Rescue Road

by Peter Zheutlin

  “I do everything I can to set up each dog to succeed,” he tells me. “The kid who gets a dog tomorrow? He won’t remember me later in his life, but he will always remember his dog. And that dog is going to teach him compassion, responsibility, and to be a good person, to have goodness in his heart. I’m thinking past tomorrow, to the months and years ahead. These Facebook posts are part of trying to get the relationship between each dog and his new family off on the right foot.”

  At 8:00 a.m., right on schedule, we pull off of Interstate 78 in central New Jersey and head for a shopping center parking lot, our first stop of the day. About a dozen people are waiting outside their cars. This isn’t one of the busier stops; most of the dogs will be getting off at the last two stops in Connecticut, at Rocky Hill and Putnam. As soon as they spot the rig, some start jumping up and down, some wave their signs, and some clap their hands. What Greg does next, he will repeat at every stop on every Gotcha Day, but even after countless Gotcha Days, it’s sincere every time. The truck slows to a stop and there’s a hiss as the air brakes release. Greg hops out and greets the small crowd with enthusiasm.

  “Hi, everybody. I’m Greg! Are you ready?”

  The response is always unanimous and enthusiastic.

  Then Greg explains the procedure as Tommy swings the side doors to the trailer open. The usual cacophony rises as dozens of excited and road-weary dogs give voice to their emotions. Greg explains to the families that he will call out the names of the dog and the family there to meet them.

  “When I call you, please come to the trailer doors. I will give you your paperwork and then bring your dog to you.” He makes one other request, one of those little things he hopes will make the day just a little more memorable, something to help seal the forever deal. “Please, I want everyone to give a round of applause for each family as they meet their new love.”

  If the waiting family has a young child with them, Greg will usually hand the folder with the medical records to the child just before he brings the dog to the trailer door.

  “If I give this to you,” he asks one little girl, “will you be sure to take it with you when you take her to the vet?” Right away, he’s conveying that with a dog comes responsibility. “Now,” he says, “hold that sign up high! Be proud!” And just before he moves on to the next family, he always says to them, “Thank you. Thank you for saving a life.”

  About a half-dozen dogs are in the embraces of their new families within a few minutes. Some are being held, some look dazed and confused, and some are running every which way at the end of their leashes, utterly bewildered by the commotion around them. There are tears and smiles and sobs of joy everywhere you look. Children touch their dogs for the first time and get the first of many dog kisses on their faces. Straight couples, gay couples, single folks, older folks and young—there’s no “traditional” forever family. All you need to create one is a heart.

  • • •

  When all the Pluckemin dogs are off the truck, Greg pulls out his iPhone. He tries to get a picture of every dog with its new family, pictures that will go into today’s Gotcha Day Facebook album, yet another small touch that turns what could have been a simple, businesslike delivery into an occasion reminiscent of a grade-school graduation. As Greg makes the rounds taking pictures, he thanks each family again for saving a life, for making a difference. Again, in his subtle way, he wants to be sure each family feels they’ve done something important but understands adopting a rescue dog comes with solemn responsibilities.

  About half an hour after we arrive, it’s time to push on. The next stop is Nanuet, New York, about an hour away. Once again, Greg is tapping away on his iPhone just before we pull out of the parking lot. “Pluckemin, you were great!” he writes. “Nanuet, I’m all about you. I’m on time and on my way.”

  • • •

  Just before 9:30 a.m., we pull into a commuter parking lot off Interstate 287 in Nanuet and the entire scene repeats itself: families waving signs, the handoffs, the photos, and the excitement. But off to the side, I see a middle-aged couple with a dog that didn’t ride along with us, and unlike everyone else here on this beautiful morning, they’re not joining in the fun. They’re here to surrender their dog, Beau, a Lab-boxer mix, for transport back to Houston on Greg’s next trip, back to Houston Shaggy Dog Rescue where he came from.

