“The Duo”
Padme, Herbie, Bean, Sweet Pea and Stella, a beautiful blonde pup given to Out of the Pits at the last minute, whom Cyd Cross will eventually adopt herself, arrive in the first van load of 367 dogs. They are immediately dispersed to foster homes and, purely by chance, Herbie and Bean are placed together in a doggie day care center. The woman who runs the place keeps a few slots open for rescues. The two dogs have never officially met, even while stashed away in Jacksonville, but they were both bred by the so-called “Godfather of Southern Dogfighting” who will be spending the next eight years in prison. For the first time, we notice that his dogs have a similar look. Herbie and Bean resemble siblings. Some people can’t tell them apart.
Bean, no surprise, is terrified by her new surroundings. One afternoon, she and Herbie are put out together in a small play area. Cross might have nixed this plan had she been around; the goal is to avoid dog fights. But, as fate would have it, the dogs are perfectly matched. In fact, the more time Bean spends with Herbie, the more she opens up to her new world.
When I see the dogs a few weeks later at an adoption event, it is obvious that they are pals, not foes. Bean is still shy and Herbie is still rambunctious, but they are obviously more friendly to people, even strangers, and doing well. “They are inseparable,” Cross tells me. “They get depressed when apart.” Whether it’s love, or co-dependency, they are attached at the hip and Cross makes sure they are kept together, even when crated. Bean is reserved and shy, while Herbie, at only 25 pounds, remains adorable, billed as the smallest and happiest pit bull in the world. The little guy sparkles, is eager to please, play, and lick everyone. Cross feels that Bean needs Herbie and possibly the reverse. There are multiple applications to adopt Herbie, but when Cross insists that the two dogs go together the adopters disappear. None of them want two dogs and there are no applications at all for Bean. The dogs are moving from foster home to foster home as the months fly by.
I never thought Padme, who turns out to be at least 10 years old, would ever find a home. But there is no predicting dog-adoptions, and Padme is promptly offered a place in a nursing home looking for a live-in dog. Cross, who is a genius at matching people with dogs likes this placement. As it turns out, the residents compete to take care of her and Padme soon begins to thrive.
Meanwhile, every time I see Bean, I fall a little more for her big brown eyes and shy demeanor. She begins to recognize me and I consider this a triumph. Her slow awakening to her new life is a poignant reminder of just how forgiving dogs can be. Bean had given the Godfather multiple litters and she would have continued to do so, loyal to the bitter end. I can’t stop thinking about her.
After much discussion with Peter, my husband, I tell Cross that we want to adopt Bean. She laughs. She will never let me live down the fact that when I first met the pancake dog in Florida, I thought she was “unadoptable.” (She will remind me of this fact once a month for many years.) But she is pleased and wants me to take Herbie too, which I do not want to do. He’s adorable, but wild and reckless, a mouthy puppy who needs something to do every minute. He has “trouble” written all over him and is just the type of dog I like to avoid. I adopt older dogs for a reason. They already know what I’m talking about and take lots of naps. Moreover, it never makes sense to adopt two dogs at once. They bond with each other and don’t give anyone else the time of day.
Cross reminds me that Herbie is an “easy” puppy. Well, he might be easy for someone else, but I don’t think he will be for me. She is not persuaded and will not separate the dogs. Cross insists that having both of them will eventually be a “blessing,” a word she likes to use.
Peter rolls his eyes, dead set against taking them together, especially after meeting Herbie whom he describes as a “holy terror.” On their first encounter, Peter bends down to pat him on the head and Herbie leaps up at his face and knocks his glasses off. Then, he begins humping Peter as he bends down to grab them off the floor. Indeed, Herbie has a lot to learn.
I decide to move slowly and Cross agrees to let me foster them both for a few weeks. Peter reluctantly agrees to a trial run, despite knowing that trial runs often turn into lasting commitments. He knows that renaming dogs is the beginning of that inexorable process, but we can’t stand the names Bean and Herbie. He wants to call them “Raylan and Ava” (Justified) and then changes his mind and insists on “Ike and Tina.” Our first battle begins. I am not naming a dog after a wife batterer. After complex negotiations, we settle on “Pearl” and “Spike” for no good reason.
Over the year and a half that has elapsed since their rescue, Pearl and Spike have been living in shelters, vet clinics, and foster homes, three of them in fact, during the six months that Out of the Pits has had them. They are crated when indoors and let outside as much as is possible. The last foster home was provided by Mary Allen, co-founder of Out of the Pits, and one of the first dog rescuers in the country. At the age of 75, Allen is a Dog Lady, an expert with years of experience handling, saving, and rehabilitating dogs. She began as a breeder of prize Dobermans and, over the years, moved to other side, providing refuge for hundreds of greyhounds and then pit bulls in her shady backyard.
