The Lost Dogs

by Jim Gorant

  It became clear to Cohen very quickly that Hector was exceptionally smart. That meant he had great potential, but also that he would require more work. Like Jonny he could be a bit restless—remnants of the kennel stress—and downright mischievous. He stole socks from Cohen’s room, hid shoes around the house, and dragged the area rug from the bedroom down the hall to the living room.

  He was also very people-focused and warm. He loved to be petted and to sit with someone. As Hector settled into the routine and began to relax, he progressed quickly. Cohen was happy to see the results, but he was struggling. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jonny.

  Every time he took on a foster he gave a piece of himself away. It was impossible to do what he did without forming a close bond with the dog. The animal itself was less accepting of training if it didn’t feel a certain closeness and eagerness to please the trainer. In the past, that bond had always faded over time for Cohen. He figured the same thing would happen with Jonny, but it wasn’t. Just the opposite. He felt like he missed Jonny more and more as time went by. He had talked to Jen about his feelings a number of times, but now he became convinced he needed to do something about it.

  Cris and Jen had a unique relationship. It was a partnership that extended not only to their work with dogs but their entire lives. They’d been engaged for three years and dreamed of marrying on a Spanish galleon that sailed up the coast of California. Planning it was a feat of coordination that had kept them at bay for many months, but neither of them particularly cared. They were together and staying that way, so they’d get to the wedding when they got to it.

  The couple was lucky to share such a unique perspective on life and a sense that making each other happy came before all else. Cris knew how Jen would respond, and she did not disappoint. “If you feel strongly about it, you should do it,” she said. “Call up and see if you can get Jonny back.”

  What she left unsaid was the part that gave Cris pause. He knew that taking in a second dog full-time meant the end of fostering. He liked working with the dogs and feeling like he was helping to solve the pit bull problem. When people asked him how he could possibly give up the dogs he’d fostered, after he spent so much time with them and put so much work into them, he would say, “Every one I keep is one more that ends up dying in the shelter.” In other words, giving up one gave him the opportunity to save another. Giving up those opportunities to help was itself hard for him to accept.

  Besides, by now Jonny might very well have been adopted by someone else. Cohen dropped the idea and focused on Hector, who was turning into something of a rock star. By early May he’d passed the American Temperament Test Society’s canine test, a demanding multipoint examination of a dog’s disposition. If it passes it passes, if not, it can’t try again. Less than a month later, Hector aced his Canine Good Citizen test.

  For Cohen these milestones were bittersweet; they were great accomplishments, but they brought back the dreams he once had for Jonny. He couldn’t get the little guy out of his mind. He continued to bring up the idea of getting Jonny back, and every time he did Jen encouraged him to go for it. Still, the foster question brought him to a halt, until one day a friend gave him a different perspective.

  The friend pointed out that every time Cris went out with his dogs, to the school playground, the park, the corner store, people saw how well-behaved and friendly his pit bulls were. Simply by having these dogs and displaying the heights they were capable of reaching, he was helping the breed and contributing to the cause.

  Cohen sat on that for a few days. He talked about it some more with Jen. Then one day he picked up the phone and called Donna Reynolds. “Can I have Jonny back?” he said.

  All was quiet for moment, and Cohen knew what was coming. He’d waited too long. Someone else had adopted Jonny. Reynolds’s voice came over the line, slow and mocking: “Suckerrrr.”

  Hector had moved out on Friday, June 13, 2008, off to a new permanent home in Minnesota, and Cris picked up Jonny the very next day. But the transition back was a little awkward.

  Jonny acted like an adult visiting his old grammar school: everything seemed sort of familiar but it was different and strange at the same time. Jonny himself was different. When Cohen took him on his walks Jonny was no longer interested in the same things and didn’t seem to recognize his old stomping grounds.

