Like all teachers, the Humane Education Department learns from its students. One thing the staff has discovered: the traditional picture of a boy inseparable from his dog is a little misleading. "Girls," says Diana Henley, "are much more devoted, much more enthusiastic animal lovers, than boys." The girls are more eager to meet new animals, are willing to work harder in caring for them-and aren't half as scared. When Diana Henley invites her young pupils to drape the boa constrictor around their necks, the first volunteer is almost invariably a girl. Teaching humans how to get along with animals is one part of the Humane Education Department's job. The other is teaching animals how to get along with humans. In any big city, especially New York, an untrained dog on the streets can be a bigger traffic hazard than a woman shopper. The compulsive yapper, nipper, or Great Dane that loves to jump up on people rapidly forfeits the role of man's best friend and gains a reputation as a complete lout. To help dogs and their owners avoid this situation, the Society offers obedience training courses at the Manhattan, Brooklyn and Glen Cove Shelters. The program began in 1944; since then, 18,000 dogs and their owners have attended the Society's classes. Blanche Saunders, the famous dog trainer who brought the idea of formal training from England and who sparked much of the enthusiasm for it in this country, was the ASPCA's training instructor for 17 years. Charles Leedham is now in charge. Obedience training involves more important matters than teaching a dog to give you his paw. Freshmen learn to heel, lie down, come when you call them and, equally important, to stay put when you tell them to.
Upperclassmen go deeper into these subjects and do some advanced work in carrying and retrieving. The question comes up: Who's being trained, the owner or the dog? "The owner," answers Diana Henley. "Mr. Leedham and his helpers train you to train your dog." In the process, human and animal must first establish a mutual vocabulary. The owner must be consistent in using command words and gestures. The dog gradually learns what's expected of him-and the owner learns what he can expect from his dog. Dogs generally do their best to please their owners. They look for leadership and direction; like children, they feel more secure in the presence of a reliable authority. Almost everyone, the Society has found, can learn to train a dog; although it's true that some people learn a little faster than others and some have a natural flair for it. "Theater people," says Miss Henley, "actors and dancers, make some of the best dog handlers. They're trained to use their bodies and voices, to develop stage presence and project their personalities. They have an excellent sense of timing, which is very important in obedience training." Miss Henley has had plenty of opportunity to observe this. Many theater people bring their animals to the ASPCA courses and Miss Henley has helped train the dogs of celebrities such as actress Sylvia Sidney, the musical comedy star Gwen Verdon, and singer Leslie Uggams. It's also true that some dogs learn faster than others. Breed doesn't seem to have much bearing on the matter-with a few possible exceptions. Hounds, in Miss Henley's experience, are a little harder to train. They're usually good natured, easygoing characters who somehow just don't take the idea of training very seriously. Few things in life are really urgent, as far as a hound is concerned. Beagles and dachshunds share much of this attitude.
Working dogs approach their training in a competent, businesslike manner and usually make excellent students. Obedience and cooperation with humans have run in their family for centuries, and these traits show up to good advantage in the Society's courses. Among the easiest dogs to train are poodles. Most often, they're smart, quick to catch on to what the owner wants. (Some poodle fanciers feel that their dogs are on a level with telepaths and mind readers.) Like seals, poodles love an audience and respond strongly to praise. "They're really terrible hams," says Miss Henley. Still, there's no predicting which individual dog will do best in training. Sometimes the most unlikely candidates graduate summa cum laude. The Society acquired a Chihuahua, brought to the Manhattan Shelter as an abandoned animal. The little creature had obviously been mistreated, was frightened and cowering. Miss Henley adopted the dog, worked patiently to gain its friendship and confidence. The Chihuahua did so well that eventually it became a demonstration dog. In its eight-week course, the Society covers the basic points of good canine behavior. Some applicants, fascinated by one New York department store's use of dogs as night watchmen, or perhaps carried away by the adventures of the Army's K-9 Corps, ask to have their pets taught combat techniques. The answer is always a polite "No." The Society does not give attack training. In the Society's opinion, a dog trained for this purpose is, in the hands of an amateur, more dangerous than a loaded gun. Instead, the obedience courses emphasize a good working-and loving-relationship between dog and owner. The training isn't harsh or over demanding for animal or human. "Sometimes," Miss Henley says, "obedience training can mean a real blossoming for the dog." It can mean a blossoming for the owner, too.
