Pawprints of Katrina

by Cathy Scott

  Once in Utah with adoption coordinator Kristi Littrell, Itty Bitty was just as spunky. “Itty Bitty is very vocal and definitely has separation anxiety,” Kristi said shortly after the tiny Chihuahua arrived at Best Friends’ sanctuary. “She is more vocal than any dog I’ve ever had, I think, and definitely has the largest vocabulary. She makes sounds I’ve never heard coming out of a dog. She barks at my cats constantly and is forever chasing them.” Still, Kristi said, Itty Bitty was entertaining. “We had an ‘argument’ over her sweater [needed for the cold temperature] for a few days. She kept taking it off, and I kept putting it on while she tried to nip me. I won.”

  In mid-December 2005, an understanding family in Salt Lake City who had another Chihuahua with a similar attitude fostered Itty Bitty and ultimately adopted her. Her family renamed her Little Lottie. Her new guardian reported back that Itty Bitty was doing wonderfully and that the family loved what they described as “her little personality.” Those of us who were familiar with Itty Bitty and her pesky personality breathed a sigh of relief.

  For Ross Hartill, when life at camp became intense or when he’d seen too much, he’d spend time with a shy Husky mix named Hobo Mississippi. “My emotions were affected in many ways,” said Ross, originally from Scotland and serving as a volunteer coordinator and dog caregiver at base camp. Seeing the dogs and cats arrive each day, wondering where their people were, seeing the pets distressed because of what they’d been through—all of this sometimes got to him and made him homesick for his own dogs, and for his girlfriend. “The task just felt endless,” he said. “Those times were very difficult, and when I was feeling like that, I would, when possible, give myself a time-out and visit with Hobo.”

  As part of his responsibilities, he cared for the staff-only dogs, those with special issues who required experienced handlers. “The issues ranged from people aggression, dog aggression, medical needs, and escape artists.” That’s where he met Hobo.

  “Hobo Mississippi had aggression issues with humans, and, as I’m human, he didn’t give me any special treatment,” he said. “When I say aggression issues, I mean growling, snarling, and snapping. As I would approach his run, he would growl and show signs of aggression, so I worked on him with treats through the fence.”

  Learning that Hobo was food-motivated helped Ross as he entered Hobo’s run with a food bowl, keeping him busy as he quickly poop-scooped his run and refilled his water bowl. “With more than four hundred dogs at Tylertown,” Ross said, “I don’t know what it was that kept making me return to him, but we started to form a bond. I kept wishing that his people would one day come back to claim him, but that day never came. Every time I passed near his run I would call out his new name, and in a short time he stopped growling at me.”

  Hobo would stretch out, yawn, and look to Ross for treats. Still, Hobo wouldn’t look him in the eye. It made Ross wonder if Hobo was frustrated about his situation, missing his people. “He was reluctant to look at me eye to eye, but he would rub up against the fence and allow me to touch him,” he said.

  Five months after Ross met Hobo Mississippi at base camp, the dog was driven to the Best Friends Utah sanctuary to live in an area called The Lodges in Dogtown, where the canines are housed. Once there, Ross said, “I’d still visit with Hobo, and he showed similar characteristics as when we first met.”

  One day, however, Ross decided to try something new. “As I walked up to his run, he greeted me with his usual barking until he recognized who I was. Then Hobo stretched out, yawned, and came to me looking for his treat.”

  After giving him treats, Ross made his move. “I entered his run, and he was pleased to see me—no fence and no growls. I asked him to sit for his treat, and he did.”

  He also tried handing him a toy, but Hobo Mississippi was unsure of what to do with it. Then, “as I left his run, he brushed up against the fence, wanting to be petted. Kneeling down to him, he pushed toward the fence, and as I rubbed his neck, he looked straight at me.”

  For the first time, Ross said, “I could see myself reflected in his eyes.”

