Fifty Years in the Doghouse

by Lloyd Alexander

  "You want to ruin your show?" Ryan asked. "You know damned well a wild horse won't buck. All he'll do is plant his legs and stand there."

  "All I got is wild horses," Oklahoma Dutch said. "Besides, it sounds good in the advertisements.", "It may sound good," Ryan said, "but you're going to look pretty silly with a bunch of horses on a sit-down strike. Why don't you rent some real bucking broncos?"

  "These horses will buck," Oklahoma Dutch said, "when the time comes. It's guaranteed."

  "That's what bothers me," Ryan said. "You wouldn't think of using a hot-shot on them?"

  "Who needs a hot-shot?" Oklahoma Dutch said innocently. "You," Ryan answered. "But you better not use one." Ryan left the Garden. Unless Oklahoma Dutch had figured out a way to tum a wild horse into a bucking bronco by hypnotism, Ryan was sure that, in spite of everything, the cowboy would have to rely on a hot-shot. This battery operated contraption was designed to jump a spark between two strips of copper. Oklahoma Dutch was right to this extent: if his handlers burned the horses with the device, the animals would, indeed, be guaranteed to buck. A hot-shot could be guaranteed to make a wooden Indian jump--and very actively. On the opening night of the rodeo, Ryan and another Society inspector were in the audience. As Oklahoma Dutch had predicted, the wild horses out bucked anything on four legs. Sitting above the pens, Ryan saw what he had expected to see. Just before each horse burst loose, two handlers busily applied the hot-shot. Ryan climbed down from his seat. "Those sparks aren't skyrockets," he told the surprised handlers. Since Ryan was in civilian clothes, the two cowboys at first took him for an interested bystander; until they found themselves arrested, along with Oklahoma Dutch.

  Arraigned for cruelty, Oklahoma Dutch and his men appeared in court with their lawyer, a short, stout man with a string tie and a Western accent he might have developed for the occasion. Ryan had confiscated the hot-shot and presented it in evidence, The lawyer chose to disregard the gadget. Instead, he concentrated on the great traditions that had built the West. He evoked covered wagons, the Pony Express, Grand Canyon and Yellowstone National Park. He delivered a most eloquent speech, painting the cowboy as the inheritor of this glorious past-but Ryan could not grasp the connection between a glorious past and burning horses by electricity. "Your honor," Ryan said, "this hot-shot is damned painful and that's all there is to say about it."

  "On the contrary, your honor," the lawyer protested. "This instrument is a perfectly legitimate aid to ah stimulating the natural propensities of these animals-"

  "The hell it is," Ryan muttered. "It burns the bejesus out of them."

  "It has a mild, almost beneficial effect," the lawyer went on. "Many of the animals even seem to enjoy it. I have heard that some go so far as to indicate a desire to have it applied more frequently."

  "That's something I'd like to see," Ryan muttered again. The judge, Ryan guessed, was not a horseman; indeed he seemed impressed by the lawyer's presentation. "This device," the lawyer concluded, "does not injure horses. Since it does not injure horses, my clients therefore cannot be guilty of perpetrating any kind of cruelty...." Ryan decided there was only one way to settle the matter. "Your honor," he said, "I request your permission to demonstrate this hot-shot." The judge blinked. "Well, really ... I don't see that the court can allow a horse to be brought in ..."

  "I wouldn't use it on a horse," Ryan said. "But I'd like to use it on the defendants' lawyer."

  "This is ridiculous," the lawyer sputtered. "It's against the dignity."

  "Well, what about one of your clients?" Ryan said. He glanced toward Oklahoma Dutch. The lawyer conferred hastily with the three cowboys. "Your honor," said the lawyer, after a few moments, "any one of my clients would welcome the opportunity to have this instrument demonstrated on his person. But I regret to advise the court that these men are suffering from a dangerous heart condition. Even the slightest shock."

