Saving Gracie

by Bradley, Carol

  Under items to be searched for and seized, she wrote simply, “Any and all animals, living or dead, and any evidence of animal cruelty.” The violation she cited was Pennsylvania state law 18, 5511, c, Cruelty to Animals.

  Finnegan read over the search warrant and then phoned Shaw. “We need more detail,” she said. Shaw faxed a second version to Finnegan at 11:45 a.m., fifteen minutes before Finnegan’s on-call shift was scheduled to end. In a single-spaced page and a half, Shaw elaborated on the circumstances behind her request. She detailed the “overabundance” of dogs of various sizes and ages inside and outside Wolf’s residence at 1746 Baltimore Pike. She recounted the excessive heat and overwhelming ammonia-type odor “commonly associated with animal urine” that permeated the premises. She cited the confinement of dozens of dogs in rusty, unsafe crates two, three, and four high, covered in what appeared to be feces and urine. And she described the water bowls that were green and dirty, the green mucus that dribbled from the eyes of some of the dogs, and their scabby skin conditions.

  The fleshed-out version of the search warrant passed muster. Finnegan signed the document and faxed it back. It still needed the signature of a district judge, but Shaw would get that on her way to Wolf’s kennel. When that was done, the SPCA would have the authorization it needed to carry out the raid.

  On the way down, Shaw tried to phone dog warden Siddons to let her know a raid was imminent. Shaw had deliberately waited until the last minute to phone Siddons; the humane officer was mindful that the more people who knew about the raid, the greater the possibility the plans could be leaked. A few months earlier, according to Shaw, a raid on another puppy mill, Puppy Love Kennel in neighboring Lancaster County, was foiled when someone tipped off the breeder, Joyce Stoltzfus. Puppy Love was a notoriously derelict kennel but, forewarned, Shaw believed Stoltzfus had gone to work, scrubbing her kennel just enough to pass the inspection. As a result, the raid was a failure; inspectors were unable to gather the evidence necessary to seize her dogs.

  The Chester County SPCA was determined not to let the same thing happen in Wolf’s case, so on the day of the biggest operation in the organization’s history, only a handful of people knew the raid was about to take place. The shelter’s rank-and-file staff had no idea.

  Shaw was unable to reach Siddons. The dog warden had taken the day off. When her work phone went unanswered, Shaw punched in the number for her cell phone and left a message: “Please call me back as soon as possible. I need to talk to you.” Siddons never returned Shaw’s call. The raid would go forward without her.

  Shaw and Green left ahead of time to stop by the office of Harry Farmer Jr., the magisterial district judge in Oxford who would be handling the case. Shortly before 1 p.m., they met up with the rest of the troops in the parking lot of the bowling alley, a couple hundred yards down the road from Wolf’s property. McMichael and humane society police officer Michele “Mike” Beswick rode together. Animal protective services officer Craig Baxter and kennel technician Liz Murray took a van. SPCA spokesman McDevitt drove himself.

  Moments later, a highway patrolman pulled up alongside them. In Pennsylvania it was standard procedure for a highway patrol officer to be on hand to help execute a warrant. Shaw gave the officer a rundown of everything he could expect to encounter at Mike-Mar Kennel. She didn’t expect Wolf to be violent, she told him, and she didn’t think he’d interfere with the operation. But the trooper needed to brace himself for the foul condition of the property.

  The convoy now consisted of half a dozen vehicles. Shaw followed the patrolman’s car, and the others fell in line behind her. “Oh God, here we go,” Shaw thought as they drove slowly down Baltimore Pike and, one by one, turned into the driveway of Mike-Mar Kennel. This was a big-time breeder she was dealing with. Wolf knew all the right people, and he knew how the game was played. Everything about the raid had to go perfectly because of who he was and who he had once been. Shaw’s heart was clutched with anxiety.

  As soon as the vehicles pulled into the driveway, she spied Wolf in the doorway of the kennel. Immediately, she and the state trooper stepped out of their vehicles and climbed the stairs of the deck. The SPCA had a warrant, the trooper informed Wolf. “We’re here to remove your dogs,” Shaw said.