  These owner surrenders break Greg’s heart, but they’re part of the job. This couple, he tells me, has fallen on hard times and can no longer afford to keep Beau. A good rescue organization will always require dogs they adopt out be returned to them if the dog has to be surrendered for any reason; they don’t want their dogs turned in to shelters or over to people they haven’t vetted. As the happy families with their dogs drift away into their new lives together, this couple sheepishly approaches Greg. He offers a sympathetic shoulder to the woman and assures her they’re doing right by Beau. He thanks them for that. They nod silently and the moment of parting, as Greg lifts Beau into the truck and hands him to Tommy, injects a somber note into an otherwise joyous day. I wonder what Beau is making of all this: How long will it take him to understand the people he’s lived with the past couple of years aren’t coming back? Beau will ride back to Ohio with Greg when Gotcha Day is over. Since he’ll be the only canine passenger, Greg will let him ride in the cab to ease his loneliness. He’ll stay at Greg’s house for a week and return to Houston on Greg’s next trip south.

  • • •

  The Park & Ride, another commuter lot just off Interstate 84 in Danbury, Connecticut, is our next stop, an hour away. Once again, Greg takes to Facebook: “Nanuet, you were great! Danbury, I’m all about you. I’m on time and on my way!”

  When the now-familiar ritual ends and Greg hops back into the driver’s seat, I can see from his expression something is wrong. He points to a gauge showing the air pressure in one of the brake lines dropping fast until it reaches zero. The rig isn’t drivable without pressure in the lines. With about sixty dogs still on board and dozens of families waiting down the line in Rocky Hill and Putnam, we’re stuck. I hold my questions; Greg’s not going to be in any mood to talk about what’s wrong, how long it might take to get fixed, and how he’s going to get it fixed. He knows there’s a truck stop and service area about a half hour up the highway; he calls and arranges for a mechanic to make a road service call. There’s no way to know how serious the problem is, and whether it can be fixed where we are or if we’re going to have to be towed in. And it means there’s no way to know how long we might be delayed. Less than two hours from the end of the line and we’re dead in the water. Greg knows from experience these mechanical failures are inevitable, but it doesn’t make them any easier, especially when we’re so close to the finish line.

  We all get out of the cab. Greg paces in the parking lot, his phone to his ear. He calls Debbie, his mother-in-law. He wants her to call all the people picking up in Rocky Hill and Putnam to explain he’s running late and she’ll update them when she has more information. She, in turn, will ask Adella to post the news on Facebook.

  I step inside the trailer to see how the dogs are doing and see that Bijou, who boarded in Lafayette, needs the paper in his kennel changed. He’s about twenty pounds, built low to the ground, and surprisingly strong for his size. I lift him out and change the paper with one hand as I keep him tucked under my arm. But when I go to put him back, he resists, forces himself into my arms, and wraps his front paws over my shoulders, digging his claws into my back. I grab one of many leashes Greg keeps by the trailer door and take him for a walk up and down the parking lot where we’re stranded. Then we sit on the grass and keep each other company. I give him a few belly rubs, and he lays his head in my lap. About a half hour into our wait for the mechanic, Greg, obviously stressed but trying to be courteous, wanders over and asks, “Any questions?”

  I tell him my questions can wait and he seems to appreciate that I’m not pestering him about what’s wrong and how long it will take to fix. My guess is
he doesn’t know, and asking about it isn’t going to get answers or a solution any quicker.

  The wait for the mechanic extends past an hour before the tow truck finally appears. I keep my distance with Bijou; I have nothing to contribute to this process.

  The fix turns out to be a relatively simple one, performed on the spot, a huge relief to Greg, though we are now three hours behind schedule. He calls Debbie again to get the word out.

  This was going to be one of the few trips this year when Greg was going to make a little profit, but a good chunk of it just disappeared: the repair bill comes to more than $500. But, typically for Greg, it’s the least of his concerns. He has more than sixty dogs still to deliver and more than a hundred people waiting for him down the road. I don’t have the heart to try and get Bijou back in his kennel, so he joins Sadie and me in the cab for the rest of the ride.

