Animals, being closer to nature, with keener instincts and intuitions, may be even more alert to it. Whatever the secret, or combination of secrets, it works. But a few who have seen it work still don't believe it. A couple of years ago, answering a call from a restaurant in the East Sixties, Ryan found a police car parked in front and two policemen standing uneasily a few feet away. Ryan recognized one of the men, but something peculiar caught his attention. The policeman's cap had no visor. Ryan pulled up beside him. "Is that the new uniform?" he asked. "Don't get smart, Ryan," said the officer. "I'm lucky I still got my head on." He gestured toward the squad car. On the back seat, holding the policeman's visor between his paws and gnawing away happily, crouched a dog about the size of a timber wolf. The policeman explained that the dog appeared out of nowhere and sauntered into the restaurant. Most of the diners then departed hastily, many of them forgetting to leave tips. A waiter volunteered to usher the dog out. However, as the situation developed, the waiter decided it was safer to set the dog a good example by running out of the restaurant first. The dog followed and was on the verge of catching up when the police car happened along. "What else could I do?" the officer told Ryan. "I opened the back door and he jumped in. When I turned around to take another look at him, he bit off my hat."
"So what's the problem?" asked Ryan. "The problem is I don't like back-seat drivers. Not when they think I'm Little Red Riding Hood."
"Oh, is that all?" said Ryan. "Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" The ASPCA agent pulled his car even with the officer's and opened his own back door.
He went to the squad car and opened its door. "Come on, fellow," he called. "Good boy!" The big dog jumped unhesitatingly into Ryan's vehicle. The policemen stared, open mouthed. "Listen, Ryan," one of them said at last. "Tell me the truth. You set this whole thing up, didn't you? I mean ... you knew all about it, or this is your dog or something."
"Swear," Ryan shook his head, "I never saw him before in my life."
"Then you slipped him a needle ... a pill ..."
"Never," Ryan insisted. "You just have to know how to talk to a dog."
"Good boy!" snorted the policeman. "Good doggie I can say that too. So look what happens."
"It's personality," said Ryan. "Some people have it, some people don't." He put the car in gear and waved at the policemen. "Let me know whenever I can help you out." In the back seat, the dog still gnawed on the visor. Ryan wondered whether to take it away, but the dog seemed to be enjoying it so much he decided not to push his luck. Sometimes, letting sleeping dogs lie is not a bad policy; it may also apply to dogs who have taken a fancy to police department caps. Not long afterward, Ryan helped out the police force again. At two o'clock in the morning, he met the officers in the hallway of a cheap rooming house. There a man sprawled face down on the floor while a snarling dog stood guard. Ryan asked whether the man was alive or dead. "How can we tell?" a policeman answered. "The dog won't let us go near him." This time, Ryan's powers of persuasion didn't work. The dog's loyalty was to his master. Even an offer of food did not shake it.
Ryan finally lassoed the dog and improvised a muzzle from a length of cord. "He's dead, all right," said one of the policemen. "Dead drunk, that is!" The officers set about reviving the merrymaker. At Ryan's side, the dog strained at the leash and whimpered. At last, the man sat up and rubbed his eyes. "OK, mister," an officer told him. "Party's over. Round up your dog and get to bed." The man blinked. "What dog?" "What dog!" cried the policeman. "Your pal here. He's been looking after you for the past hour. Don't tell me you got so loaded you don't even remember your own dog."
"Not my dog," the man muttered. "Never saw him before." At the sound of the man's voice, the dog tried to leap forward. He wagged his tail and pawed at the air. "Well, he's sure seen you before," Ryan said. The man got shakily to his feet and made an attempt to brush off his shabby coat. "Not my dog," he repeated. "Just let me alone. I made enough of a fool of myself already." The landlady, who had been watching the proceedings from the foot of the stairs, raised her voice. "You don't need to tell us. Hooting, hollering, carrying on for half the night. You ought to be ashamed of yourself," The man did not answer. Ryan stepped over to the landlady. "Listen," he said, "what's wrong with this guy? That dog belongs to him. Who's he trying to kid?"
"Sure it's his dog," said the woman. "You think I don't know who lives here-two-footed or four-footed?" Once again Ryan offered the dog to the owner, who still refused. The ASPCA agent had no choice but to take the animal to the shelter.
Throughout the ride, the dog howled and whined pitifully. But even when Ryan had walked out of the rooming house door, the man had made no attempt to follow. Late next morning, Ryan happened to be in the adoption office when a familiar figure entered. It was the owner, looking gray and ill shaven, but considerably improved from the time Ryan had seen him last. The man walked briskly to the desk. "I believe you people have my dog here."