  Wolf looked stunned. “You’re taking all my dogs? Why?” he asked. Nevertheless, he stepped outside, came down the steps, and escorted Shaw and the trooper to his residence. McDevitt and Beswick got out of their vehicles and joined them.

  Inside the house, Wolf protested. They’d had an agreement, he said, and he was taking the steps Shaw had asked him to take. Across the room she could see a couple of Cavaliers who appeared to be newly shaved, and Wolf hastily produced a sheaf of papers. The day before, just as she had requested, he said, a veterinarian had visited the kennel and vaccinated one hundred dogs. Shaw glanced at the paperwork. It was disorganized and incomplete; it was impossible to tell which dogs had gotten shots. Besides, she wasn’t there to debate trivial improvements.

  The conditions at Mike-Mar Kennel were unacceptable, she told Wolf. “You can’t have these guys living this way.”

  The breeder shifted his argument. “Let me keep some of the dogs,” he said. But Shaw wasn’t interested in leaving any dog behind in this mess.

  The game plan was straightforward. First, Shaw needed to inspect the perimeter of the compound and then every inch of the buildings’ interiors. She wasn’t expecting to find any more dogs, but she didn’t want any surprises. She needed to videotape everything she saw. It was important to capture on film the deplorable conditions the dogs were living in, including the dirty water buckets, the lack of food, and the dogs’ matted hair. She also wanted to show any diseases, infections, or injuries visible on the animals. The videotape would tell the tale in court.

  Once that was done, workers would go room by room, starting with Wolf’s residence, removing the dogs from their crates. They would assign each dog a number and write down the breed, gender, approximate age, and physical condition. Rescuers would photograph each dog, then place the animal inside a portable crate and carry the dog out to a van. As soon as a van was full, Craig Baxter or one of the other animal protective services officers, Dave Harper or Gene Brooks, would drive it back to West Chester. It would be dirty, disturbing work, but in a matter of hours all 136 dogs would be accounted for and on their way to new lives. If everyone worked with assembly-line efficiency, they should be wrapped up by supper time.

  The sun shone high above the trees, but inside Wolf’s house it was dark and nearly impossible to see. Rescuers opened the door to a bedroom and shone flashlights inside. Panicky eyes stared back—dozens of pairs of eyes, from every corner of the room, just as Shaw had described. The room reverberated with yelps. The rescuers peered inside a second room. Dogs lined the walls there, too.

  Shaw was about to begin canvassing the grounds when the trooper approached her. He’d just finished circling the property on his own, and he’d discovered something.

  “Did you know there are more dogs in the back of the kennel?” the patrolman asked Shaw.

  “Are you sure?” she said.

  Two days earlier, while examining the two front rooms of the kennel, she’d spied a door to the rear. The door was locked, and when Wolf told her there was nothing behind it—that he had shown them all there was to see—she’d believed him. Now, though, the officer was telling her that behind the door was a room with a window, and on the other side of the window were more dogs, dozens of them.

  Shaw and Beswick jogged down the steps of Wolf’s residence, across the yard, and up the steps to the kennel. They brushed past Hills, who was inside cleaning. “We’ve got a warrant,” Shaw told her. “You need to get out.” The officer walked through the front room and opened the door on the far side, into the hidden room where Wolf had insisted there were no dogs.

  Shaw’s heart pounded. Before her were doz
ens of crates lined up in rows, full of dogs. On the left were Cavaliers, four to six to a crate. On the right, English Bulldogs, in cages stacked two high. This couldn’t be happening. She had orchestrated the rescue on the assumption that Wolf had 136 dogs, no more. Now it looked as if there could be 200.

  A room at the rear of Mike-Mar Kennel revealed dozens more dogs confined to crates, along with an overpowering stench of ammonia. (Cheryl Shaw)

  At the sight of Shaw, the dogs hopped up on their hind legs, wagged their tails, and erupted into a frantic chorus. Her blood pressure rising, Shaw shut the door and strode back to Wolf’s house.

  “Look, I need to know,” she said to him. “Do you have any more dogs on this property?”

  “No,” Wolf told her flatly.