  Cohen remained patient and fell back on the old routine. Within a short time, it all came back. Jonny once again roamed his half of the house during the day. He slept in the sun spot with Lilly and chased her around the backyard. He snored in the evening as he napped and he even, once or twice, ran up the steps at the little school.

  Bond reestablished, Cohen got back to work. He and Jonny resumed their training and within a few months the former caveman passed his American Temperament Test Society exam and then nailed the Canine Good Citizen certificate. It had taken many months, but Cohen was proven right. He’d seen that Jonny was a good dog with grand potential who simply needed direction. Now the little pooch had the paperwork to prove he was as good as any dog out there.

  In the aftermath Cris sought a new goal for Jonny, but nothing came immediately to mind. Life went on. One late summer day, Cris and Jen took the dogs to the park along with Uba, another of the Vick dogs who lived in San Francisco. As Jonny walked down the sidewalk he watched Lilly and Jen in front of him. It was August and the heat bore down on them, so no one had much energy. They were headed for the park where they could at least take some refuge in the shade and possibly even go for a quick if illegal dip in the pond.

  As always, there was a lot going on in the park, including some sort of event for kids. Jonny seemed curious and interested, so Cohen ventured closer. Jonny seemed intent on finding out more, so Cohen got closer and closer. Soon the children spotted Jonny and came over to check him out. Before Cohen knew what was happening a dozen kids were all around Jonny. They came at him from all sides, thrusting their little hands forward, petting him, rubbing him, bumping up against him. Cohen didn’t know what to do, but then he saw something he’d never seen before.

  Jonny absolutely lit up. Cohen had read about pit bulls’ affinity for children, but because he didn’t have kids he’d never witnessed it. Now he had.

  Jonny was at once very calm and happy but also totally excited. Cris showed the kids how to play with Jonny, how to pet him, and where he liked to be scratched. Jonny romped with them all afternoon. Suddenly the heat no longer had the best of him.

  Cohen was inspired. He’d thought about doing therapy work before. He’d trained Lilly for it and even had her certified, but Lilly had physical limitations—arthritis and a back so bad that she’d undergone multiple surgeries—so it was painful for her make the rounds. After watching her struggle while completing the testing, Cris had never actually taken her out to do the work.

  But Jonny was fine, and he seemed to love kids. There must be a way to harness that, Cohen thought. He did some research and found a program called Paws for Tales. It was a reading program for children run through Peninsula Humane Society and SPCA. It was designed to get kids into the library and reading, but also to allow kids who lacked confidence in their reading abilities to practice out loud in front of one of the most receptive and nonjudgmental audiences they’d ever find. Cris contacted the program’s administrators and found out how Jonny could get involved.

  They told him Jonny would need to pass the American Temperament Test and have a Canine Good Citizen certification. Well, check and check. Then he would need to be a certified therapy dog. Cohen and Jonny got to work on that immediately.

  Part of the challenge was getting Jonny to react properly to a book. If a child was holding a book in the air while reading, Jonny was supposed to stare at the kid as if he were hanging on every word. If the child held the book on the floor, Jonny should stare at the pages, almost as if he was following along or checking out the pictures.

  It took another three months of intense effort—hand-fed dinners, morni
ng and evening training sessions, and a clever innovation, a pen stuffed with food that was laid in the book to teach Jonny to focus on the spot. But Jonny got there. Cris took him in for a demonstration and evaluation by the program administrators. Jonny passed.

  Finally, on November 18, 2008, less than two years after he was saved from an almost certain end at the hands of Bad Newz Kennels and slightly more than one year after he was spared from what seemed a second death sentence at the hands of the government, Jonny Justice walked into the San Mateo Public Library and lay down on a blanket in a cavernous conference room in the back of the building.

  At 4:00 P.M. the doors swung open and a few kids came in, trailed by a parent. They sat in a little circle on the floor and one by one they moved onto Jonny’s blanket and read a short book—Biscuit’s New Trick or The Heart of the Jungle—their cracking voices swallowed by the silence of the giant room.

