“Padme”
Cyd Cross, pit bull guru and professional trainer, and I are sharing a room at a motel in downtown Jacksonville, anticipating the free buffet breakfast. We are here to meet survivors from a dogfighting raid that stretched across three states; 367 dogs were saved and the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS) has invited us, along with other rescuers, to meet some of the them in a secret Florida location. Cross will select a few dogs for her rescue, Out of the Pits.
I have slept well, despite a party next door, while Cross stayed up most of the night in the lobby talking to a young rescuer from California. One of her many fans, no doubt. Cross is a legend in pit bull circles, which are getting wider and wider.
Breakfast: What was I thinking? The pancakes are cold, the bread is white and the coffee is bitter and only powdered milk to sweeten it. Nevertheless, we gobble it down and rush over to the shelter to see the “367” as the case is called.
Bala, in charge of the kennel for HSUS, is waiting to work with us. There are dogs everywhere: under desks and tables, stuffed into corners, tied to doorknobs, tucked into crates. They are brought out of their kennels to the offices at every opportunity for social time. I’m not afraid of them, exactly, but I’m watching them with the same eagerness that they are watching me. None of the dogs, at this point, are looking for trouble, with the exception of the rowdies Bala has isolated in a back wing of the kennel. (We’ll get to them, later.)
Bala hurries us into a large room, which is ours for the day. Here, we can let the dogs loose and spend time, one on one, with as many as possible. In the corner of the room is a huge stuffed dog that looks like a St. Bernhard. “Some of the dogs will attack it, even try to destroy it,” says Bala. “We just stitch it back together.” This would be a telling act of aggression. Cross nods. She wants to select the dogs that do NOT attack the stuffed dog.
Bala disappears and returns with a very frightened white dog named Padme who is covered in pink rashes and quivering so violently that I can not get a clear photo of her. She doesn’t exactly look like a pit bull and she is not on our to-be-rescued list, but I quickly see that Bala has her own agenda. She wants Cross to consider some of the neediest dogs, regardless of breed, because she’s a trainer and because Cross’s rescue works with a group of outstanding veterinarians. Padme needs more medical care and attention than Bala can give her in Florida. Cross understands the problem. She already has ideas for a special diet. “Please take her out of here soon,” says Bala, as if it’s a done deal. There’s an unspoken bond between these two women. Jesus speaks to them both. They believe He loved pit bulls, and maybe He did.
Padme obviously needs to get out of this environment, eat a few home-cooked meals and see a good dermatologist. Cross never judges a dog by his or her medical condition. That’s the easy part to fix. But she does care about the dog’s behavioral profile. Padme has been repeatedly bred, is totally unsocialized and is frozen with fear.
Cross slowly approaches the dog, talking to her the whole time in a calming voice: “Hello good girl, hello, you’re a good girl, good dog, yes, yes, you’re a good girl…” Then she sits on the floor near Padme, doesn’t look directly at her, and keeps talking. She’s a beautiful dog, but miserable; I assume that everyone in the room is thinking about how much they would like to kill the person who is responsible for her sorry state. Finally, after about eight, long minutes, Padme and Cross look into each other’s eyes. It’s a memorable few seconds. Then the miracle: Her tail starts to wiggle. Cross reaches out to pat her and Padme’s wiggle turns into a wag with an oomph. “I’ll take her,” Cross says. “She’ll be fine.” I’m about to question Cross when she repeats, “She’ll be fine,” giving me a look to shut up.
Bala, pleased, decides to show Cross one more dog who needs TLC. She fetches a short, stocky, black pit bull with a small white star on her chest, named “Black Bean.” She’s recently had a litter and her breasts hang down, almost touching the floor. We are told that she was used as a breeder for five years. The dog is hanging her head low, terrified to cross the threshold and enter the room. When she realizes that she has no choice, she collapses onto her belly and won’t move or look at us. “She’s a pancake dog,” Bala says, a term rescuers use for dogs who go flat and freeze.
Cross grabs a handful of treats and throws one towards Bean, who sniffs the air, but doesn’t move. Cross throws down another. The dog is not going to respond to food bribes. So, Cross resumes her falsetto doggie-riff, “Hello sweetie, come here Bean, you’re a good girl, very good girl, yes you are…” Bean appears to like the sound of Cross’s baby-talk and starts to crawl, on her belly, inch by inch, towards the crooning rescuer. It’s clear that Bean is making a huge effort to combat her fears. It’s a moving scene. Still on her belly, she reaches Cross who says, “I’ll take her.” No surprise.
Cross is attracted to broken dogs. I am still worried. Who in their right mind is going to adopt this dog? Cross might have her for months on end. I suddenly realize that the rehabilitation of the 367 survivors from this raid is going to take a monumental effort.
The third candidate of the day, Herbie, bounds into the room like the energizer bunny. He bows to the stuffed St. Bernard, asking for a play date. When he gets no response, he just moves on, like a normal puppy, thrilled to meet everyone in the room and appreciative of every drop of attention. His joy is a relief to see. Bala tells us that when Herbie first arrived, he was malnourished and had infected sores all over his body from being chained outside in the sun and dirt; his collar had grown into his neck and had to be cut off his throat. The agonies Herbie suffered, however, failed to dampen his effervescent personality. He’s the smallest, dare I say cutest, pit bull I’ve ever met.
“We should definitely take him,” I tell Cross. She’s reluctant, because she feels obligated to take the maladjusted, broken down dogs, the ones who really need her help. “Why can’t we can take one easy dog?” I ask her. “Put him on our list,” says Cross. “But what makes you think he will be easy?” Time will tell.
In a month or so, Herbie, Bean and Padme are headed north to Out of the Pits in the first batch of dogs from the 367 case.
What a treat to read about the treasure hunts and tightropes you and Cyd walked together. It is easy to imagine you both in these situations. I can hear your voices, see the exchanged looks and feel the energy and enormity of the tasks and their consequences as clear as can be. Cyd's luminous legacy spreads thru this telling. She connects the dogs with their deep and good natures to ours. Your no BS way of describing the past and present of pit bulls and the people around them keeps our eyes - and hopefully hearts and homes- open. Thank you, Betsy.
Ah, the drama continues. Enter Spike and Pearl, our protagonists. What next?