Allen nicknames Pearl and Spike “The Duo,” when she notices that they choose never to be separated. They nap together using each other as pillows; they go out at the same time, Pearl leading, Spike following; she pees, then he pees in the same spot. They even drink out of the same water bowl simultaneously and bark at the same birds. Their bond is so tight that months later I do a DNA test to find out if they might be related. It turns out that they are half siblings.
As I will soon discover, Pearl and Spike’s co-dependency has its downside and will need to be addressed. I have adopted abused dogs before, and they have all acclimated to their new circumstances in weeks, occasionally days. These two, however, are not like my other pit bulls. They are fearful of everything new. Both dogs like to be around people, but they are more curious than comfortable with us humans and only truly at ease with each other. They neither acknowledge commands nor do they display any manners. They’re small, and mean no harm, but they greet guests with unexpected force, hurling themselves at children and oldsters like laser-guided missiles. Their idea of a good time.
Like beavers, they chew up the wooden legs of all our furniture, rip soft material to shreds, refuse to eat much of anything and do not know the meaning of “housebroken.” Spike thinks the standing fan in our living room is a hydrant. Pearl thinks the screen porch is outdoors.
Their only saving grace, apart from their amusing acrobatics, is that they love their crates. It only takes one day to teach them to go into their crates by just uttering the word, “crate.” There is, of course, a scrumptious marrow bone stuffed with peanut butter waiting for them. But uncrated, they are intoxicated by freedom and chase each other around the house at full speed, treating lamps, tables and chairs like movie props in a barroom brawl.
Spike, seemingly more monkey than dog, moves so fast that I cannot grab him to leash him without a chunk of chicken in my hand. Pearl at least listens to me, looking me right in the eye, but neither dog seems to understand what is expected of them. On week one I leave the dogs on my front deck and they demolish a wooden rocking chair within minutes when I stupidly turn my back to answer the phone. I’m stunned at how fast they work. I can’t say that they are bad dogs because they have no idea what being good dogs would entail.
I call Cross and Allen for help. They council patience and training. Big Help! Cross implores me to keep them for a few more weeks, promising me that they will settle and she will visit more often. Peter barricades himself in his office and refers to the dogs as “The Taliban.” When I take them to meet my vet and find out if maybe they have brain tumors, or some other problem that is impacting their behavior, he says, “There is no medical issue here. But one of these dogs would have been plenty for most people. Why did you take them both?” It was a good question, albeit a little late.
Peter waits not-so-patiently for me to get the dogs under control as I take them to training classes, private lessons, whatever I can find. Pearl lunges aggressively for the other dogs in class and it is easy to see that I barely have her under control; Spike barks hysterically at the dogs in class and only stops to throw up all over the floor before he begins again. The trainer is not happy. She takes us aside and says, “Your dogs are not ready for my class.” When I ask her, sheepishly, why not, she says, “Putting these dogs in a class right now would be equivalent to taking an alcoholic to a bar.”
I do not tell Peter that the dogs have flunked out of first grade. I sign up for private lessons with another trainer and decide to bring them in separately for sessions. The process is time consuming and expensive, but I am growing desperate. The dogs have to be crated too much of the day, and are up with the sun every morning. Peter is thinking of leaving for a few weeks—alone. I reassure him that we are making progress and demonstrate that Pearl and Spike will now sit on command when rewarded. “For five seconds,” he says, unimpressed.
Peter wants nothing to do with either dog and would be happy if I returned both. He is kind enough not to give me an ultimatum, or maybe he is waiting for me to come around to his point of view. I consider violating my oath never to return a dog, but which one? At one point, I actually offer Spike to a close friend and neighbor, but thank goodness she does not want him, because day by day, despite the pandemonium, I am growing more and more attached to them.
(Next week: There goes the house. But maybe I can save the dogs and the marriage?)
Oh Spike, I miss your humor filled antics, you were my kind of guy.
We've been reading aloud from time to time. All the Light We Cannot See, Moby Dick, To the Lighthouse, several John Banville novels. Great stuff, all of it. There's the sound of the spoken word, and, of course, there's the pleasure of the shared experience.
So, following in that tradition, the other night we cozied upon the couch and read Becoming Pearl and Spike aloud. It doubled the pleasure. Together, we relished in your clever phrases, your deep affection for your subject, your humor. Thank you.