Fifty Years in the Doghouse

by Lloyd Alexander

  Carmelita had named him so because he looked, she said, like the movie trademark. "He is a little grumpy," she said, "but only in the morning." Henry, the kennel man, was fascinated by Metro. "He's really great," he told Ryan. "Boy, I'd sure like to have him for a watchdog. Or on the subway with me."

  "If Carmela the Magnificent doesn't get a booking soon," Ryan told Henry, "you may have to take him home with you. These lions can really eat."

  "But that's good," Henry said. "It's a lot safer. It kills their appetite for things like people." One morning Carmela the Magnificent failed to appear. Like hungry boarders, the lions turned restless and began to grumble. Noon came with still no sign of the lady lion tamer. "I'll feed them," Henry volunteered. "The hell you will," said Ryan. "Give her a little more time. If she doesn't show up, then we'll see what we can do." Henry withdrew to the kennels. Ryan stayed in the adjoining room to direct owners who had brought their pets for veterinary examinations. The waiting room was crowded and busy. Some time passed before Ryan had the impression of a faint voice calling his name. It sounded as if it came from the kennels. Ryan hurried to investigate. He found Henry at the far end of the kennel, his hand on the knob of the back door. In the middle of the floor stood Metro, lashing his tail and looking curiously at Henry. "I tried to feed him," Henry said faintly. "I did everything Carmela did. I just raised the cage door a little bit ..."

  "Why are you whispering?"

  "You'd whisper too," Henry gulped, "if Metro looked at you the way he looked at me."

  "Didn't you give him his food?" Ryan asked. "Put it in the cage. Maybe he'll go back and eat it."

  "I did," Henry said. "He'd rather be out. I think I'll be leaving, too." Ryan whipped out his .45 automatic. "Don't shoot him," Henry pleaded. "He'll be all right once he's locked up."

  "I'm not going to shoot him," Ryan said. "But if you try to go out that door I might make a mistake and shoot you. You stay here and help." Ryan had seen lion tamers at work. He suddenly realized it felt different doing it yourself. He seized a pitchfork and held it at arm's length, the automatic in his other hand. "Metro!" he shouted with all the authority he could muster. "Metro! Back!" The lion only gave him a disagreeable look. Henry had stationed himself beside Metro's cage, and had raised the sliding door. "Maybe he doesn't understand English. Carmela always talks to him in Spanish. Try it. Caramba! Manana! Hasta la vista!" Henry shouted. Metro tossed his head angrily. Then he sat back on his haunches and roared. "That's the wrong Spanish, maybe," Henry said. "Just shut up," Ryan ordered. He took a firmer grip on the pitchfork and shook it at the lion. Metro pawed back at it. Ryan stepped closer. He filled his lungs with air. "Scat!" he shouted at the top of his voice, aiming the revolver at the ceiling and pulling the trigger. Metro sprang into the cage. Henry slammed the door and collapsed on the floor. The lion calmly began eating breakfast. "Carmela said they were just like cats," Ryan murmured, wiping his dripping forehead. "I guess she was right." Later in the day, Carmela finally arrived. She had wonderful news. An out-of-town theater had booked her act and she was sending a truck around immediately. Ryan wished her luck. He mentioned nothing about Metro. Henry was still pale from the experience. "Boy, I don't know how you did it," he admitted. "The secret," Ryan said, "is never let the animal know you're scared."

  "Oh yeah?" Henry said. "How come your hands are shaking?"

  "That's what I mean," Ryan said. "I was scared, all right. But Metro never found out."

  6 - The Siberian Silver Dollar

  The number of lions Ryan sees is relatively, and fortunately, small. Not so with horses. New York had 175,000 horses when Ryan started working for the Society. He began to suspect he would eventually meet every one of them. With other ASPCA agents, Ryan inspected horse markets, circuses, stockyards, ferry slips, and kept his eye on all street traffic. He also began to believe that horses possessed abilities even he had never realized. They could get themselves into as much trouble as a cat. Manholes, especially open ones, seemed to have an irresistible attraction for horses. They fell into them. How so much horse could get into so little manhole baffled Ryan. But they did it. The latticework of the Queensboro Bridge held another fatal charm, particularly during the middle of the night in the dead of winter. Sewer catch basins appeared devised for the sole purpose of ensnaring a horse's leg. A good part of Ryan's life took on the aspect of a battle of wits: between the horses, bent on discovering all the different ways of getting stuck in an infinite variety of urban pitfalls; and himself, urgently trying to discover the best way of getting them out. He developed, in the course of the battle, several basic techniques. The Anti-Catch-Basin Technique was one. When a horse's leg slipped through the slot of the catch basin, the animal was usually caught permanently.