  Ross, like so many other staffers and volunteers at base camp and in the field, had sought comfort—and had found it—from the very animals he was helping. It was truly a give-and-take between the rescuers and the rescued.

  5

  On the Ground

  TWO WEEKS AFTER THE STORM, the search-and-rescue missions for all animal groups in the Gulf region was changing from a water operation to a massive ground operation. As the water receded each day from the streets of New Orleans, rescue teams switched from boat searches to land rescues. Teams were forced to shift gears and regroup as they continued saving as many animals as possible.

  By mid to late September, as the high humidity and heat continued, time appeared to be running out, because no one expected many animals to survive more than a few weeks. Local officials finally allowed a Best Friends team into St. Bernard Parish, where it was known that thousands of animals were still alive and in desperate need of rescuing.

  The pets were becoming tougher to catch. Instead of being approachable on the street, as many rescuers experienced in the early days of the rescue effort, animals were becoming street-savvy and semiferal. One Pit Bull mix, later named Bright Eyes, stood cowering—and cautious—behind a chain-link gate. As trapper Ethan Gurney approached, the dog showed his teeth and snarled, and started to actually scream with fright. “I’ve never heard a dog scream like that. I didn’t think they could make that kind of noise,” said Clay Myers, who photographed the rescue. Ethan was determined to pull him from the yard behind the vacant house, so he waited until Bright Eyes calmed down. Ethan knelt down and waited, talking softly to the dog. Using a catch pole, he was able to slip the noose around the dog’s neck and slowly walk toward him to pet him, albeit with a padded-gloved hand. “Once Ethan put his hand out to him to pet him, he calmed down. That’s when [the dog] stopped screaming,” Clay said. The two walked side-by-side—with Bright Eyes still leashed by the pole—to the transport van, where he was given food and water and then taken to Camp Tylertown.

  A similar scenario played out in Gentilly, in Orleans Parish, when Ethan helped catch a huge Rottweiler named Sheriff who was running loose on a street. Because Sheriff was wary of people, he, too, was rounded up using a humane catch pole and then taken to base camp. Today, Sheriff, who likes some people but can still be distrustful, resides at the Best Friends sanctuary in Utah, where he will live out his natural life.

  But some pets were still friendly, making it easier for them to be rescued. For a family of three dogs, three cats, and a guinea pig from St. Bernard Parish, all but one dog, one cat, and the guinea pig made it home. “My husband, Preston, stayed behind,” said Diane Bartholomew. “He put our pets on a flat boat. He had his boat tied to our magnolia tree, and that’s where they rode out the storm. Rescuers came around in boats but didn’t want to take the dogs.”

  Eventually, though, Preston was forced to leave. “He left our pets with a shrimper at the Violet Canal,” she said.

  Two of their cats scratched Diane’s husband and wouldn’t get in the boat, so he left them at the house. When the Bartholomews returned home the first week in October, the cats—Midnight and Sunny Boy—were still there. Two dogs, Chico and Duchess, were rescued by Best Friends near the shrimp factory, taken to Camp Tylertown, and then placed in foster homes. Chico was reunited with his family in December 2005, and Duchess a month later. “The shrimper got in touch with us four or five weeks later,” Diane said. “Our dogs hung out at the old shrimp factory. People who worked there returned and fed them.” Their third dog, Zeus, wasn’t there, however; Diane said, he “might have wandered off.” A third cat, Morning Star, and the guinea pig also have not been located.

  To this day, in the evenings, Diane goes down to the shrimp factory on Pakenham Drive to look for Zeus. “I talk to people and show them photos,” she said. “I ran into two people who thought they’d seen him. He’s scared. He’s a s
weet dog, and we surely do miss him. My other two dogs are doing great. I kept the hope and prayed that they’d get back to me, and they did. I know how lucky I am to have them back. I surely do.”

