Before she got her service dog, she could ask her husband and children to help her stop checking the window latches and tugging closed the curtains, and she did ask them, and they did try—but sometimes she couldn’t help doing it anyway. She knew it was an impossible situation. She asked her family to intervene and then argued with them about this thing she couldn’t give up, and she always got the sense of their exasperation just beneath the surface. This might not be fair, she admits. She might have been projecting the exasperation she felt with herself. Every bad day, when securing the windows was an aching compulsion, she felt more of a failure in their eyes. On bad days, they lived in her created, perpetual gloom.
Asking her family for a kind intervention became an admission that she wasn’t getting better.
And then came her smart, verbal husky, who loved her straightaway and was happy to learn his “tricks.” He is happy to be with her and very glad to intercede, to block her from the window and “let her have it” in the long-winded, poetic garble that is typical of his breed. From her beautiful dog, she feels no judgment. She does this thing; he does his thing in response. The difference is, for the dog, it’s no big deal. Beside him, she can make light of it a little. Her dog can often break the spell with his dog voice, and then they go for a walk. The walk is his reward and hers. Sometimes just the two of them head out, sometimes her husband and kids go too.
She says that once, not long ago, she had a bad round with the windows after supper, and her dog had to really work to get her free. She paid attention to her dog and turned away, and they went out for a walk that led them from dusk into darkness. She remembers her husky’s steady pad-pad-pad, their determined walk away from the house and toward a sky that went orange, pink, and yellow, setting the leaves of trees aflame. Often nightfall brought her a sink of depression, but not this night. She and her dog returned home by the light of streetlamps, and as they approached the house, she could see some vague images through curtains that weren’t quite closed. She could see the light and movement of her family, a trace of pattern thrown through lace curtains onto the grass of the lawn. She was surprised that the sight didn’t scare her. She looked to her home as a stranger would. She remembers thinking that this looked like a house where happiness lived.
Jake has his own idea about intervention and rewards. We have progressed to the point now where he recognizes both the stove-knob touches and the words “Off, off, off” as calls to action. The moment I step into the kitchen, Jake is there, the other little dogs in tow. When I don’t head for the treat drawer, the others turn away, but Jake remains. He is a patient boy that off-command still sits in the untidy way of a puppy, rolled back on his bottom, his long legs sticking out every which way. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me. Jake could never play poker. His ears give him away, and I can see his train of thought play across them—ears casually akimbo when I’m puttering idly, folded back like origami when things seem calm, even a little boring, and then perked the minute I approach the stove.
A Whisper and a lean into me was to be our alert of choice for the OCD intervention. Jake has embellished that alert to his own benefit. He watches as I approach the stove; he stands by as I cook or clean. He lets me have one, maybe two, repetitive movements there, and he intervenes. Jake has lately chosen a more dramatic alert, pushing against the side of my leg with a Whisper, then sliding down the length of my leg to fall belly-up on the floor. He wants his chest rubbed. Jake Piper is as charming as he is insistent. If I don’t do it, he whispers again. And again. And again. It’s a soft double syllable rendered from that upside-down position, and it’s impossible to ignore.
A good friend is interested in all this, but she finds it curious that I’ve chosen to teach Jake Piper to intervene with stove compulsion, which is not my problem, and not with the door-lock checking, which sometimes is. Why wouldn’t I teach the dog something I might need down the road? Isn’t that a little evasive?
Her comments startle me. I never consciously decided against teaching Jake to intervene with door checking. I just didn’t do it. When she challenges me to teach him, I agree. I agree quickly, as though to prove stove knobs were a casual choice, not some great form of denial, but I’m pretty sure she isn’t fooled. I’m not either, and I privately love her and damn her for making me realize how hard some of this process is. How hard it must be for many handlers out there who’d like to believe that this one part of themselves, this one thing, this problem they’ve had in the past has been overcome, and it’s something they won’t need a dog for. I’ve never assumed I wouldn’t have a problem with doors again. I’ve just hoped very hard that I wouldn’t. And now, when I think about all the training moments that will go into teaching Jake to intervene in locked-door checking, I feel a little sick. I haven’t had this problem since Misty died. To teach Jake, I’ll have to mimic it, and mimic it, and mimic it. Ugh. I think of the old superstition naming calls; people will not name the thing they’re most afraid of, because the power of the name is enough to bring it.