  "What, all three of them?" the judge asked. The lawyer nodded regretfully. "I don't want anybody to think," Ryan said, "that I'm doubting anybody's word. But what do you say we run over to Bellevue and get a cardiogram on these men-just as a matter of record." Once more, the lawyer conferred with Oklahoma Dutch and submitted that adjourning to Bellevue for a cardiogram would not be in the best interests of his clients. Ryan suggested calling in any cowboy from the rodeo, since it was unlikely that all of the cowpunchers would have heart conditions. The lawyer objected to this as immaterial and irrelevant. "That doesn't leave us much to choose from." Ryan said. "I'm willing to put that hot-shot on myself." The lawyer objected again. Ryan's reactions to the device, he argued, could not be considered unbiased and impartial. "How about you, Judge?" Ryan asked. "Me!" gasped the judge. "If you think I'm going to let-" He stopped and considered for a minute. "Officer." He continued, "if you can present a fair demonstration of this device-without using anyone present in this court as a guinea pig." Ryan remembered he still had Oklahoma Dutch's advertisement in his pocket.

  "Your honor," he said, "I think I can show you exactly what I mean." He approached the bench and unfolded the sheet of paper. Ryan hooked up the copper strips to the batteries. The hot-shot was now operational. Holding the sheet in one hand, Ryan applied the spark. A burned and smoking hole appeared immediately. He moved the hot-shot to another portion of the sheet. The scent of smoldering paper filled the courtroom. "My God," said the judge, rapping his gavel angrily, "do they really use that on horses?" He found Oklahoma Dutch guilty as charged. "I'm not going to lock you up," the judge said. "I'm only going to fine you. This time. But I warn you, if I ever hear another complaint about you. I don't care what it is. I'm going to be very strongly tempted to let this officer demonstrate that hot-shot on you!" Later, Oklahoma Dutch telephoned Ryan. "Listen," he said, "I want to talk something over with you. Why don't you stop over at my hotel." Ryan declined the invitation. Even though Oklahoma Dutch came from New Jersey, Ryan feared that the rodeo manager might have acquired some Western ideas about revenge. A fast draw was not one of Ryan's accomplishments and he had never considered himself top gun in Manhattan. "I'll talk with you, Dutch," he said. "In the middle of Madison Square Garden. And if you don't mind, I'll bring a couple of friends." The cowboy agreed. Later that afternoon, Ryan found the manager in the arena. Oklahoma Dutch, to Ryan's surprise, appeared mild and subdued. "All right," said the cowboy. "I been thinking over this whole business. You're too good a lawyer. I don't want any more trouble and I'll be damned if I'll take a chance. That judge might just keep his word and use that hot-shot on me."

  "So let's talk. I want a clean show and a good show. What do you want me to do?" Ryan, after recovering from the shock of Oklahoma Dutch's new attitude, proposed a few ground rules. "No busting," Ryan said, "no hooligan. No locked rowels." Oklahoma Dutch nodded reluctantly. "Tell your boys to quit biting those steers, too," Ryan went on. "No eye gouging. No tail pulling. And tell them to keep their fingers out of their noses. The steers' noses, that is," Ryan added. "I don't care what they do with their own."

  "Oh, something else," Ryan continued. "They should get rid of the strings up their sleeves."

  "Strings?" Oklahoma Dutch asked. "Come on, Dutch," Ryan said, "You know what I mean. The strings with chloroform pads on the end. If your boys can't handle a steer when he's wide awake, you better send them back to the ranch."

  "OK, OK," the manager sighed, "no chloroform." He shook his head in grudging admiration. "Ryan," he said, "I can't figure it. You know more tricks than I do. How'd you learn?"

  "Easy," Ryan said. "A horse told me."

  14 - Orphans

  For most of his life, Ryan has been helping horses and other animals out of trouble. But humans get into as many difficulties as their pets. While they don't necessarily climb trees or jump into chimneys, New Yorkers, like people everywhere, are subject to the normal human frailties. They fall sick, die, have nervous breakdowns, pick fights with opponents bigger than themselves; they have accidents and wind up in hospitals; sometimes they even wind up on th
e shady side of the law. If owners are responsible for their pets, pets can't always be responsible for their owners. Through no fault of its own, an animal may suddenly find itself a temporary, or permanent, orphan. In addition to rescue work strictly speaking, the Society devotes one whole branch of its operations to this type of case. In a single year, the Society's Medical Stray, ward cares for as many as 2,600 animal orphans. Set up more than twenty-five years ago, the Medical Stray, ward functions as a service for sick or injured creatures without homes. The Society always believed that a suffering animal was entitled to medical treatment whether it had an owner or not. The Medical Stray Ward put this principle on a highly organized and extensive basis. Today, if there is a chance of easing pain or saving an injured stray's life, the Society's veterinarians work to do so. Francis Melvin, recently retired District Manager of the Manhattan Shelter, has been involved with the Medical Stray service ever since it began.