"What!" Ryan exploded. "At three o'clock this morning you didn't have a dog. You didn't even have a puppy."
"My dog is here," the man said firmly. "I want him back."
"Mister," Ryan said, "you can have any dog you want. Just tell me one thing. Why didn't you make up your mind before? You knew damned well it was your dog; and I knew damned well it was your dog. Why didn't you save yourself a lot of time and trouble?" The man drew closer to Ryan and lowered his voice. "That dog's the best friend I got in the world. He'd give up his life for me if he had to. And I guess I'd do the same for him. But there's something else," he added sheepishly. "I go off the reservation sometimes. Once in a while maybe I drink too much. You got to understand this. I respect that dog and I don't want nobody thinking he runs in bad company. So what else am I gonna do? What kind of a reputation would a dog get, hanging around an old drunk? Sure I let on he wasn't mine. I didn't want to embarrass him."
While embarrassing a dog might represent mental cruelty, trying to make one swim a good part of the length of the Hudson River falls in a different category. Ryan was ordered near Poughkeepsie one day on a complaint by an elderly German, a retired merchant seaman named Schimmel. Mr. Schimmel operated a boathouse and from his dock had observed several men on the deck of a small yacht. Paddling valiantly alongside was a shepherd dog.
The men told Mr. Schimmel they had been on the water two days, en route to New York City. They planned to continue their trip by yacht; the dog, by swimming. Ryan had investigated dog fighting and dog racing. Dog swimming was new to him. Anyone who would consider swimming a dog down the Hudson must, in Ryan's opinion, be out of his head. He wondered whether Mr. Schimmel had misunderstood. In Poughkeepsie, Ryan discovered that the facts were as Mr. Schimmel had reported. What Mr. Schimmel had not mentioned was that the gentlemen involved were advertising people from one of the Manhattan agencies. Ryan found the yacht tied up near Schimmel's boathouse. Bobbing up and down on a float tied alongside was the dog, looking fairly well tuckered out. Ryan hailed the craft and a man in a blue blazer and yachting cap appeared on deck. He beckoned Ryan to come up, and pumped his hand warmly. "I'm Buzz Smalley, from Clapper, Crowder and Dun," he said. "Glad to have you aboard, sir. This is one time it makes sense to say that, eh?" Mr. Smalley grinned cheerfully. "Did the shop send you up here?" Ryan advised Mr. Smalley that he represented the ASPCA. "Wonderful!" Mr. Smalley cried. "That makes it all the better. Now we can really get an official endorsement-"
"I didn't come up here to endorse-" Ryan began. "That's really good thinking," Mr. Smalley hurried on. "Give the campaign a lot more sock. I can see it now." He sketched at the air with his hand. "Towser's Dog Biscuits! A bow-wow-wow! Enough pure dog-power in every box to let your dog swim the Hudson River! Then we cut to your testimonial-"
"Hey, wait a minute," Ryan said. "If you put that dog in the water, the only testimonial you're going to get is a summons." The grin disappeared from Mr. Smalley's face. "Listen, fellow," he said, "I don't think you understand. I'm talking about Towser's Dog Biscuit
s. The Towser's Dog Biscuits. That's one of CC&D's major clients."
"That may mean a lot to you," Ryan said, "but it doesn't mean a damned thing to me. I don't want that dog to swim another stroke." The rest of the agency people had meanwhile gathered on the deck: a photographer, his assistant and a sallow young man who, as Ryan learned later, was the writer for the account. They all looked inquiringly at Mr. Smalley. "We'll get this straightened out," the account executive muttered, "and we'll get it straightened out now." He strode down the little gangplank and headed for the row of boat houses. Ten minutes later he was back. "I just talked to Fitz Crowder," he announced to his associates. "He says: go! That dog's full of pep, he wants to swim and, by God, he's going to swim."
"Not while I'm here," Ryan said. So far, Ryan knew, the account executive had shown no real evidence of cruelty toward the dog. The animal still sat on the float and until Mr. Smalley actually forced the dog into the water, Ryan's hands were tied. He admitted this frankly to Mr. Smalley. "But," Ryan said, "don't think that's the end of it. I'm going to stay here. I'll be here every minute of the day. If you make one move-"
"You," said Mr. Smalley, "get the hell off this boat, before I have you arrested for ... for piracy!" Ryan shrugged and went ashore. He found Mr. Schimmel at the boathouse and told him the problem. "That's all right," the merchant seaman said, "you stay with me, Long as you want."