The Society has never offered obedience training courses with the fringe benefit of teaching an owner how to win friends and influence people. But things often work out that way. The owners acquire a confidence in dealing with their pets that carries over into their dealings with people. Miss Henley recalls one young woman, attractive but painfully shy, who seemed at first incapable of ordering a fly off a tablecloth. During the classes, her whole personality changed. She turned out to be a brilliant handler-and an exceptional person in her own right. Developing her pet's abilities helped the girl develop her own. This Dale Carnegie type of success story is a bonus. Most owners are less concerned about influencing people than influencing their dogs. But, whichever way it works out, a glamorous new career or a well-mannered cocker spaniel, the Humane Education Department is pleased. So is the owner. So is the cocker spaniel.
19 - The Stray and the Soprano
Despite the high enrollments in the Society's obedience classes, New York's dog population is going to the dogs. In 1954, there were almost 280,000 licensed dogs; most recently, that figure has dropped by about 25,000. A lot of New York City families have been moving to the suburbs, taking their pets with them. A number of the new housing developments won't allow dogs on the premises. These are probably the two main reasons for the decrease. But even the reduced number of dogs still gives the Society an expensive problem. In 1894, the State Legislature empowered the ASPCA to issue dog licenses in New York City and collect the fees involved. At the time, the arrangement seemed fair enough. The Society used the money to defray the costs of supplying tags, handling all the administrative work, returning lost dogs to their owners, and maintaining shelters for lost, strayed or homeless animals. ASPCA services embrace far more than what is attendant to dog licensing. The licensing operation, however, up till 1963, had come to be a serious drain on the Society's resources. Whereas it always was contemplated that the ASPCA at least would break even on operating the dog license franchise for the City of New York, in 1962 the Society's deficit on this operation alone was $195,600; its aggregate deficit since 1956 on the dog tag business had been $953,400 the beginning of the 1963-64 fiscal year.
On top of everything else, the Society knows that the most rigid economy cannot reduce annual expenses for all operations below nearly $2,000,000. With some $70,000 worth of charity treatments, the ASPCA hospital loses substantially more than $160,000 a year, and Humane Work and Humane Education, neither of which produces income, have operational costs upwards of $150,000 a year. Income from the Society's portfolio and from annual memberships and contributions appropriately can be applied toward financing the humane activities of the ASPCA. Over the last half dozen years, however, the drain of the dog-licensing deficit has been more than the Society could bear. That is why it became so necessary to go to the New York State Legislature in January, 1963, for relief through an increase in the dog license fee. Aside from issuing dog tags, the concomitants of the license service alone have been more than money can buy. Within a single year the Society returned 5,788 lost dogs not only to New Yorkers but to owners in Florida, California, and all over the Unit
ed States. In one case, the Society received a letter from a man in Buenos Aries, Argentina, advising that he had found a dog with an ASPCA license. Checking its cross-index, the Society learned the dog's owner still lived in New York. The ASPCA contacted the amazed New Yorker, who explained that his dog had strayed during a trip to South America. He had given up hope of finding the animal again. The Society arranged for the 6,000-mile trip from Buenos Aries; owner and pet had a happy reunion at the boat. Most dog-owners would agree that this can't be calculated in dollars. Yet if a dog is supposed to be a man's best friend, sometimes it doesn't always seem that way. It did not seem that way at all the night Ryan had a call from the police department about a small riot taking place in an apartment house near 137th Street.
The police reported hearing yells and calls for help, and seeing miscellaneous objects flying through a window. To Ryan, it sounded like nothing more serious than an ordinary domestic squabble. "What," he asked, "does that have to do with the Society? If a man's beating an animal, that's one thing. If he's beating his wife, that's something else."
"I don't know who's doing what to who," said the officer. "But this is Society business. There's one hell of a big dog in that apartment."
"How do you know?" Ryan asked. "Did you go in to find out?"