  Owning an accent as Scottish as a haggis and as warm as a plaid, Melvin has carried bleeding, broken animals into the operating rooms, sat up with them, done extra duty as a day-and-night nurse. Like Ryan and all the Society's front-line staff, Melvin is a skilled animal handler. In the days when the Society had to manage with a severely limited number of veterinarians, Melvin himself helped out with some of the treatments. The Medical Stray Ward, like the other ASPCA services, has grown to include much more than originally planned. Animals orphaned for any reason now find a foster home with the Society until adopted-or until their owners disentangle themselves from their personal problems and reclaim their pets. In Manhattan, a number of these problems make headlines. Animal guests of the Medical Stray Ward have belonged to some highly publicized New Yorkers, have figured in lawsuits, divorce cases and all the bizarre varieties of urban wrangling. A Pekingese even helped crack one of the city's notorious murder cases. The little dog had been brought to the Society's shelter after the brutal killing of its two owners, a girl and her mother. For a time, the Pekingese represented about the only clue city detectives had to go on, and they spent a good part of their time finding out more about the dog. What, they wanted to know, was the dog like? Was he a shy, retiring sort? Friendly or unfriendly? Did he bark much? Melvin advised the detectives that the little Pekingese had a loud voice and didn't hesitate to use it. The dog was nervous, jumpy, leery of strangers. This scrap of information turned out to be a crux of the investigation. From all the evidence, the dog hadn't barked once during the night of the murder. Melvin agreed that a stranger would have set the Pekingese barking at the top of its lungs, and the police explored the possibility that the dog knew the killer of the two women.

  And so it was. A boarder, on friendly terms with the animal, had committed the crime. Not all the Society's medical strays reach such a degree of publicity. For many of the city's anonymous millions, New York can be a lonely, unhappy town and their animals suffer in consequence. Dear Doggie, a woman wrote to her pet chow, for three days I have waited for some kind of word from you.... Too emotionally disturbed to realize that animals can't read, the woman finished her note, propped it on a table and swallowed a massive dose of sleeping pills. A rescue squad found her barely alive and rushed her to the hospital. The dog waited patiently at the Society's shelter throughout its owner's long and difficult period of therapy. In time, she returned to claim her pet. She had learned something often easy to overlook: that an animal's love, like a human's, no matter how strong it may be in reality, truly exists only when we recognize it. There would seem to be no end to the circumstances bringing animals to the Medical Stray Ward. One harassed hotel clerk, who sounded on the verge of nervous collapse, called the Society to help him decide whether he was seeing things. "I have a woman here," he said, "registered a couple weeks ago with a Scotty. Now, we don't usually allow animals, but she was so pleasant, and the dog seemed like a good little fellow ... well, you can't go by the rules all the time. Everything went fine," he went on. "She'd take the dog out for his walk once or twice a day. But then ... but then." The clerk hesitated. "I can't quite explain this. After a while, I'd see her come in. But I never saw her go out. She always had the Scotty with her on a leash. But I swear, every so often that dog looks different to me."