"When you get tired watching, I watch." He slapped Ryan on the shoulder. "Like at sea, eh? By Gott, they won't ruin a good dog like that." Mr. Schimmel pulled an enormous pair of binoculars from his gear and handed them to Ryan. For the rest of the afternoon the two men waited in the boathouse, taking turns keeping an eye on the yacht. At dusk, the assistant photographer hauled in the float and brought the dog aboard. Ryan saw little other activity on the yacht. There were lights in the cabin and once he caught sight of a face, Mr. Smalley's, peering briefly from a porthole. Later on, Mr. Schimmel shared some corned beef hash with the ASPCA agent. The seaman offered to take the night watch. Ryan, without even removing his shoes, gratefully curled up under a tarpaulin. He had been napping only a couple of hours when Schimmel's voice roused him. "Quick! Quick!" the seaman urged. "They're putting out!" Ryan scrambled to his feet. The yacht had already gained the middle of the river. He stumbled through the boathouse to the little dock, where Schimmel had already begun to start the motor of a speedboat. At first, the ASPCA agent feared Mr. Smalley would outrun Schimmel's own rickety craft; but the German cut the water with all power on, the motor protesting like a dull saw cutting cross-grain through a board. Ryan hung on with both hands while Mr. Schimmel executed a tight, neat arc and swung ahead of the yacht. The yacht captain stopped his engines. The furious account executive appeared at the wheel. "Clear off, you idiot!" he shouted. "We're going to New Jersey. You've got no authority outside this state." Ryan stood up in the bow of the speedboat. "Go right ahead," he called. "I'll phone the Jersey State Police-just to let them know you're on your way."
The account executive and the captain held a hurried conversation. Ryan could overhear nothing; but a few moments later the yacht put about and headed for the pier once more. Soaked to the skin, Ryan and Mr. Schimmel chugged back to the boathouse. The night maneuvers must have exhausted the account executive. All next morning and afternoon, Ryan saw no sign of Mr. Smalley or his colleagues. The captain and mate disembarked once to bring on provisions. Ryan and Schimmel continued their turns with the binoculars. The agent suspected that the yacht might try more evasive tactics; Schimmel agreed, and kept the speedboat ready. Ryan's guess was correct. About three in the morning, the yacht began to pull away again. Ryan and Schimmel overtook it without difficulty. "Listen, Ryan," Mr. Smalley shouted down through cupped hands, "what will it cost to get you off my back?"
"It'll cost you whatever it takes to run that yacht down to New York," Ryan yelled, "and figure out another way to advertise dog biscuits." Mr. Smalley shook his head. "The campaign," he said, drawing himself up, "will go on as planned!" Nevertheless, the yacht turned and made for shore once again. Ryan began to lose track of time during the next few days. Sometimes Mr. Smalley would keep the craft tied up for an entire day and night; the photographer's assistant would romp with the dog, the copywriter would lounge in the sun while the account executive paced back and forth. Then, unpredictably, Mr. Smalley would again try to break out of harbor. But Ryan and the old seaman never abandoned their watch and were after the craft immediately, the speedboat buzzing like a ruptured hornet.
Throughout another four days and nights, Ryan lived in the boathouse, eating corned beef hash. Once in a while he managed to shave, although he never dared wash out all his clothes at the same time. The advertising men on the yacht had begun to look equally frazzled, despite several bottles of gin and vermouth recently shipped aboard. Mr. Schimmel, by contrast, seemed to enjoy himself immensely. "We hold out a little longer," he cheerfully assured Ryan, "and they have a mutiny on that yacht." Late in the morning of the sixth day, a long black car pulled up at the yacht slip. A stubby, gray-haired man in a tattersall vest and a tweed suit stepped out briskly and trotted up the gangplank. This, as Ryan found out later, was none other than Mr. Fitz Crowder in person. After a long conference on deck, Mr. Crowder and Mr. Smalley signaled Ryan to come aboard. "I told you," Schimmel chuckled gleefully. "Now they want to parley." On the yacht, Ryan explained again that this was a potentially cruel act against an animal and clearly against the law. To anyone with respect at all for an animal, it was also against plain common sense. "Now, by Godfrey," Mr. Crowder said, "I'm glad to see a man doing his duty. We could use a little more of that in our shop, eh, Smalley? But you don't want to make a mountain out of a molehill. Little minds do that. We like to think big at CC&D. So I'll make you a proposition. You go back to New York, forget the whole business, and I'll keep you supplied with Towser Dog Biscuits for a year!" Mr. Crowder stepped back triumphantly to allow the full impact of his words. "No go," Ryan said. "But I tell you what I'll do. Give this dog a fair shake. You put him in the water. If he acts like he wants to keep swimming, I'll go along with it. You just let the dog make up his own mind."
