Bridging The Worlds

An Animal Sanctuary
Santa Fe, New Mexico

I am Forever Changed

by Linda Marple

“You’re Animal Rescue? Can you go get my dog in my father’s house? It’s about a block from here. I heard her barking.”

Shelby and I looked at each other with only a moment’s hesitation. It was day four of our stay in New Orleans, more than six weeks after Hurricane Katrina. Shelby, a free-lance reporter from New York, and I had teamed up earlier in the week and now had our routine honed. Shelby was navigator for the rented Trailblazer with me behind the wheel. Bright purple chalk on our windows proclaimed us “Animal Rescue.”

We’d spent a frustrating morning looking for specific addresses that evacuees had posted on Petfinder.com saying they’d left their pets. We were in the twice-flooded 9th Ward, asking permission of the National Guard to re-enter the cordoned off north section where we had so far found no animals in homes alive. A few loose dogs and cats needed food and water so we had exited the heavily destroyed area to replenish our water supply. After the first shock of seeing so many homes leaning precariously, floated off foundations, and demolished, we hadn’t talked about it much. After four hours, it was no longer a surprise to see refrigerators on rooftops, cars flipped upside down, and clothing in trees twenty feet above the ground. Even the SUV flattened upside down and framed in the picture window of a partially collapsed house, elicited no more than, “Look at that”.

Yesterday, we were called by N.O. police to a second floor apartment in one of the many ‘projects’ near downtown. They had found a dead human in an upstairs living room and we were told, “there’s a dog in there that’s been locked in a closet for six weeks.” Shelby and I discussed the probability of this as we tried to find the address. But then, we’d already heard some amazing survival stories.

When we arrived, we got our catchpoles and followed an officer upstairs. The signature smell of death reached us as we entered the building and it got stronger as we moved up the narrow steps. As he cleared the first landing, the officer pulled his revolver and pointed it, two-handed, downward at the stairs behind him – directly at my knees. Just like in the movies, I thought, and hoped he wouldn’t trip and shoot me.

As he neared the top, he glanced around the corner and stated, “Dog’s gone. Must’ve got out somehow.” He holstered his gun and stopped. I said, “Well, we still have to look, sir,” and stepped past him. We found nothing in the kitchen or small living area, but as we entered the one dark bedroom, a low growl came from the open closet. Without speaking, we split up. As I neared the right side, the growl got louder. We both began talking softly to the dog. I could see feet but no head with the clothes in the way so I started yanking hangers out. Then I could see eyes, about two feet off the floor, reflecting what little light there was.

Shelby whispered, “Can you loop him?” I had learned quickly that a very slow approach did not alarm an already frightened animal so much, so I took my time inching my loop closer. The growl didn’t alter in pitch or intensity as it felt the loop close slowly around its neck. I pulled gently on the pole and, to my surprise, the dog came right out. It was a beautiful, rich brown Pit Bull, a thirty pounder whose ears had recently been chopped off a quarter inch from its skull. As soon as it realized we were not going to hurt it, our little rescue dog went crazy with joy, tail wagging like a whip, jumping on us, licking every part of skin it could get to. What a challenge carrying it down the stairs!

When we got out into the sun, we determined her sex and approximate age – she still had baby teeth! – and tried to give her water. She was so excited, it took several minutes for her to focus on the pan instead of her rescuers, but then she drank a quarter gallon and would have had it all had we let her. It’s important not to overfeed or water a dog that has been deprived of both. They will vomit. This gorgeous little girl was not nearly as emaciated as we’d expected – and we asked no questions about the ‘dead body’ that had already been removed. Since our chances of finding animals alive were diminishing by the day, we were just thrilled to have gotten her out. We made note of the address on the dog’s intake form and wrote at the top, “BODY FOUND – OWNER PROBABLY DECEASED.” We took her to the Southern Animal Foundation and left her in a crate in the shade until she could be taken with the other rescues of the day to the Best Friends facility in Tylertown, MS, that evening.

“Sure, we can get the dog. Address?” The man who was standing with two Salvation Army chaplains near the National Guard command post gave his name and directions. We thought it odd he didn’t get the dog himself but maybe he couldn’t get the door open. In our short experience, Shelby and I had learned several excellent techniques for breaking into a house with a pair of crowbars. I had a sick feeling, as we pulled up and saw the waterline well above the front door on this one-story, raised-floor house. Almost all homes in N.O. have a one to two foot crawl space, which made catching loose animals a challenge, until we learned how to block all but two openings with debris; then one of us would crawl under the house to drive the animal toward the other, with catchpole folks waiting.

Shelby and I started for the front door as the man and the two chaplains parked behind us, followed by a truckload of National Guardsmen. They all got out and watched us. The man said, “Her name’s Mia. Try the back door first.” We also heard him tell the chaplains he was afraid to go in. “I’d be afraid, too,” Shelby said, as we both thought of what the interior must look and smell like with a waterline to the roof. How could a dog survive that amount of water?

Several Guardsmen followed us. Shelby tried the doorknob and, much to our surprise, it was unlocked. We put our masks on and entered a darkened kitchen, with the refrigerator lying on the floor, cabinets ripped off the walls, part of the ceiling fallen in, black mold and debris everywhere. The heavy sick stench of death and a sight I will never ever forget hit us at the same time. In the corner, behind the door, was the body of a gray-haired black man, hanging doubled over an open dryer door. He had been dead for a very, very long time. We didn’t stay long enough to absorb more details; as we backed out and closed the door, Shelby told the nearest Guardsman, “there’s a dead body in here.”