  In addition to the base camp in Tylertown, other rescue groups were also taking in animals at temporary shelters set up at the Lamar-Dixon Exposition Center in Gonzales, Louisiana; the Parker Coliseum at Louisiana State University; the Mutt Shack shelter at Lake Castle School, across the road from Lake Pontchartrain, with no electricity or running water; Animal Rescue New Orleans on Magazine Street, which was set up in a former hair salon; a parking-lot shelter at a Winn-Dixie supermarket in Gentilly on Chef Menteur Highway; and the Humane Society of Louisiana, which set up at a neighboring site in Tylertown.

  Most helicopter pilots and rescue boat captains were refusing to load people’s pets because of the lack of space. In addition, those evacuating to the Superdome were banned from taking their pets with them. The staggering number of animals left behind was estimated to be in the tens of thousands. Pet owners were beside themselves, worrying about not only family members, but their pets, too.

  But not all pets needed to be evacuated. Some stayed in their homes while volunteers stopped by periodically to care for them. This became the mission of Beth Montes, who runs one small cat sanctuary in Arizona and another in Missouri. By September 17, she was working from a list compiled daily by volunteers at the Best Friends command center in Utah. Evacuees called in, giving their addresses and the number of pets left in their homes. After volunteering at Camp Tylertown for two weeks, Beth left for New Orleans, despite people warning her of snipers and looters roaming the city throughout the night. She was determined to make a dent, no matter how small, in the list of people wanting someone to check on the welfare of their pets. From the field, she sent a few e-mails when she was able to get wireless Internet service. The following is a thumbnail view, from an e-mail, of her long days spent alone on the streets.

  I spent yesterday going door-to-door, working the list of animal locations. Some had gotten out, others I fed and watered and left notes on the doors. Residents are starting to come back in today, so I will check these animals again in three to four days, to make sure all now have people with them. I saw no sick or distressed animals, just hungry and thirsty ones.

  Two crews of Buddhist monks had also gone into the city, Beth continued, “to some of the worst-hit areas, in the Gentilly area, between St. Charles Avenue and Milan Street.”

  But before going into that pocket of the city, the two teams of monks did a final sweep of the American Can Company building, the large apartment complex from which Best Friends had earlier rescued animals, to make sure no pets were still there. “When I last talked to the monks, they were nearly finished with that and had left food and water for some healthy animals who were safe in apartments,” she wrote.

  Beth emphasized her feeling that feeding and watering at that juncture for some neighborhoods was a good approach “rather than taking the animals out, since people will soon return [and] there is little space to house them in shelters or sanctuaries, and this avoids the chaos of trying to reunite them with their people.”

  The door-to-door home checks were an important step in the rescue operation. It meant that, even though the animals were not removed from their homes, they were being looked after, if only every few days, until their owners returned.

  Her dispatch from the field explained her plans.

  I’m continuing with that effort today, here in Metairie. I’m currently planning to come back to St. Francis tonight, and will be bringing one rescue dog that Virginia [Rankin, a St. Francis board member] picked up yesterday. She is definitely an owned animal, spayed, crate trained, collar hair loss, but no collar.

  That dog was Zoey, whose nearly six-month journey began when Annie Johnson, her person, left her with a pet sitter in Metairie while Annie and her family went on vacation a week before the storm. The Johnsons’ other dog, Muppie, stayed with a different sitter. When Katrina struck the coastal region, Zoey’s sitter evacuated with her own dog, leaving Zoey by herself in the sitter’s backyard, a neighborhood Zoey was unfamiliar with. In the sitter’s defense, like so many other residents, she no doubt thought Zoey would be alone for just a couple of days. Once the storm subsided, the sitter would return for her. Instead, Zoey, like thousands of other pets, was left stranded.

  Meanwhile, on day fifteen following the storm, Virginia Rankin, who’d evacuated with her family to their second home in Arkansas, got her daughter settled there and then headed to the Camp Tylertown hurricane relief center at the St. Francis Animal Sanctuary, for which Virginia is a board member.