  Jonny sat and listened as if he’d never done anything else in his life, as if he’d been bred for the job.

  38

  CATALINA RETURNED FROM HER trip to Croatia on August 23, 2008, a Thursday. The night before, she had been unable to sleep. She didn’t know what was keeping her awake, but as she tossed in bed Jasmine’s well-being was on her mind. Eventually, Catalina got up and walked across the hotel room to the window. Looking up into the sky she saw a star so huge and so bright that she woke her husband to come look at it. It was unlike anything she’d seen, and she wondered if it was a planet or if she was witnessing some sort of astrological event. She wondered if it was Jasmine lighting up the way home for her.

  The next afternoon her family arrived safely at her in-laws’ house, and she took a minute to check in with Karen Reese, the vice president of Recycled Love. “How is Jasmine?” she asked when she heard Karen’s voice come on the line. There was a pause, a momentary hesitation, a shift in tone.

  “Catalina,” Karen said with unwavering calm, “Jasmine is gone.”

  Catalina didn’t understand. It didn’t register. “Gone?” she said. “Where did she go?”

  Seconds ticked by. Catalina heard her children playing in the next room, her husband talking to his parents in Croatian. She waited. Karen’s voice came through the receiver again. “Catalina, Jasmine is gone.”

  On Monday, August 19, Catalina’s friend Robert had arisen in her house and set about caring for his two dogs and Jasmine. He fed them, he gave them water, he let them out in the yard. Jasmine had been holding up. She didn’t seem happy but she was surviving, getting by, as she always did.

  In the afternoon, Robert decided to take the dogs for a walk in a nearby park that Jasmine liked. As they made their way around, one of Robert’s dogs started to yelp and limp. Robert moved in to investigate. The dog had stepped on some broken glass. Robert brushed it off but there were a few little embedded pieces. As he tried to work them free the dog continued to whine and bark, nipping at his hands a little and trying to pull its leg away. Engrossed in the task and struggling against the dog, Robert blocked out everything else around him. The other leashes slipped from his hand.

  Within a few minutes he was able to clear the last shards of glass from the dog’s foot. He looked up. His other dog was standing right next to him and Jasmine was not far off, either. She had continued slowly sniffing her way along the path, and now stood maybe twenty feet away.

  Catching Jasmine when she was not tethered to anything could still be a chore for anyone who was not Catalina. For all the progress Jasmine had made, for all the manners and training she’d acquired, that one quirk remained. A lingering fear instilled in her from her past life that continued to dictate her future.

  Robert tried to very calmly walk toward her, hoping he could get close enough to grab the leash before Jasmine even noticed she’d been set free. He’d hardly made it two steps when Jasmine turned to look at him. She held her head low, tucked between her shoulders. He froze.

  He bent down to one knee and called her, the cheeriness in his voice masking the anxiety rising within him. “Jasmine. Come ’ere, Jasmine. Come on.” Jasmine turned her head and looked across the expanse of the park. One side of it was bordered by a farm, where tall stalks of late summer corn waved in the breeze.

  She looked back at Robert and appeared for all the world to be considering her options. She couldn’t know that Catalina was only four days away. She only knew that the afternoons on the deck with Desmond were gone. The walks and the massages were gone. The singing was gone. The love was gone.

  Jasmine turned away from Robert and headed for the cornfield at a trot. Robert immediately turned and ran back to his car. He put his dogs inside and sprinted for the field, calling Jasmine’s name. As he moved along the outer edge of the corn he came upon a kid, an eleven-or twelve-year-old boy riding his bike. The boy agreed to help and the two of them walked through the field calling for Jasmine. From time to time they would get a glimpse of her, a flash of brown running through the stalks, or hear the jingle of her leash and collar, but they could never find her. They could never get their hands on her.

  It had been hours and Robert began to worry about his own dogs, locked up in the car. He thanked the boy for his help then drove back to Catalina’s. He dropped his dogs and tracked down a friend who agreed to meet him back at the farm. The two walked the grounds and the surrounding area, calling, searching. They went home only after it was too dark to see.