"Go in?" said the policeman. "That dog won't let us go in. Every time we try to turn the doorknob, he grabs it with his mouth."
"Don't put me on," Ryan said. "You're a grown man. A dog can't stop you from opening a door."
"I told you," said the officer, "this is a big dog. I looked at him through the keyhole. Until he started looking back at me." Hurrying to 137th Street, Ryan found the squad car, two policemen and the building superintendent. None of them seemed eager to invade the apartment. "All right," Ryan told the superintendent, "you take this flashlight. Shine it on the fire escape. I'm going to climb up." He turned to the policemen. "You boys," he said, "go to the apartment. When you hear me come in the window, you go through the door." Ryan clambered onto the narrow iron ladder and made his way up three flights. Peering through the bedroom window, he saw nothing at first. After a moment, a white Eskimo dog came and sat on the bed and looked curiously at the ASPCA agent. The police had been right. It was a big dog. A very big dog. Ryan was only surprised that the dog hadn't opened the door and tossed the policemen down the stairs.
"Good boy," Ryan said hopefully. He slowly raised the window. Instead of running toward him, the dog raced into the living room and dove under the sofa. At the same moment, the policemen burst into the apartment. Ryan met them in the foyer. The rooms were empty and silent. "Hey," said one of the policemen, "you don't think the dog was throwing all that stuff out the window?"
"I don't know," Ryan said. "Some of these huskies are pretty smart." A loud yell came from the bathroom. Both policemen drew their guns. "Take it easy," Ryan said. "If the dog's that smart, maybe he's got a friend in there." The police sidled up to the door, kicked it open and jumped back. Inside, Ryan saw a man and a woman standing petrified in the bathtub. "My God," cried the man, with relief, "I thought you'd never get here!" For the past hour, the man explained, he and his wife had been pitching medicine bottles, hairbrushes and tubes of toothpaste, trying to get attention. "Didn't you think the phone would have worked better?" asked Ryan. "Phone!" the man exclaimed. "We couldn't get to the phone. Mukluk wouldn't let us!"' The man and his wife had taken Mukluk with them to visit a local bar. Back at the apartment, Mukluk had turned playful; so playful that he had begun chasing the couple all over the place. "Every time we tried to move," the husband said, "he'd jump on us. When we tried to get into the hall, he stood in front of the door. He acted like it was a big joke. Finally, he chased us into the bathroom."
"I think he's lost his mind," the woman put in. Ryan thought for a moment. "Listen," he said. "When you were at the bar did Mukluk have anything to drink?"
"Well ..." The man hesitated. "He might have had a little. He acted thirsty. I bought him a couple of beers."
"That," said Ryan, "was about the stupidest thing you could have done. The dog isn't out of his mind. He's drunk!" The effect of the beer had begun to wear off, for Mukluk now crawled from under the sofa and wagged his tail at Ryan. "Besides the drinks," Ryan asked, "did you give him anything else?"
"No," said the man, "only a couple of sausages, a hard boiled egg and some potato chips-just the snacks at the bar, the same as we had." Ryan warned the owner that overloading a dog's stomach could throw the animal into running fits. He advised taking Mukluk to a veterinarian in the morning. "Morning?" said the wife. "You think I'm going to stay in the bathroom all night? You take him. He's all yours." The couple agreed that Mukluk, drunk or sober, was too much for them to cope with. "Suppose he thought this was fun?" the man asked. "Suppose he wants to try it again?" Ryan took Mukluk back with him and, in the morning, entered the husky in the adoption service. Mukluk did not have long to wait. He was a handsome dog and several requests came for him almost immediately. Ryan was convinced Mukluk had found a good home. The man who finally adopted him was a teetotaler. Admitting dogs to be one of man's best friends, the reverse is not necessarily true. In civilian clothes, walking through the Times Square neighborhood one cold evening, Ryan noticed a man standing on a street corner. The man was wrapped in an overcoat, scarf and earmuffs. Shivering in front of him stood four of the scrawniest poodles Ryan had ever seen.