Word passed along the line of uniformed people until we heard a scream and crying from the street. One of the guardsmen said to us, “He didn’t know for sure his dad was dead. He came earlier to check on him and heard the dog bark.” We watched the chaplains trying to comfort him. I felt sick. Guardsmen moved to stand in pairs at all four intersections on the block, to cordon off the area. Shelby turned to the sergeant. “What about the dog?”

“Nobody can go in there until the coroner gets here,” he said. So we waited more than 90 minutes. When they did finally show, five people got out of the van and started putting on disposable white hazmat suits while the coroner put on a re-breather and marched to the back door. “Who found the body? Did you touch anything?” he demanded. We told him we did, and no, and there’s a living dog in there somewhere. “Well, if that dog interferes or attacks my people, I’ll have to shoot it.”

I was aghast. “You can’t shoot it! This man has just lost his father. You can’t shoot his dog, too! It’s a poodle, for pete’s sake. She’s not –“

“If it attacks my people, I’m going to shoot it,” he said flatly. “Did you hear it in there? Move to the front of the building. You can’t be here when we bring the body out.”

“No, we didn’t hear it,” said Shelby. We started walking, then my partner turned. “She’s probably hiding, scared to death little thing. Please don’t shoot her. I’ll bet you won’t even see her.” When she got no response, she turned back around. “Can’t believe he’d be afraid of a poodle.”

“Well, I’ve known some pretty crabby poodles, Shel. It might scuff his boot or tear a hole in his disposable suit.” We couldn’t believe the coroner’s team were still taping cuffs to boots, sleeves to gloves, putting on hair covers and re-breathers. All we had were painter’s masks and tennis shoes.

Everyone watched the strangely dressed group troop in through the front door and five minutes later they exited the back with a small, thin blue body bag. The chaplains had moved the son down the block so he could see none of this. That poor man – what had his last minutes on Earth been like? I felt my eyes burning.

The coroner stomped back to us. “I know just where that dog is. I’ll get it for you,” and he pulled my catchpole out of my hand.

The house was long and narrow with two rooms opening off the living room – or what had been the living room. All the furniture was tossed about, fallen, upended, broken, covered with black mold. A picture hung askew on a wall, so covered with mold we couldn’t tell what it was. A TV lay face down on a piece of sofa. Black, water-stained curtains hung in tatters from the two windows. Mold covered the ceiling. The smell should have been overwhelming but we took no notice.

“It’s back here. You can take that,” the coroner jabbed a direction with the catchpole. We were to search the front bedroom, closed off from the main house by sliding doors that were now splintered on the floor. The dresser tilted against the front wall, drawers half open, some still with reeking black water in them. The stained brass bedstead was bent, the mattress and box spring slung off to one side. With my appropriated flashlight (all of our tools were ‘borrowed’ from homes that would have to be bulldozed), I looked behind the dresser by climbing up on an upended night table. A soaked, moldy Bible lay inside a small, smashed, used-to-be-white lampshade. The lamp was gone.

As I turned to tell Shelby ‘no dog,’ she yelled, “Here she is!” I leaped on top of the squishy mattress just as the coroner came around the edge of the wall saying, “There’s no-“ I grabbed my pole as I passed him with a hasty “excuse me” and, as I tried to get over a six foot bookcase lying on its side, stepped right in a plastic shoe box full of black water.

Shelby moved aside. “She’s in the laundry basket.” The basket, with what were probably clothes still in it, was turned on its side, facing the far corner of the room, with just enough space for a little dog to get in and out. I could barely make out something black and curly but I couldn’t tell which end was which. Shelby reached down and suddenly there was a high-pitched “poodle growl” with very white teeth snapping toward my partner’s hand. She yanked back. “Not too weak to rip a hand off,” she said, dryly. I tried to get the catch loop around her head but the little girl was clever. She kept leaning her head into the basket when the loop came into her sight line. “Let’s give her some bait,” Shelby said, as she bent to wave her hand toward the dog’s rear end. When the dog lunged, her head went right through the loop. As I pulled up on it, the poodle started flailing like a trophy fish.

“We got her!” Shelby yelled. Two Guardsmen who had followed us in started talking at once. “Can we help? What do you need? What can we get you? Hey, they got her! We need the small crate in the truck!”

“Small crate in the truck!” was yelled from uniform to uniform until the Guardsman at the door took off at a run. This was one of the few times we were treated as true professional animal handlers, even though we were SOOOO not. In seconds, the small crate was there, held with the door open by three Guardsmen. We’d gotten the dog on her feet on the mattress while she continued to fight – but only for a few more seconds. She exhausted herself in short order.

Shelby and I had not yet learned how to crate a dog who definitely had other ideas! When we tried a gentle push she splayed her feet and refused to budge. Then I held her head up with the pole as Shelby reached to fold her front feet up under her. “On three –“ We gave her backside a mighty shove and got her in the crate . . . but not before the frightened little dog shot out a stream of hot, incredibly smelly, totally liquid poop straight out and over part of Shelby’s jeans and my right shoe – the one I had just dunked in the black water! We looked down, then at each other, and shook our heads with a grin. As we came out of the house, several Guardsmen cheered and everyone started clapping. I don’t know about Shelby, but I got a bit teary-eyed. We’d saved another life.

EPILOGUE: Although she wasn’t hospitable to anyone but her owner, Mia the little black poodle got a detox bath and lots of love and care before the son flew her to their new home in Dallas, two days later. He thanked us profusely. We moved on to our next address.