  The next day the police found Jasmine’s body on Liberty Road. After examining the scene, they surmised that she’d been struck by a car and killed instantly.

  Catalina didn’t sleep that night. She didn’t really cry, either. She didn’t do anything. It was as if she’d simply shut down inside. She felt as though she needed to be strong for everyone else. On the phone, Karen had been so distraught that Catalina ended up comforting her. From what she’d been told Robert was beside himself, and she was heading over there first thing in the morning to see him. After that she would still have to tell her kids and field calls from people at the rescue. She would have to tell all of them that it was no one’s fault, and that it could have happened to anyone, which she truly believed. The problem was that she’d also have to say everything was all right and that she would be okay, but she wasn’t at all sure that was true.

  When she finally got to Robert, he was inconsolable. He couldn’t even speak. He simply cried and cried and Catalina did what she could to make him feel better. The kids took it with more aplomb. “Jasmine had to leave us,” Catalina told them. “She had to go to heaven.” The family had lost two other dogs over the years, so the children were familiar with the concept. They were old enough to understand the idea and young enough not to question it.

  And so she moved from minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day, taking calls, answering e-mails, sorting through her feelings without ever truly feeling them. A week went by, ten days. The maelstrom passed. The phone stopped and the e-mails stopped and the world moved on. Then it was just Catalina, alone in the house.

  A local artist, inspired by Jasmine’s story, had painted a picture of her, and it had been given to Catalina as a gift. Catalina hung it on the wall in her daughter’s room. Then she and her daughter painted butterflies and hung them around the outside of the painting. It was their little memorial to Jasmine.

  Desmond played in the yard with Rogue, but he seemed a little lost. He lay on the deck alone. Catalina too moved around the house in something of a daze. As much as she gave to Jasmine, she had always felt that she’d gotten more in return and she’d never felt that more powerfully than now. She loved her children more than anything, and she felt like Jasmine was her third child, but because of her limitations she was different. She needed more and that somehow made their relationship even deeper.

  When Jasmine was there her life had purpose and meaning. She wanted to have purpose again.

  She took to getting up very early, maybe 5:00 A.M. She liked it when the house was semi-dark and quiet. She could feel Jasmine during those t
imes, or at least the remnants of her, the indelible impressions she’d left behind that became visible in the slanting light, like fingerprints on a glass table.

  One morning the sky was gray and it was raining so hard that the sound of the drops hitting the roof filled the house. Out of nowhere Catalina heard a bird singing. The sound was so bright and clear she felt as if the bird were singing directly to her. As she listened the song reminded her of the one she used to sing: On the day that Jasmine was born / The angels sang a beautiful song . . .

  She hadn’t thought about the song in weeks and calling it up now made her smile, made her remember how much Jasmine loved it and how happy it made her. Suddenly she became convinced that the bird was Jasmine. Just as the star in the sky over Croatia had been Jasmine reaching out to her, Jasmine was now singing to Catalina. The roles were reversed; Jasmine now offered a song to pull Catalina through the haze of her trauma.

  Catalina decided to go to San Francisco to see some old friends. She’d begun to deal with her grief in bits and pieces, but she knew it would take months, even years to fully confront the pain inside her. The process really began that weekend, though, and before she left for home Catalina found herself at a tattoo parlor. She had one tattoo already, a butterfly she’d gotten after her grandmother died.

  At that time that she’d felt that as long as she was alive, as long as she inhabited this body, her grandmother would be with her, literally tattooed onto her. She felt the same way about Jasmine. So she sat in the chair and winced as the artist etched into her skin the image of a bird about to take flight. The bird was looking up and its eyes burrowed into whoever viewed it, just like Jasmine’s used to do. The tattoo was the bird that had sung to her that sad morning. The bird that was Jasmine.