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.