The next day, Jake Piper and I start working on my problem with the door. I try to think of it in his terms:
Here am I, dog, and here is she, my person, and we should be leaving, but we are not. We’re nearly leaving, but now we’re not. Oh—this is like the stove, only outside. It’s like the stove, with the staring and the fiddling. It’s like the stove, with a new repeated word.
This is good work for a dog who loves being outside. He picks up the problem quickly, and in his happy presence, it’s not the burden I thought it might be. Jake’s enthusiasm is infectious. In his eyes, the bigger his intervention, the quicker we’re away to some better adventure. Quick is good. Away is better. So when I double-check the door he leans against me, hard, and Whispers, Whispers, Whispers. I hear the teeth clicking. I look down at his bright-eyed We’ve got this, let’s go face. I have to laugh when he starts grumbling because I’m too slow putting up my keys.
24
SOME RESCUERS CALL IT Racebook, the use of social media to save animals bound for euthanasia. What began as e-mail strings in the 1990s and crossed to AOL and Yahoo message boards shortly after has evolved into a 24-7 awareness effort that has famously saved dogs just minutes before scheduled injections. For those of us involved in animal rescue of any kind, every day of the week brings nonstop pleas across the Twitter feed or the Facebook news stream. Purebreds, mixed breeds, large and small. Dogs, cats, horses. Lizards, snakes, and turtles sometimes. Chickens. They are all urgents with sad backstories—they are in trouble, out of time. The pleas are as heartfelt as they are well intentioned.
Pleas can be disturbing too. I’ve been involved in rescue through the Internet for more than sixteen years, but I still haven’t been able to harden myself to them, and on days when I am already overwhelmed with the saving—or the failed saving—of one dog, to face the unending stream of pleas on the social news feed every time I log on is almost more than I can bear. For every dog saved, so many are lost. Social media brings hope and breaks hearts with every post. The urgents are always with us. Compassion fatigue is real.
One Friday morning, my Facebook stream shows a clutch of desperate re-posts about the same little dog in California. His captioned photo, originally posted by the Angels for Animals Network, has 250 shares and 170 replies by the time I see it, on March 9, 2012.
Huntington Beach Humane Society, Huntington Beach, CA. Small blind, deaf neutered terrier mix, gray, 15 yrs., “Todo” in poor health. Imp#C000111. Owner admitted to Hoag on 2-7-12, and was later discharged, only to come back and was discharged again on 2-15-12. Records show she lives in HB. Was mailed a postcard on 2-26-12 to come and get dog. Postcard came back today return to sender. We’ve held dog way past legal requirement and it now appears it’s been abandoned. Shelter will only hold him until Saturday.
The photo accompanying the post shows a dispirited, unkempt dark gray mop of a dog huddled on a blanket, gazing sightlessly toward the floor. He has the look
so many shelter rescues have after neglect is followed by the isolated safety of a shelter. He is safe, sad, and disoriented—alive in body, but diminished.
I reread the plea description. In terms of attraction factor for many adopters, this little guy has everything against him. He’s a dark-colored senior, blind, deaf, and in poor health. A fellow rescuer says bluntly that the photo isn’t going to help him much: with that head down and his awful, matted coat, he’s the last dog on earth most families would consider. He would be high on many shelters’ unadoptable list, and it’s a wonder he has made it this long.