  Greg makes a quick Facebook post announcing we’re now ready to go, with new expected arrival times in Rocky Hill and Putnam. I text Glenna and Bill Mooney, Bijou’s new family, waiting in Putnam.

  “As you may know, we’re running a bit late but are on the way,” I write and attach a picture of Bijou taken while we were stranded in Danbury. “Bijou was upgraded to first class and is with me on the bunk in the cab. He was very eager to be out of the kennel. He is a total sweetie.” Within seconds, the reply comes back: “Yea Bijou!!!!! Yippee!! Can’t wait!”

  • • •

  We hit the road at 2:00 p.m. and arrive at Rocky Hill at 3:30, where the biggest crowd of the day is waiting. The delay has been frustrating and stressful but nothing in Greg’s demeanor betrays it as he hops out of the truck and greets the crowd. He won’t allow his misfortune to mar the experience for anyone else.

  As in Birmingham and Allentown, there’s a group of angels, volunteers who meet Greg every other week to give the dogs going on to Putnam one last walk, one last treat, and one last hug before their final destination. Among them are Sue Bradley and her husband, John, Greg’s Mr. Fix-It, the man who found and retrofitted Greg’s trailer, repairs broken generators, and otherwise serves as Greg’s unpaid chief engineer.

  Most of the Rocky Hill Angels are people who have picked up dogs from Greg, according to Annette Woodcock who helps organize the group. “We thought, This is really neat, let’s go back!” The Rocky Hill Angels also make sure Greg and Tommy are well fed before they push on to Putnam.

  Rocky Hill is where, many months earlier, the Dooley family, who were featured in the Parade article, picked up their black Lab puppy, Audi (since renamed Brooke), one of the pups in a litter born in a car immediately after the mama was saved just hours before she was to be euthanized. Now there are different families having the same experience the Dooleys—Liz and John, and daughters, Meagan and Lauren—had a few months ago.

  Meagan and Lauren fell in love with Audi when they saw her photo on Petfinder, and less than a week later, Audi was on her way. When Greg took Audi from her crate and handed her to Meagan and Lauren that day, she was all pent-up puppy energy and licked their faces and squirmed in their arms. Tears rolled down Liz’s cheeks while John stood back and grinned from ear to ear. The Dooleys had lost a beloved golden retriever two years earlier, and it took all that time until they felt ready for a new dog.

  “There was such an emptiness in the house that when we finally were ready for Brooke, it was a bit overwhelming but so gratifying to hold her in our arms,” she told me when I again spoke with Liz almost a year to the day after Brooke joined their family. “She’s a wonderful dog,” added Liz. “She’s willful but so affectionate.” The emotions of Brooke’s Gotcha Day were still fresh. “You remember, I cried the whole time,” Liz told me. “Part of it was about losing Decker, our golden retriever. When a person dies, you can’t replace them. But when a dog dies, you can replace that feeling of companionship. When Brooke arrived, my kids were older and I felt like Brooke was for me and my companionship.

  “I’d do it all again,” said Liz. “I’d get another dog!”

  • • •

  Today in Rocky Hill waiting for Sadie is Brenda Byers-Britney and her daughter, Elizabeth. When they heard about the delay, they almost drove to Danbury but realized if the truck was quickly repaired, they might miss us.

  When I spoke with Brenda a few months after Sadie’s Gotcha Day, I learned her husband, Randy, had died of ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) earlier in the year. They had three Labs at one point, but Randy’s favorite, Rosie, had to be put to sleep due to kidney disease in the fall of 2011—on the same day they received Randy’s diagnosis. “It was the worst day of his life,” Brenda told me, which would have to be an understatement. A year later another of their dogs, Molly, was also put down due to cancer.

  “That left Bosco,” she told me, a six-year-old chocolate Lab they’d had since he was a puppy. He missed the other dogs, but Brenda felt she couldn’t take on another dog; she had to care for Randy and “knew what was coming.” After Randy passed away, she knew she wanted another dog.