The ASPCA agent walked over to the man. "Mister," Ryan asked, "what do you think you're doing with those dogs?" The man gave him a hard look. "What's it look like I'm doing? I'm not out here for my health. I'm selling these mutts." Ryan put his hands on his hips. "If you want to know something," he said, "I don't give a damn about your health. If you want to freeze all night, that's your business. Don't wish it on the dogs." From the crowd of passers-by, one well-dressed woman pulled her escort over to the curb. "Oh, Charlie, look at the poor doggies." She bent and patted one on the head. "The outcasts from a broken home, ma'am," the poodle dealer said sorrowfully. "They got no place to go. I promised to do my best for them."
"Charlie, I want one," the woman pleaded. "They're so cold and miserable we can't leave them here." The poodle-peddler went on with his pitch. The dogs, he explained, belonged to a well-known actress in the process of breaking up with her husband. The poodles had to be disposed of somehow. "If they belonged to her," said the woman, "we've got to buy one."
"Lady," Ryan interrupted, "if you want to give a dog a home, I'm with you. But don't fall for that line of-"
"Only twenty-five dollars," the peddler put in hastily. "You can't find another pedigreed animal in New York for that kind of money."
"That's for damned sure," Ryan said. "Come on," the woman's escort insisted, "we're late for the show." He finally managed to detach her from the dogs and they moved away. "Get out of here," the peddler ordered. "You busted that sale for me. Who do you think you are?". Ryan pulled out his badge. "You can sell all the dogs you want," he said, "if anybody's dumb enough to believe that malarkey. But you aren't going to freeze them before you sell them."
"Don't tell me my business," the peddler said. "These people don't want a happy mutt. They go for the other kind. It makes them feel like they're doing something noble. The colder the dog looks, the higher the price."
"You take those dogs back where you got them," Ryan said. "If you don't, I'll make you a promise: you'll be talking to a judge before the night's over."
"All right, already," the man protested. "Later, later."
"Take them back now," Ryan said. "I'll make you another promise. I'll check every street corner in New York if I have to-to make good and sure you do it." The man gathered up the animals and moved away. Ryan was as good as his word. That night and for the next few evenings, he patrolled the entire area. There was no sign of the peddler. Toward the end of the week, Ryan did come across him again. He was still peddling poodles. But they were much smaller, made in Japan, with a wind-up key in the back. "Hey, wise guy!" the
peddler called. "You got anything to say about this?"
"No," Ryan answered. "That's out of my department." The mechanical poodles whirred and trotted over the pavement. The peddler, Ryan saw, didn't seem too unhappy about the changeover. His prices for the Japanese toys were a lot lower than those he charged for the live ones, but Ryan figured the peddler made up for it on volume. You buy one, Ryan thought, and two hours later you want to buy another.
The police have their problems, too. "Tonight," said one of Ryan's patrolmen friends, "we're going to pick up the Bomber."
"Which one?" Ryan asked.
"How do I know?" said the policeman. "All they tell me is a lot of complaints have been coming in. There's this woman," he went on, "been showing up in Central Park every night. Man on Fifth Avenue saw her twice. Couple of the cabbies flagged her, too. They say she's got a package with her. Takes it into the bushes and that's it. She leaves it there and disappears."
"You really think it's a bomb?" asked Ryan. "If it's a bomb," the officer said, "it should have gone off by now. No," he added, "I don't think it's a bomb. We figure she's swiping something and hiding it away. Maybe she comes back and gets it. But we'll find out for sure tonight." This was true. The arresting officer was on the phone next morning. The whole business had gone as planned, he told Ryan. A detachment of police had been assigned to cover the area. As they watched from the concealment of trees and shrubbery, the Bomber appeared with her small package. The police caught her red-handed and hustled her away to the station house. There was only one thing wrong. The package didn't have a bomb in it. It had no jewelry, diamonds or loot of any kind. All it held was table scraps. "Well, that's a load off your mind," Ryan said sympathetically. "That's what you think," said the officer. "The Bomber isn't a bomber or a crook or anything like that. She sings soprano. At the Metropolitan Opera," he added ruefully. "She's Frieda Hempel."
Fifty Years in the Doghouse Page 18