But some shelters will make special allowances for identified strays whose owners are in duress; maybe that’s been this one’s good fortune. Todo is likely still alive due only to the uncertain status of his ownership; the information in his write-up suggests some contact with the owner had been made. After a little research, I can decode the local references. Todo’s owner was twice admitted to Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach in February, and then—was phone contact made with the owner? Did that contact suddenly cease?—a shelter notification postcard came back marked “return to sender.”
Todo, likely a misspelled version of Dorothy’s Toto (whom this little dog resembles), is now not technically a stray. Some people following the little dog’s Facebook plea page are furious because Todo has been abandoned. Some are more compassionate, speculating that his original owner may have died. Perhaps a neighbor or a landlord marked the postcard for return.
We can never really know, suggests one reasonable soul. Is it fair to judge?
Hell yes, responds another. She says she’s been too long in rescue. She’s seen all the excuses, heard all the lies.
Whatever the history, Todo has ended up the way many animals do when their owners are sick and the pets are left with others who either cannot or don’t want to care for them.
This is Friday. The shelter will hold him through Saturday, and after that the prospects look grim. Sundays are not a reprieve for many dogs in line for euthanasia. The Facebook posting group has put good intention into action. They have raised a certain amount in pledges to pay for Todo’s release from the shelter, and Todo’s plea page has as many voices offering money to rescue him as it has voices begging openly for a kind soul to give the dog a chance. The money is there! Just go get him! Someone! Anyone! But so far, no local has offered to step up for Todo.
What moves me so deeply on his behalf? There are dozens of pleas on Facebook and Twitter every day, worthy dogs in equal hardship and despair, and I offer help with such pleas where I can, but there is something about Todo I can’t disregard. I feel the loom of his Sunday termination in the pit of my stomach. He has tomorrow left. He is three states and 1,463 miles away.
I learn quickly that the shelter noted in the Facebook plea is not the actual name of the facility holding Todo. He is at the Orange County Humane Society, which has a pretty website, a compassionate mission statement, and a phone number that rolls to an automated greeting. California is two hours behind Texas, but no matter when I call the Humane Society, the phone is never answered by a person. From hard experience, I know urgent online pleas for a dog can continue long after the status of a dog has changed, and before I make a long-distance effort on Todo’s behalf—plane tickets, hotel reservations, rental car—I need to make sure he is still actually at the shelter.
The phone continues to ring and roll to an automated greeting, and I can’t get angry. Every unanswered call suggests the staff members are all busy. I get it, but I keep calling until the last moment the shelter is open on Friday. No answer. I post my phone-contact problem on the Facebook plea thread, and while a couple of local Orange County people promise to try by phone or to physically go check on him if they are able to get free the next day, most of this Facebook rescue network is far-flung, and the local rescuers are already overextended.
I go to sleep on Friday not knowing if Todo is still at the shelter or if, by some late-breaking grace, someone has come forward to give the little dog a home. The dogs twitch around me when I wake up at 1:00 A.M., 2:00 A.M., 5:00 A.M., subtracting the difference between Texas time and California time and tallying how many hours Todo has left. On Saturday morning, I start calling again, and the shelter phone rings and rolls to automated messaging as before. A Facebook acquaintance reconfirms that she’ll check on Todo if she can get free that morning. But she’s not close by. It’s a maybe, at best. I have exhausted all my contacts in California (many are away with their families on spring break), and now Todo has about seven hours left.
I’ve never used Twitter for rescue before. In fact, I struggle sometimes with followers who do nothing but tweet THIS DOG DIES TOMORROW pleas, because I know so many dogs do, and every plea hurts. But between calls to the shelter, on impulse I tweet in the peculiar idiom of 140 characters:
Susannah Charleson@S_Charleson
On standby 2 fly to LA 2 rescue a blind/deaf terrier abandoned at shelter. Euth tomorrow. If they will release 2 me, he’s got a home.