  This time, she knew better than to believe him. He’d lied to her before, and her instincts told her he was lying now. With a feeling of dread, she stepped back outside and walked in the direction of the third building, Trottier’s house. Beswick fell in line behind her and Hills followed them. “Don’t just stand there staring,” Shaw told herself. “Check out the back.” At the rear of the building was a deck, and beside the deck was a basement door. Next to the door she noticed a small window completely covered, except for a sliver of light along the bottom edge. A poop scooper rested beside the door. “What’s that doing there?” Shaw wondered.

  She turned to Hills and said, “You need to show me the basement. Right now.” Wordlessly, Hills unlocked the door. “Watch your step,” she warned as Shaw stepped inside, Beswick and Hills close behind her. They entered a room inhabited by three cats and a Mastiff. “Thank goodness that’s all there is,” Shaw thought. She was ready to turn around and leave the basement when she noticed a doorway blocked off by a baby gate, a sheet tacked up over it to hide the view. Behind the sheet came a muffled yelp.

  Crates stacked three high were covered with dried feces, despite Wolf’s claims that his kennel was cleaned daily.

  Shaw whipped around to face Hills.

  “What was that?” she demanded.

  Hills shook her head. She hadn’t heard anything.

  Shaw turned to Beswick. “You hear that?”

  “Yeah,” Beswick replied.

  The gate was there for a reason—but surely not to fence off more dogs. Shaw hesitated, then stepped forward and drew back the sheet. The room was filled with dogs—butterfly-eared Papillons—packed into crates, running loose on the floor, and clambering on top of a futon. There had to be dozens of them. In the middle of the room stood Trottier, glowering.

  Shaw turned to Beswick. “Go get Dennis,” she said.

  Beswick hurried past Hills. Shaw turned back to Trottier. “You need to leave,” she told him. Trottier punched the ceiling defiantly, then reached down and swept up a disheveled and sickly looking Papillon. “You’re not taking my f——dogs!” he yelled.

  Within seconds, Beswick and McMichael returned with a police officer. Trottier was now standing outside the baby gate. “Give me the dog,” Shaw told him. He refused. The officer reached forward to take the dog out of Trottier’s hands. Trottier threw a punch. A scuffle ensued, spilling from the hallway outside. The next thing anyone knew, Trottier was on the ground with the trooper, Shaw, Beswick, and McDevitt pinning him down. As blows were exchanged, the trooper somehow managed to hold the Papillon away from the line of fire.

  A second police officer had arrived. He called for backup. Within minutes, fifteen marked and unmarked state police cars barreled onto the scene, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Officers arrested Trottier, charged him with assault, resisting arrest, and obstructing the administration of law, and took him away.

  Shaw had no right to enter his house, Trottier shouted as he was trundled off—the search warrant she’d obtained was for Wolf’s house, not his. With a start, Shaw realized that Trottier could very well be correct. The warrant authorized her to raid 1746 Baltimore Pike; the street address for Trottier’s residence was 1748 Baltimore Pike. This was a major snafu. If the paperwork was not in order, a judge might disregard any evidence gathered at Trottier’s address. By calling Shaw’s attention to her mistake in time to correct it, Trottier had done her a favor.

  She used her cell phone to call Finnegan and explain the situation. “What do we do now?” Shaw asked.

  “Come back to West Chester, type up another warrant, and send it over to me,” Finnegan said.

  Shaw fought back a surge of panic as she climbed into one of the vans and floored it onto the highway. Here she was in charge of this raid, and she was leaving the scene just as rescuers were beginning to comprehend the enormity of the problem. Wolf had many, many more dogs than anyone had suspected.

  She made it to West Chester in record time. Hastily, she drew up a new warrant and faxed it to Finnegan. It was 5:15 p.m., past quitting time. Finnegan called in a favor from district judge James Charlie, who agreed to sign the new search warrant. By 6:30 p.m. Shaw was back in Lower Oxford. The sun had long since set and the temperature was dropping. The rescue work had gone slowly during the two and a half hours she was gone. There were three buildings full of dogs to rescue, and staffers were still working in the first.

  “What are we going to do with all these dogs?” Beswick asked Shaw as they headed inside Wolf’s residence.