  After several days at base camp, Virginia decided to assess the damage to her Metairie house, which, as luck would have it, was just a mile and a half from where Zoey had been abandoned.

  Although a tree had fallen on Virginia’s home, it was livable and still had electricity and running water. A friend stopped by with rescue provisions, which they began moving into the house. United States National Guard officers stopped by to remind them there was still a six o’clock curfew in effect. After Virginia’s friend left so he could get home before curfew, Virginia sat on her front porch. “My neighborhood was void of people. It was very eerie,” she said.

  All of a sudden, a German Shepherd mix bounded up to her like she was her long lost friend. It was Zoey. “I was very surprised to see her, but glad at the same time,” Virginia said. “I grabbed her, brought her inside, and gave her the once-over. She wasn’t injured that I could tell, and after a good meal and some water, she fell asleep on the rug in front of the TV.”

  The next day, Virginia toured the area with another friend, with Zoey in tow. As it was getting close to curfew again, they headed back to Virginia’s house. On the way, they met Beth Montes. Few cars were in the area, so when they spotted each other’s cars, they stopped to talk. They learned of each other’s connections to Camp Tylertown and the St. Francis Sanctuary. When Beth told Virginia she planned to sleep in the van that night, Virginia wouldn’t hear of it and invited Beth to stay with her. In exchange, Virginia asked if Beth could deliver Zoey to the sanctuary when she returned to Camp Tylertown the next day.

  In the hubbub of activity, Zoey was accidentally sent not to the Camp Tylertown base camp but to the St. Francis Sanctuary on the same grounds, where she entered the general animal population without going through the admissions process for rescues. At St. Francis base camp, she was named Little Bit.

  Meanwhile, Annie Johnson, Zoey’s owner, did not learn until after two months had passed that Zoey was missing. Annie had tried during that time to phone Zoey’s sitter, but her number had been disconnected, because most of the phone service in the area was still down. Annie assumed that Zoey was safe at the dog sitter’s home or that she had evacuated the city with her. Annie finally reached her sitter and was amazed to learn that the sitter had taken her own dog but had left Zoey alone and unprotected outdoors in the yard during the hurricane. She further learned that the fence surrounding the sitter’s yard had been washed away. Annie and her family were sick with worry.

  Before the storm, Annie had taken Zoey to the vet to be treated for mange and heartworm. Knowing that Zoey had just undergone a tough medical treatment caused her more concern. She was worried that Zoey hadn’t survived. Annie sent e-mails and fliers to the rescue groups in the area and did not lose hope of one day getting her dog back. Her family, she wrote, wouldn’t be whole until they found their dog.

  Months later, on the night of February 9, 2006, Heidi Krupp turned on her computer at the St. Francis Sanctuary and pulled up the Petfinder Web site, a national database with a lost-and-found section devoted to the animals of hurricanes Katrina and Rita.

  “I sat down and went through some Petfinder photos of lost pets,” Heidi said. “I absentmindedly clicked onto some photos, not paying a lot of attention.” Then one photo suddenly jumped off the screen at her. “I said to myself, ‘I think tha
t’s one of our dogs. That’s Little Bit [Zoey].’ I could hardly speak, I was so excited.” From the contact information provided on Petfinder, she e-mailed Annie. “I told her I thought we had her dog,” Heidi said. “I sent her a photo of the dog we had named Little Bit.” When Virginia Rankin found out, she logged onto the Petfinder site and posted a reply to Annie’s online note. It said: “[Zoey] is safe and was not injured during the storm. She was well behaved with her rescuer and has been well taken care of by the wonderful people of St. Francis.” She included a phone number for the sanctuary.

  Annie immediately called the number and reached Heidi. Her first question to her was, “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Heidi told her. That’s because, besides the online photo Annie had posted, all the identifiers—both physical and behavioral descriptions so important for making matches—fit perfectly: “cropped tail, heartworm positive, great with children, dogs, and cats, suffers from demodex mange, primary colors brown and black, spayed female.”