  “I went to Petfinder and was looking for a five-, six-, or seven-year-old female. I looked at only two dogs and saw Sadie had epilepsy,” Brenda told me. “Rosie also had epilepsy, though no one knew at the time we adopted her.” Rosie, like Sadie, was adopted through Labs4rescue. “I knew people would be scared off—the seizures can be scary—and that’s why I picked her. I knew she was meant for me.”

  When I later asked Brenda about her emotions the day she picked up Sadie, the tears flowed, just as they had on Gotcha Day. “I was crying the entire time. I was so happy to be getting her.” As gently as I could, I asked her if her tears might also have had something to do with Randy.

  “Randy told me to be sure and get another dog because I had so much love to give,” she replied, her voice quavering.

  Her daughter Elizabeth recalls being nervous more than anything. “I was nervous because we’d gotten dogs before that didn’t get along with our other dogs at first. I was worried Sadie might not get along with Bosco.” Bosco, it turns out, was more unsure of Sadie than Sadie was of him, but they now get along handsomely.

  • • •

  As we prepare to leave Rocky Hill for the final stop, I feel a twinge of sadness. I’ve grown very attached to Salyna, and in Putnam, a volunteer foster is going to pick her up for the night and bring her to the adoption event in Warwick, Rhode Island, tomorrow. We have about twenty dogs bound for the event, dogs that will join the forty Keri and Greta have been driving up. My wife, Judy, and I have been talking about adopting a second dog to join Albie for some time now, but neither of us feels prepared to raise a puppy at this stage in our lives. At twelve weeks, Salyna is all puppy. I’m going to miss her.

  The afternoon wears on, and it’s almost early evening by the time we reach Putnam in northeastern Connecticut, the final stop on each of Greg’s rescue road trips. The largest crowd of the day is waiting here; between the dogs being picked up by volunteers for the adoption event and dogs meeting their forever families, there are about fifty people, including Judy who has brought Albie along. I wonder: Will Albie remember Greg? Will he remember this truck that brought him north from Louisiana two years ago?

  As we pull into the parking lot of an auto parts store just off Interstate 395, people break into cheers and applause and the welcome signs start waving. It’s a scene Greg has witnessed countless times, but it never gets old. In a moment, he’ll leap from the cab and greet the crowd as he always does. He’s weary, unshaven, and unkempt from long, hard days on the road, but he suddenly turns philosophical. He surveys the scene before him from the cab, sighs deeply and turns to me.

  “You know, a few days ago, these dogs were all going to die,” he says. “Now the doors will open, the light will pour in, and each one will be delivered into the arms of a loving family. This is heaven.”

  • • •

  As Greg and Tommy hand dogs to the fosters and the forever families, I put my arms around my wife and then give Albie a huge hug. If he recog
nizes the truck or Greg, he doesn’t show it. His focus is just on us, his forever family, now.

  But making this trip has helped me understand where he came from, the long odds he and so many others like him face to survive, and how a series of strangers extended themselves to him and helped him make his way to us, including Greg.

  The lows in rescue, I realize, are matched by the incredible highs, and without one, there isn’t the other. I’ve met so many selfless, good-hearted people from all walks of life and different parts of the country, all connected by their love of dogs and willingness to go the extra mile—or a few thousand—to shepherd them along on their arduous journeys to love and safety. As Greg told me, everyone has a part to play, and every job in rescue is essential to the process. Some risk life and limb, some their financial security, but all risk losing and regaining pieces of their hearts over and over again.

  When Anne Garnett, the volunteer foster who will be taking Salyna home for the night identifies herself to Greg, I introduce myself to her. I was under the impression from Keri she was likely to adopt Salyna herself and I’m surprised when she tells me that’s not the case, that she’s definitely bringing her to the adoption event tomorrow. I’d been planning all along to go to Rhode Island to see the dozens of dogs I’ve been traveling with the past few days find their new families, so I know I’ll see Salyna one last time. Even so, as Anne drives off with her in the backseat of her car, my heart drops. Where will she go? Who will adopt her? Will they be good to this little, white-and-yellow dog with the blue tongue I met a few days, and more than a thousand miles, ago, the one I held in my arms for three hours last night as she slept?