  Hoof and leg seemed to go through the slot with amazing ease; but what goes in does not necessarily come out and the horse might just as well have fallen into an unopenable trap. In those cases, Ryan assumed the role of a blacksmith. Crouched at ground level, contorted in a way that would have amazed any ordinary blacksmith, Ryan very carefully slipped his hands down and removed the shoe from the captive hoof. Then, with a sharp knife, he painstakingly whittled the hoof until it could pass freely through the slot. The Anti-Manhole Technique was less intricate but could involve more equipment. Its principles, however, were simple and direct: 2. Grease the manhole 12. Grease the horse 13. Pull out the horse This usually did the job; if it didn't, Ryan could put the Society's horse-derrick into action. The horse-derrick was a combination of ropes, pulleys, winches, slings and a supporting base. It resembled some ancient Roman siege machine but could lift a horse to its feet more efficiently than half a dozen men. But horses not only got stuck; they got sick. The Society presently has a staff of fourteen veterinarians and a research laboratory as complete as a good many hospital facilities. The Society had only a limited number of veterinarians in the earlier days, and its agents were often looked on as authorities in the treatment of animals. Ryan in particular found himself handing out practical suggestions, especially in the poorer neighborhoods. New York's immigrants seemed terrified of doctors in any form. A doctor meant money. Calling a doctor also had a frightening formality about it; and, like telegrams with bad news, the immigrants associated doctors with catastrophe.

  They would rather dose themselves and their animals with patent medicines, weird home brews and violent liniments than think about calling a doctor or veterinarian. With Ryan, however, they felt more at ease. And Ryan often felt that, in addition to preventing cruelty, he was running a mobile consulting clinic. On Manhattan's lower East Side, his regular patients included a horse belonging to Vadim Sergeivich Orlovsky. Vadim Sergeivich was a man of mystery. He wore a tall woolly Cossack cap, a Russian-style blouse belted outside his trousers, a pair of cracked boots. Vadim Sergeivich had been a high-ranking officer during the Russo-Japanese war, had defended Port Arthur almost single-handed, conducted glittering affairs with countesses, fought duels, defeated attacking wolves. All of this was obviously true, because confirmation of his stories came from an indisputable authority, Vadim Sergeivich himself. "It is I, Vadim Sergeivich Orlovsky, who speaks!" the Russian would cry, which had the effect of putting an end to any further discussion. In New York, Vadim Sergeivich occupied himself with the refreshment business. That is, he drove a delivery wagon loaded with seltzer-water siphons.

  It would do until something more appropriate turned up. That it would turn up, Vadim Sergeivich had no doubt. His assurance came from an object he carried with him at all times, tucked away under his baggy blouse. Although taking it out of its hiding place required the Russian practically to undress, he was always happy to do so. Then he would hold his lucky piece triumphantly between thumb and forefinger. "With this," he would say, "I have nothing to fear, my family shall never beg from any man. Take my word for it. It is I, Vadim Sergeivich Orlovsky, who tells you these things!" The object was an American silver dollar. Its milled edge looked brand new, the profile of Liberty clear an
d sharp; but the dollar was jet black. Orlovsky had acquired it during one of his Russian adventures. Exactly how or where he would not reveal.