"By Godfrey," Mr. Crowder cried, "that's creative thinking for you! I'll buy that, sir! Smalley, bring out the dog!"
The assistant photographer and the copywriter carried the big shepherd to the float and paddled clear of the yacht. They lowered the animal into the water. Without a moment's hesitation, the dog struck out for shore. "That way! That way!" Mr. Crowder shouted, gesturing frantically in the direction of Manhattan. The dog paid no attention. His eyes fixed on land, oblivious to the imprecations from Mr. Smalley, he paddled unswervingly to the dock. "Does that settle it?" Ryan asked. Mr. Crowder nodded glumly. The dog clambered ashore and shook himself, frolicking back and forth in the sun. "Damned nonsense," Mr. Smalley muttered. "Well, sir," Mr. Crowder said, "you've made your point. CC&D doesn't go back on its word."
"No hard feelings?" Ryan asked. "No, no," Mr. Crowder said. "That's just the way the ball bounces. Well, Smalley, let's get back to the shop. Your boys had better come up with a new Towser campaign in one hell of a hurry, I'll tell you that." As the agency people gathered on the deck, Ryan turned and started over the side. "Wait a minute," Mr. Crowder called. "We give up on swimming the dog. But how about a human? Is that against the law?"
"Hell, no," Ryan said. "You can swim all you want." Mr. Crowder seized his account executive by the shoulders. "Smalley, that's the answer. The old switcheroo. A man goes down the Hudson River! Listen, Smalley, do any of your boys know how to swim?" Ryan continued down the gangplank. He did not wait to hear the answer.
23 - Fifty Years in the Doghouse
In February, 1963, a Bronx livery stable went up in flames at about one o'clock, on a morning cast in solid ice. Somebody said you could hear the horses screaming for blocks away. Somebody else said the wiring was bad, probably. The old tinderboxes bum fast, the city won't even give out new licenses for them any more. The fire ha
d already gone to three alarms by the time Colonel Rowan got there. Rousted out of bed by a phone call from the Manhattan Shelter, haphazardly bundled against the wind, Rowan was fully awake now. For a few minutes at the beginning, skidding the car along the white streets, he had been functioning mechanically and instinctively, after the manner of a soldier, drowsy but never caught entirely by surprise. Victor Balluff and a couple of other Society agents reached the fire lines about the same time as Rowan. With the sirens still going, the men had to shout in each others ears. The water had spread in slick puddles, the slush already beginning to freeze. Over most of the block, the flames turned sky and snow a delicate pink. Nobody knew how many horses were trapped inside. The only information available-to anyone except a deaf man was that there must be a lot of horses. To reach them, firemen started hacking through the walls. Balluff and the agents ran forward. Rowan noticed that Balluff wasn't wearing an overcoat and wondered, incongruously, whether he had forgotten it or felt more comfortable without it.
Somebody said, "There must be a dozen." (Later, a count showed thirty horses.) Rowan noticed that one of the Society's horse ambulances had rolled up through the slush. A little too close to the fire for comfort. Rowan called out, "Who the hell's driving in there?" The window rolled down and a man leaned his head out. "What's the problem, Colonel?" It was Ryan. "Good God," Rowan said, "is that you?" Then he almost laughed, because Ryan gave him such a surprised look much the same expression one uses in responding to any question whose answer is so obvious, in the category of a man with lather on his face and a razor in his hand being asked if he intends to shave. Ryan climbed out of the ambulance. "Hell," he said with a grin, "There's horses here, aren't there?" He headed for the burning stable. In the press of firemen, newspaper reporters, photographers, the white-haired Ryan moved on. He looked very tall, very steady, with the economical movements of a man who knows exactly what he is about. Some horses were coming out. Five had already been burned to death. Another half dozen, scorched blind, their flesh seared, roasted on their bodies, were dying in agony. Merciful pistol shots sounded like sharp icicles breaking. A photographer ran up and took a flash picture. It was, after all, news. Ryan led one animal at the end of a rope halter. Balluff had another one. At this point it was hard to tell which horses would survive. Even the ones able to walk might have had their lungs hopelessly burned. It was a fair bet that most would catch pneumonia. Rowan found a telephone booth and called one of his old comrades-in-arms, now commander of a nearby military installation.
Fifty Years in the Doghouse Page 21