  I don't know exactly how ... maybe a tiny bit heavier, or darker, or some-thing.... "Do you know anything about Scotties?" the hotel clerk pleaded. "You've got to help me get a grip on myself. She isn't here now. I'm going up to the room. Could somebody from the Society come around? If I find what I think I'm going to find, I'll need you. If I don't, you can call Bellevue and let them come and get me." The Society dispatched two agents. With the hotel clerk, they saw the answer to the mystery. The woman didn't have a single Scotty. She had dozens of them, all practically identical. Scotties romped through the bedroom, the living room, emerged from closets, wagged their tails from the tops of dressers, gleefully chewed on the rugs and valiantly pulled the stuffing from the furniture. If they barked, it must have gone unnoticed; or else the Scotties were smart enough to keep their mouths closed. The ASPCA counted thirty dogs. By the time his guest returned, the clerk had reached the limits of his patience. One Scotty was fine; thirty had pushed it too far. The woman would have to leave. "Tell me one thing," the clerk asked as she assembled her animals. "Where are you getting them?"

  "From another hotel," she said; then added huffily, "They don't like dogs there, either." The Scotties filled up a good section of the Medical Stray, ward until their owner found another place to live. She reclaimed the dogs, but not a word did she say about her new address. Melvin often wonders to this day whether an unsuspecting hotel keeper somewhere in New York is lodging thirty Scotch terriers. Medical strays arrive at the Society from far beyond New York. The freight manager of one of the railroads telephoned Melvin to report that yard employees had found a dog in a lumber car.

  "He's breathing," said the manager, "but that's about all. I looked up the records on the car. It's from the Northwest. The dog must have been locked up for two weeks at least!" The Society rushed an ambulance to the freight yard. The dog was in worse condition than expected. Starved, almost completely dehydrated, the unconscious animal could barely gasp. On emergency alert, the ASPCA veterinarians began working the moment the dog arrived. For most of a day and night the animal wavered between life and death. The veterinarians continued intravenous feeding and all the supportive treatment they knew. The dog rallied, took a slight turn for the better. Meantime, he had become famous. Reporters always keep an eye on the Society. Like police court, the fire department and the United Nations, the ASPCA is a sensitive spot for news breaks. Within a day, practically every paper in the city carried a story about the dog. Journalists kept almost as close a watch as the Society over the animal's progress. The dog was definitely on the mend for a time; then, gradually, he turned listless. From a medical viewpoint, the veterinarians could find nothing wrong. Melvin, like any knowledgeable dog owner, guessed the trouble. The animal was grieving for his owner. Melvin and the Society's Director of Operations, Arthur Amundsen, talked the situation over. They could easily find a new owner for the dog, but neither man believed that would do the trick. The dog wanted his own master. The Society appealed to the railroad, the newspapers, to anyone who would help with the impossible job of identifying a stray animal from a pile of anonymous lumber. A lumbering trade association took a hand; after days of checking, tracking and backtracking, the organization came up with the first tangible lead. They pinpointed the station from which the car had originated, and wired a local man to inquire about any lost animals.

  Finally, the Society had its answer. The dog belonged to a thirteen-year-old boy, the son of a sheriff in-one of the remote lumbering regions. Since the boy couldn't be there in person, the Society asked for the next best thing: a piece of clothing the dog might recognize. Promptly, an airmail package arrived. It held a well-worn undershirt. The undershirt of a thirteen-year-old boy is an unmistakable item in its own right. For the dog, it was absolutely uniq
ue. He sniffed, rolled on top of it, yelped excitedly and wagged his tail for the first time since his recovery. Even better news followed. At its own expense, the trade association was flying the boy to New York. At La Guardia Field, news photographers jammed the area of the plane's arrival. The ASPCA sent an ambulance with the dog; and it was Francis Melvin, beaming all over his Scots face, who held the dog in his arms as the plane door opened and the young owner stepped down the ramp. If the boy and dog expected to go home on the return flight, they were mistaken. The city had taken a fancy to the reunited pair, and for the next ten days the boy and his dog were photographed, interviewed, talked at and talked about. Finally they flew home again, happy and exhausted. Ten days of publicity in Manhattan can be, in some respects, more trying than fourteen days in a boxcar. A boy recovering his lost dog always makes a heartwarming story. But the Society offers help to any animal that needs it. In its own operations, the Medical Stray Ward can match the variety of animals cared for in all the ASPCA shelters. This section has looked after kinkajou, ocelots, jaguars, lions, a broken-winged eagle rescued from an ice floe-and one of the rarest animals, a pure albino ferret discovered in one of the most ordinary of environments, a local cigar store.