  He would wink eloquently and return the piece to its hiding place. Of the entire Orlovsky household, Vadim, his wife, son and horse, the most essential member was the horse. Orlovsky never admitted this. He preferred to imply that somewhere a whole stableful of horses stood at his disposal. Ryan knew otherwise. If anything happened to Orlovsky's horse, the Russian simply could not afford to replace it. He would automatically be out of the seltzer business. The charm of the silver dollar might have extended to Vadim Sergeivich's wife and son; it did not have any noticeable power as far as the horse was concerned. The animal fell into manholes, drainage ditches, and sewer basins with monotonous regularity; potholes had a magnetic effect. The horse also showed a genius for seeking out loose paving blocks to stumble over. On a sunny day, the horse could even manage to trip on its own shadow. And it was Ryan who always raced to the scene, putting the animal back on its feet and Vadim Sergeivich back in business. "I'll be damned if I've ever seen a horse like that," Ryan told the Russian. "I don't know where you got him, but he's no city horse. I just don't think he understands the city."

  "He will learn," Orlovsky said confidently. Ryan held the opinion that, considering the horse's age, if he hadn't learned by now the prospects were dim. Some horses could get along in Manhattan. Some couldn't. Ryan was convinced that Orlovsky's horse would never fathom the mysteries of manholes and how to avoid them. Once or twice, he suggested that Orlovsky trade the animal to a farmer and get himself a more sophisticated one, but the Russian only grunted. Meanwhile, the horse continued to pull the seltzer-bottle wagon, with time out for his routine entanglements with the manholes and catch basins.

  One afternoon, however, Ryan had a frantic message from Orlovsky. The animal had collapsed at a ferry slip. Ryan and one of the Society's veterinarians hurried to the river. Orlovsky's horse lay on its side, flanks heaving, eyes glassy. The seltzer-bottle wagon stood near the curb, its shafts empty. The vet examined the animal, then stood up and shook his head. The horse's hindquarters were paralyzed. "There's nothing anybody can do," the vet said to Ryan. "That horse is done. I think you'll have to shoot it. It's a damn shame." Orlovsky's face had turned gray. He said nothing. "Wait a minute," Ryan said. "Let me try something."

  "You're wasting your time," the vet said. "Even suppose you keep the poor devil alive. What's the use if he's going to be paralyzed?"

  "I'll worry about that later," said Ryan. "Come on, give me a hand." Together, the men got a sling on the horse and hoisted it into the ambulance and headed back to the shelter's stables. Orlovsky offered to come along but Ryan waved him back. "I'll handle this alone."

  "Well, I'll try ..." the vet began. "No thanks, Doc." Ryan shook his head. "This is between the horse and me." Ryan set up his own operating room on the stable floor. For the rest of the day and far into the night, Ryan worked over the animal. The horse, Ryan realized, was toxic; he tried every method he knew to fight it. Working alone, in the narrow stall under the hard light of an electric bulb, Ryan practically readjusted the animal's entire body chemistry. Past midnight, there was no sign of improvement. By three in the morning, Ryan began to consider the possibility that the veterinarian might have known more than he did.

  Then he put the vet out of his thoughts and went wearily back to the animal. As he had said, this was between Orlovsky's horse and himself. A little before dawn, Ryan had to admit that even he had done all he could. He leaned back against the wooden partition and waited. In another hour, the horse stirred feebly; then, as Ryan watched, the animal struggled to its feet and whinnied. Since there were no manholes for the horse to fall into at the moment, Ryan decided it was safe to sleep. Without moving from the stall, he sighed with relief and closed his eyes. Vadim Sergeivich showed up at the stable around daybreak. He, too, had been working through the night. At first, he had tried pulling the wagon himself. Failing, he had carried the load case by case on his back until he had finished his deliveries. When Ryan saw him, he was looking worse than the horse. As much as Orlovsky had disbelieved the animal would have to be destroyed, he now could not believe the horse was alive. When he finally understood, he tossed his Cossack hat in the air and threw his arms around Ryan. "There is only one truth," he cried. "The difference between life and death! I, Vadim Sergeivich Orlovsky, tell you this!" His face fell when Ryan regretfully told him the other part of the story. The horse was alive, but the paralysis had left its mark. The animal was sound and well-with one exception. It could pull a load forward, but would never again have the strength to back one up. It could change directions only by going in a wide circle. "But in the city is impossible," Orlovsky said in dismay. "For a cart horse not to back up ... the narrow streets, the corners, all the traffic ..."