It’s not exactly a plea—just a fling of frustration and concern into the Twitterverse. And because 140 characters doesn’t cover my night of worry, moments later I tweet that I still can’t get anyone to answer the phone at the facility. Almost immediately I get a response:
Tricia Helfer@trutriciahelfer
@S_Charleson I’m in Toronto this weekend but if u need help with the shelter rescue before u get there, let me know and I’ll send a friend.
And a moment after that, another:
Shauna Galligan@ShaunaGalligan
@S_Charleson I can go get him if you can’t make it!!!!!
A plea asked and answered in less than five minutes. Actors Tricia Helfer and Shauna Galligan are not strangers to me, but knowing the odd hours and cross-country demands of their working lives, I would never have expected they’d be able to help.
Tricia, Shauna, and I haven’t known one another long. We met in Hammond, Louisiana, not far from the set of the TV pilot adaptation of my first book, Scent of the Missing. Tricia was cast to play the role based on me, and stuntwoman Shauna was hired as her double.
TNT ordered the pilot, and when Tricia was cast in the role, in autumn of 2011, I was excited. She is a strong woman. I knew her work and had no trouble imagining her in muddy boots and SAR gear pressing through the wilderness behind a search dog. Tricia grew up on a farm, loves to hike, has a passion for motorcycles as well as some flight experience in small planes. A random Twitter photo shows her waist-deep in a hole she’d helped dig for a new fence on her family’s farm. I had absolutely no voice in the casting decision, but I was pleased that producers had chosen someone completely plausible in the field. Her background and sensibility seemed right on to me—and when I learned Tricia is also heavily involved in animal rescue, I remember thinking that she would know what it is like to do something hard and compassionate for no other reason than it’s the right thing to do. The day I left Dallas for the production site proved the point: Tricia was spending her day off from the shoot visiting an animal rescue near Baton Rouge.
Shauna and I also found a connection over homeless animals. We stood in the rain and mud one day while a new scene was setting up, and she described her own background with dogs in trouble. They seem to cross her path and she takes them in, knowing that somehow she’ll be able to find each of them the right home. She could have ended up with a houseful of dogs she couldn’t place, but she hasn’t. It always seems to work out. Shauna’s heart for these animals and her gut faith in the process is compelling.
After the TV shoot finished, we exchanged e-mail addresses and connected on Twitter. I returned to Texas, and Tricia and Shauna returned, briefly, to LA. The subsequent months took us all in different directions. Tricia traveled a lot. She was guest-starring on NBC’s The Firm, which was shooting in Toronto, as well as voicing video games and guest-starring in episodes of other series. During intermittent weekends back in LA, her homecoming was often marked on Twitter by splendid shot
s of her rescued cats in different attitudes: sly, athletic, conniving. Luxuriously asleep. One cat caught in slant-eared roguish charm followed by another sweetly shy.
Shauna was working as a stunt double across of a variety of projects, tweeting various gruesome shots of herself as a crime-scene victim or an unlucky passenger in an exploded car. There were happier photos: Between long days spent slashed and bloodied, Shauna posted pictures of her newest rescued dogs, an adult golden and a golden puppy who were now living a rich life beside her as they explored the good hikes of Hollywood’s hills.
I was back in Texas, then went to Boston, D.C., Florida, and Arkansas for weekends—writing and working with the dogs whose pictures I also posted, not glamorous but appallingly honest: Puzzle elbow-deep in mud after a search; Jake Piper photographed in the Great Cheese Leave It, which was followed by his total destruction of a new rosebush in less than two minutes flat.
While Shauna’s and Tricia’s local paths crossed often, it’s safe to say that my connection with them happened mostly on Twitter, life fragments in fractured text and a clutch of photographs invariably involving rescued dogs and cats looking happy and often more than a little smug.
And then came Todo—the blind, deaf, gray myth of a dog abandoned in a shelter not far from Hollywood. With one tweet, he would be saved by six people a whole country apart.
The Possibility Dogs Page 23