  “We’ll take care of it,” Shaw said, but she had no idea how.

  Chapter 5: Filth and Fear

  Shaw had never been part of an operation this massive. From time to time that evening, she stepped away from her other tasks to carry out a couple of dogs herself. “Okay, punkin, we’ll get you taken care of,” she said to one scared-looking Havanese as she held the dog to her chest. “See, I told you I’d come back. I promised, didn’t I?” But the workers lacked radios to communicate back and forth, so she had to keep making the rounds, issuing one snap decision after another and praying she was making the right calls. There wasn’t enough of her to go around.

  Shortly before 7 p.m. she took a moment to phone her husband, Bobby, to let him know she was in for a long night. He could tell she was stressed.

  Did Shaw need help? he asked.

  “I’m fine,” Shaw told him, but she didn’t sound fine. She sounded exhausted.

  He said he was on his way.

  The hours ticked by. Shortly after Bobby arrived at around 9 p.m., someone delivered a pizza and left it on the top of a Jeep. “Go eat something,” one of the officers said to Shaw.

  For a moment, she took her colleague’s advice, climbed inside the Jeep, and took a couple of bites of pizza. But this was no time to rest; there were too many dogs left to process. She stepped back out of the vehicle and returned to work.

  While Shaw oversaw the rescue effort, the task of reaching inside many of the crates, pulling a dog out, and holding him or her before the camera fell to other SPCA staffers. One of them was fellow humane society police officer Beswick. A less seasoned officer might have winced at the prospect of handling unfamiliar and distressed dogs, but 53-year-old Beswick had done police work since she was 18. She’d been exposed to every horrendous situation imaginable, or so she thought. Despite her experience, she wasn’t prepared for the size of Wolf’s kennel or the degree of misery that permeated it. As she worked to remove the dogs, mice scuttled up walls and space heaters scattered about the rooms worked overtime. She felt as if she’d stepped inside a furnace.

  Humane society police officer Mike Beswick. In all her years at the Chester County SPCA, she had never encountered this many neglected dogs. (Carol Bradley)

  Cages lined the walls of every room. The rescuers started with a listless red and blue parrot, one of two found on the property. Then came a tan and white Bulldog, followed by a puppy who looked to be a Havanese-Cavalier mix. Next they brought out a female Yorkshire Terrier, a Pomeranian, two Havanese, three Bulldogs, three more Havanese, a
nd then Cavaliers, seven of them, all but one a female. Every one of the dogs looked anxious and scared.

  The animals also looked scruffy and ill. The dogs were flea-bitten, covered with lice, and suffering noticeably from scabby skin and runny eyes. Beswick struggled to remain composed as she carried out number 24, a red and white Cavalier puppy whose left eye was so cloudy and swollen it was ready to fall out of its socket. A half hour later she lifted up a tricolor Cavalier whose eye was gone entirely. Number 113, a Löwchen, had such a bad case of mange that raw, open sores covered his torso. Number 215, a Bulldog, sported an enormous hot spot—a raw, oozing open wound—on her left flank. The coats of some of the Havanese were so filthy that it was nearly impossible to distinguish their faces. One Havanese had no hair at all. The dog was covered with mange and shivering.

  Beswick’s heart ached for these animals. They lacked any ability to make sense of their deprived lives and had no means of escape. The mere act of extricating them from their crates required delicacy. The dogs fled to the rear of their cages and cowered. With as many as six to a crate, Beswick had to maneuver around a handful of frightened dogs to pull one out.

  Green, the SPCA’s office coordinator, processed the dogs while animal control officer Baxter waited at the end of the line. Once a dog was photographed, he placed it in a carrier and walked it out to a van. Baxter was new to his position—he’d been employed by the SPCA less than a year—and the suffering he saw was too painful to ignore. He stared in disbelief as the dogs, covered with fecal matter, struggled to turn around in their crates, their paws splayed and tender from standing on the thin wire bottoms. He’d never seen or smelled anything so sour, and the high thermostat setting only exacerbated the conditions. It was the dead of winter, but the heat was so intense that he quickly shed his wool jacket and turtleneck and long underwear. Before long, he was down to a T-shirt.