  "I thought about that," Ryan said. "I'll see what I can do."

  Later in the day, Ryan embarked on a three-sided horse trade. It involved Orlovsky, an iceman and a farmer. Ice-wagon horses, Ryan knew, worked terrifically hard. By the end of one season they were nearly worn out. Compared to hauling blocks of ice, pulling a load of seltzer bottles was a rest cure. On this basis, he set about finding an iceman interested in a fresh animal. Farm horses were strong enough to pull ice wagons, so Ryan also needed to locate a farmer willing to trade. Then, of course, he had to find a place for Orlovsky's horse. Juggling all these factors and requirements, Ryan consummated a very delicate deal. Through a series of tradings and counter-tradings, he acquired an ice-wagon horse for Orlovsky's seltzer-bottle wagon; he discovered an iceman delighted to have a farm horse; and he contacted a farmer just outside the city who would be very glad to use Orlovsky's horse for plowing-an occupation that didn't require any backing up. Orlovsky shook his head in amazement. It was probably the only horse trade in Manhattan that left everybody satisfied. "What can I do?" Orlovsky asked. "What can I say? For this words are not enough."

  "You can do one thing," Ryan said. "Tell me how, in the name of geography, you got hold of an American silver dollar in Russia!"

  "Ah, that." Orlovsky said with a shrug. "That is one story I do not know. I found it. You give me my horse's life," he went on, "you give me back my living. I give you truth in exchange. It is true I was in war. But not officer. Only private. I did not even fight. I guarded camp in Siberia. There I found the dollar, lying on ground, as black as it is now. How it came or why, I do not know."

  "But I know this," Vadim Sergeivich said. "When I found this dollar from America I decided I would go there."

  "And I kept it with me all through war. It was like I had America in my pocket." The Russian reached under his blouse and took out the coin. He handed it to Ryan. "Here," Vadim Sergeivich said, "it is yours. I am in America now, I have no need of it. For luck." The Russian nodded. "There is only luck we make for ourselves, or the luck a good friend gives us. I, Vadim Sergeivich Orlovsky, tell you this. Of course," he added, "as long as you carry it, you can never say you are without a dollar." The ice-wagon horse gained weight on the seltzer route. Orlovsky's horse took to farming as if born to the job. In the fields, there were no manholes, no sewer gratings to distract it. The last Ryan heard, the horse was doing well. Even if it did trip over a clod now and then.

  The Society has always worked to prevent abuse to New York's draft animals. As part of the effort, it set up fountains and watering troughs throughout the city. One year, when the municipal authorities ordered all fountains shut down during a glanders epidemic, the Society organized a drinking pail service. Later, the organization bought some surplus watering carts and made mobile oases of them by out fitting the street-sprinkling equipment into faucets for filling pails; the ASPCA had also increased the number of permanent watering stations to 70. During one year alone, the ASPCA examined nearly 23,000 horses at auction sales. It routinely checked conditions in all stables; but one thing the Society could foresee, warn against, and do little to prevent, was fire. Even the
best run stables were fire hazards; and some of the ramshackle barns and livery stables at the fringes of the city were tinderboxes. Because of the constant danger of fire, and the large number of animals that might be threatened, the ASPCA set up a direct line with the city's fire-prevention bureau.

  Fires, like children, seem to be born in the small hours of the morning. Ryan got used to having his sleep interrupted and, when animals were in danger, he usually hustled to the scene as fast as the fire engines. The ASPCA horse ambulance generally arrived ahead of the hospital vehicles, too-a situation which made some of the hospital administrators wonder whether the ASPCA had extrasensory perception or whether the Society's drivers had some secret underground passages below the streets of Manhattan. During one of the coldest winters New York had known, Ryan tumbled out of bed to drive frantically to a burning stable. There were 76 horses in the building, but the fire department had the blaze under control and Ryan got them out with no difficulties-other than those inherent in manipulating 76 terrified animals. While the firemen struggled with freezing equipment, and the police stamped their feet in the wistful hope of avoiding frostbite, Ryan tethered the horses along the street. "You're lucky," a shivering policeman told him, "you can go back to bed."