lover, mentioned Mooney and the pitiful state of ACS to the city council. The new ACS director has started a campaign to involve the community in programs and fund-raising events to eventually guarantee the safe future of every healthy, adoptable animal in our city.

Officer Lepage —John—has invited me to some of those events, as well as the occasional dinner and movie. My furry and human families adore him, and… well,  so do I.

I get regular updates from Deborah—how smart Rose is, how cute she is, and, of course—how spoiled she is. Sometimes I think about the rabies tag and disconnected phone, wondering who taught Rose to sit and heel and trust—and who bought her a collar the color of love.

Wholesale

Here's the Deal  

(Fiction:  Copyright 2014 Liz Zélandais)

As superheroes go, I play against type. My short stature and buzz-cut are reminiscent of Peter Pan; and being a single mom makes me an oddity in The Coalition. But when they're shopping for the latest hero-mobile or aerodynamic wardrobe with wicking technology, I'm the one they tap to negotiate the deal.

Hints of my super power emerged in elementary school. The cafeteria ladies would add extra fries or another carton of milk to my tray. “No charge, Sweetie.”

But it was only a few years ago that I knew. As I retreated from a stunning dress in Ann Taylor's new spring collection, the sales assistant sprinted after me, begging me to take it for fifty percent off. I hesitated. She dropped the price another thirty percent. I bought the dress and began investigating this anomaly.

My boss doubled my salary after a single request. The board of a hideously expensive private school agreed to start a “differently privileged” scholarship fund and admit my two children. Queen Catherine Cruise Lines gave me their stateroom suite at a price usually reserved for boiler-room occupants.

Every successful negotiation showcased my growing confidence and skill. Joining The Coalition was better than being voted Homecoming Queen. Most importantly, I was giving my kids the best of everything.

I don’t know when the euphoria gave way to the realization that my life had become a cesspool of stuff. Designer stuff. Techie stuff. My children were vapid consumers, fixated on video screens and unable to utter an intelligible sentence.

I met my friend, Amazon Woman, for lunch. She was sporting Prada we had scored at Wal-Co prices during Milan Fashion Week. Once seated, I said, “Ama, I'm miserable. Defying the laws of economics was fun at first, but now it’s meaningless and overwhelming.” The waiter interrupted to deliver menus and to say that our lunch would be compliments of the house.

Ama arched one eyebrow. “You're expecting sympathy?”

“No, but I would sell my soul to recapture a sense of purpose.”

As we ate enchiladas and sipped margaritas, our conversation turned to shop talk—crime fighting, identity trademark infringement, and the turbulent relationship of Lightning Man and Copper Girl.

When I was leaving the restaurant, a man with the dark, angular looks of a GQ model approached.

“Madam, I can help you with your problem.”

I’m seldom susceptible to handsome men, but something about this one made me flush. “Do I know you?”

“Call me Luc. I am in the soul-purchasing business, and I overheard your interest in such a transaction. Your soul for a purposeful and passionate life.”

He was genius. I started working with governments and organizations needing my skills; and formerly starving families thrived as they got food, health care, and education. My kids got back on track.

There's one problem. Luc makes for attentive and charming arm candy, and my children adore him. But now that I own the soul of Satan, what do I do with it?

Saving Helen

Nothing about Helen is typical. She is a blind mare whose rescue occurred in a 2009 raid of a puppy mill, where the owners were as neglectful of their horses as of their 400 dogs. Found locked in a tiny, dark shed, Helen was standing ankle-deep in manure and urine with a one-year-old stud colt still trying to nurse. When she was brought to Dane County Humane Society (DCHS), caregivers determined that her blindness was probably due to cataracts and possible glaucoma. They were happy to learn that Helen showed no signs of physical abuse—she was not “head shy”, didn’t kick, and had an air of horsey kindness about her. Helen was, in fact, more mellow than many sighted horses. Her age was uncertain, but estimated at 12-15.

From 2009 to 2011, Helen was fostered and available for adoption. Even during a good economy, it can be difficult to find homes for rideable, healthy horses with known histories. For a blind horse of unknown age and background, during a recession, the challenges for placement multiply. Helen was well cared for, but still without her forever home.

When pressure and pain in her eyes increased last November, Helen was brought back to DCHS so she could receive closer care. It seemed likely that she was going to need an enucleation (surgery to remove both eyes). DCHS staff began brainstorming ideas to raise funds for this expensive procedure, but were concerned that even after surgery, Helen’s chances for adoption would be small. Through all of this, one thing was constant:  to know Helen was to love her. Betsy Halat, DCHS Pet Matching and Second Chances Adoption Coordinator, became an immediate fan.

“I checked on Helen the night she was brought back to the shelter. Having owned horses, I know how nervous they can be in new environments, especially if the horse is blind. Helen was in her stall, munching her hay, looking content. When I went into her stall and scratched her neck, she happily leaned in; and I knew just how special this horse was.”

After long consideration, DCHS staff made the difficult decision that due to the high cost of the enucleation surgery and the shelter’s lack of facilities for long-term equine housing, Helen would have to be euthanized if there were no prospects for her placement or rescue. Sara Chrisler, a Senior Veterinary Technician at DCHS, made a final heroic effort to save the sweet mare. She began researching reputable equine rescues, and emailed all she could find—including national rescues for blind horses and large national rescues DCHS has worked with for other species—asking for sanctuary for Helen. Hopes dwindled as each reply came back “No”. No room. Scarce resources. Unable to accommodate a blind horse.

 Then Sara received a response from Sandy Gilbert of Refuge Farms in Spring Valley. Would DCHS sponsor the surgery if Refuge Farms agreed to give Helen a home?

Yes.

Other rescues were full and resources scarce. Was the situation at Refuge Farms so different? When asked, Sandy responded, "Our maximum is 12. Helen will make 14. We’re full, too. But when I read Sara's email, there was..." At that point she teared up, and the passion Sandy has for her mission was apparent. “There was just something about Helen I knew was special, and that I couldn't let her die. Some things are meant to be, and this felt like one of them."

When Sandy brought her trailer to DCHS, she whispered to Helen,"Let's take you home." Helen companionably walked with her to the trailer like old friends.

 Upon arriving at Refuge Farms, Helen began saving others. Another mare, blinded from head trauma, was skittish, untrusting, and terrified of everything. When Helen arrived, both blind mares made a little squeal—and haven't left each other's sides since. A small miracle occurred as Helen’s presence seemed to calm the other mare and help her trust. As Sandy keeps reminding us, “Some things are just meant to be.”

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DCHS (and many other shelters and human societies) takes in all types and sizes of animals. From mice to horses, they  welcome all pets and offer them the best care possible. DCHS has found homes for horses, goats, chickens, ducks, pot-bellied pigs, iguanas…even a tarantula! Anyone looking for a family pet should check with DCHS (or your local shelter/humane society), or get on a waiting list to be notified if a specific type of animal comes in. Like Helen, many great homeless animals are waiting for their forever home--and to rescue you.