The Secret Shelter

Elizabeth Hess

I confess that I am fascinated by dogfighting. No, I have never been to a match and have no intention of ever going. Ever. But, I believe that writing about dogfighting and pit bulls helps demystify the activity and will help save some of these extraordinary dogs. In case you don’t know, dogfighting is illegal in every state, despite the fact that it appears to be thriving. Major ring leaders, however, have become targets of the FBI and this blog is dedicated to two dogs—Pearl and Spike— who came from one of the biggest raids in the country. More dogfighters are getting busted, yet it is not clear that these raids are making a dent in the proliferation or popularity of this “sport.” Does dog fighting have anything to do with the existing prevalence of violence and guns? Who exactly goes to the fights to watch dogs tear each other apart and bleed to death? I’ll get to these questions. But first, let me describe my visit to a secret shelter in Florida where I met more than 150 newly rescued pit bulls from a dogfighting operation run by a man the local press deemed, “The Godfather of Southern Dog Fighting.” He was heading to federal prison for 8 years and I was about to meet his dogs.

The noise was ear-splitting. I was standing in a cement kennel that had been closed for years due to its obvious decrepitude. The place had once been a booming urban shelter in a sizable Florida town. But the neighborhood had gone downhill and the shelter had been abandoned. Thanks to the “No Kill” movement (more on this later), the public demanded decent shelters for dogs as euthanasia became a dirty word. Today, rescuers save all dogs—even the misunderstood pit bull, who turns out to be ever so grateful for a second chance. The Godfather was operating across four states and the dogs seized in Alabama, his home state, came to this Florida shelter under the auspices of the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS). One of the dogs, lets call him Daddy, had won a purse of $250,000 in a fight the week before the raid; he looked like a sweet old Labrador Retriever. The dogs needed vetting, decent food and water, TLC and time to heal while the courts sorted through their disposition. This was a secret shelter, hidden in plain site.

Traveling with my friend Cydney Cross, who invented pit bull rescue some years ago, we intended to select a few Florida dogs for her adoption program, Out of the Pits, the oldest pit bull rescue in the country. Cross is an old hand at assessing dogs. This is in fact how we met. I once volunteered for a shelter in Columbia County where Cross showed up every time a pit bull arrived; she wanted to remove the dog before the powers that be at the shelter euthanized him or her, which was par for the course. Cross and I became friends as I enjoyed watching her check out new dogs, giving them her own personal temperament test.

One time, I accompanied her to a veterinarian clinic in Schenectady, New York, where she had been asked to assess a couple of rescued dogs. “Meat” had been rescued from a nearby park where a bunch of teenagers had been beating him with a stick; he got his name from a wound on the top of his head. The second dog, Goldie, was elderly, had multiple mammary tumors, no teeth and bad skin. “Who’s going to adopt her,” I asked Cross. The rescuer looked at me and said, “You are.” Haha.

We entered the clinic and the staff applauded Cross. She’s their savior and with any luck she was going to take a few ruffians off their hands and into her program. First we met Meat, a jumpy, red dog with a bloody, head wound, weighing in at about 80 pounds. Cross grabbed his leash and tried to calm him with treats. Meanwhile, she suggested I take Goldie for a walk and stay as far away from Meat as possible. That was not a problem. I waited outside for Goldie, a small brown dog, about 30 pounds, who had just gotten out of surgery a few hours earlier. She was fawn and white, thin as a bone, and had sagging teats that hung like deflated balloons. She looked up at me and immediately wagged her tail, quite the charmer even in such sorry shape. I grabbed her leash and we walked up a hill.

Shaking off the anesthesia, Goldie wobbled up the road, trying to keep her balance. Lifting her head to sniff the air, the little dog was obviously thrilled just to get outdoors. Goldie seemed used to people, but I wondered what kind of people. The dog was found living in he streets after giving birth to a litter. When I kneel down to say hello, Goldie walks over to me and licks my face. I remember the smell of rotten eggs. I wanted to give her a bath on the spot. We turned around and walked back to the clinic where Cross was still handling Meat, or vice versa. The dog had this reckless, memorable energy. Cross liked him, but did not want him. “He’s dog aggressive and too strong,” she told the disappointed staff. “But we’ll take Goldie,” Cross added, offering some good news. And guess who decided to foster her first pit bull?

(Next week: Back to Florida where we meet Pearl and Spike)