Four Feet Tall and Rising

by Shorty Rossi

  Amid all this, I decided to go through communion. I’d been baptized Catholic as a baby, but my parents abandoned their traditions sometime during my elementary school years. Church wasn’t something that even registered for me during high school. At DeWitt, I’d studied the different religions out of curiosity. I studied the beliefs of Muslims, Seventh-Day Adventists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, even the Mormons. Religion intrigued me. I went to Mass a few times at Folsom, but it hadn’t taken hold of me the way it took hold of me in Vegas.

  I knew I should do it on my own, with nobody else’s involvement, with no one pushing me to do it. It wasn’t like I wanted to preach at people about the right religion or the right way to live. Every person has to make that choice for themselves. But I’d always believed in a sense of a higher being, even though I personally might never make it to heaven for the things I’d done. Through the years of my life, I hadn’t been a saint. I harbored no illusions about my chances for redemption, but learning about the Catholic traditions reminded me of my grandparents. I wanted to feel closer to them. I started a process called the RCIA, the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults. It was a two-year process to learn more about my faith, my own soul, and to prepare for a period called purification and enlightenment. Since I’d been baptized as a baby, I didn’t have to be baptized again, but I still had to be confirmed. On Lent, I received the sacraments of initiation and I officially changed my name.

  I’d been going by Shorty since I was in junior high. At Universal, my checks were made out to Shorty Rossi, but that name wasn’t on my Social Security card. When I’d done all that genealogical research in prison, I found I had two birth certificates with two different names. One was Melvin Louis Rossi and the other was Melvin Luigi Rossi. When I quizzed Mom about the discrepancy, she said the hospital made a mistake, but she wouldn’t tell me which name was the mistake. There was no getting a straight answer from her.

  So, in defiance, I said, “Fuck it. I’m gonna change my name.” I picked Luigi Francis Shorty Rossi. I added Francis, my communion name, chosen in honor of St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals. I loved the story about St. Francis and the wolf. There was a legend that when he’d lived in the city of Gubbio, a wolf was terrorizing the town. Francis had gone up in the hills to find the wolf, and when he did, he made the sign of the cross and said, “Brother Wolf, you have done great evil. People accuse and curse you but let us make peace between you and the people.” Francis walked the wolf into town and explained to the people that the wolf wasn’t evil. He was hungry. If people would feed the wolf, he wouldn’t attack them or their animals. Then he blessed the wolf and let him go.

  I could relate to Francis and his wolf. It’s just that in my life the wolf was a pit bull and every city in America felt like they were under attack. That their kids weren’t safe. That the pit bull was evil. How in the world was I gonna come down off a hill and convince people that pit bulls weren’t terrorizing people. It was people terrorizing pit bulls.

  Would I ever achieve sainthood? Hell, no. Is there a heaven and hell? I’ll find out. Which one am I going to? I don’t know, but I knew it was important for me to take communion, to change my name, and to be reborn to the world.

  It took me almost two years to successfully land work in Vegas, but when it rained, it poured. Out of nowhere, I landed three jobs. The first, on the Strip, was a show at the Sahara called Buck Wild. There was a four-hundred-pound drag queen who impersonated Dolly Parton. She’d step out onstage, wearing this huge hoop-skirt dress, lip-synching the duet “Islands in the Stream.” When it was my cue, I’d pop out from under her dress, made up like a mini–Kenny Rogers, and I’d lip-synch the rest of the song with her. The audience always peed their pants. I was a big hit, and it was great money for fifteen minutes of work.

  I got a second gig, once a week, in Showtime at the Aladdin, and a third gig in Tiny Kiss, a cover band of Little People dressed as Kiss, for a show I’ll call Circus Insanity. Circus Insanity was just that, an insane circus of acts: comics, fire-eaters, glass-walkers, trained monkeys, and contortionists, a kind of sideshow, circus, and carnival, presided over by a “Ringleader,” played by one of the sleaziest guys in the business. He was the producer and star, and he hated me. I was his biggest nightmare.

  That producer treated his employees terribly, making promises he had no intention of keeping. I rallied all the Little People in the show together and we went on strike. He screamed at me, “You’ll never amount to nothing without me. You’re a fucking midget!” That was just the motivation I needed.

  I walked off his show and formed my own Kiss cover band with Little People. I kicked it into high gear, and got my band booked for every possible gig I could find, and the local papers started covering the “Battle of the Bands” with article headlines screaming, “Who’s the Real Tiny Kiss?” In all of those articles, they mentioned Shortywood, and business for Allison and me kicked into high gear. Casting directors from all over the country started calling our offices to hire our talent. It was a good thing too, ’cause Showtime was canceled, then Buck Wild was cancelled, and all of a sudden work went from three shows to nothing. I was right back where I started, working at the doggie spa and volunteering for the pound, trying to make ends meet. I took some gigs wrestling. For some reason, there are people who think it’s hilarious to see a bunch of midgets beat the shit out of each other. So beat the shit out of each other we did. We’d hit each other with frying pans, tear at each other with cheese graters, and stab each other with thumbtacks. My character was either the referee or the emcee, but that didn’t stop me from ending up under a pile of bodies, or getting slapped upside the head with a baking sheet. There were so many matches where I was thrown through the air and landed flat on my back. I always got up, but after one match, I collapsed. I’d thrown my back out.

  I refused to go to the hospital, but found myself there anyway. They did a CAT scan and an MRI, and the doctor showed me all the damage I’d done. This was more than a pulled muscle. All those years of stunts had taken their toll. I had tingling and numbness in my legs, a pinched nerve, sciatica, blah, blah, blah. It explained why sometimes I’d fall for no reason. I was gonna need physical therapy. I was gonna need major rehab. My performing career was over.

  The news hit me like a ton of bricks, but all I could think was, “I miss L.A.” Touring everywhere, living in different cities, getting to see everything, I realized L.A. was my comfort zone. I knew the city like the back of my hand. Okay, driving all the time sucked, but L.A. was my home. With my career finished, almost all my dogs adopted out to good homes, and summer approaching, meaning temperatures well over 110 degrees, there was no reason to stay in Vegas.

  Packing just wasn’t an option. I was in bed for an entire month. The only time I’d make myself walk was to get to the bathroom. Hercules was barely a year old, but he wouldn’t leave my side. The monster that ate drywall, the dog that had cost me thousands and thousands of dollars fixing the house, was now my nurse. He refused to let me out of his sight. Geisha could have given a rat’s ass. She’d have come in, shit on me, and left, if I’d let her. Mussolini was so big and hyper he would jump onto the bed, not understanding that it caused me pain. Bebi was off in wonderland most of the time, but Hercules had really surprised me. His actions made me think, “There’s a bond here.”

  Debbie kept checking in on me. I still had two too many dogs, so Debbie agreed to take Crash, a goofy pit with the odd habit of crashing into walls headfirst, and I was able to find one last home for a huge, lovable pit named Reno. A group of good friends came over and packed all my things into a U-Haul, while I pretty much lay there like a stone. I wasn’t driving to L.A. yet. I was heading to San Francisco for specialized rehab for my back.

  It was my doctor in San Francisco who first suggested I get a service animal. I believe his direct quote was, “You’ve got all those damn pit bulls. Why not train one of them to help you?” I had no idea where to start. The doctor actually wrote me a
prescription for a service animal, and instructed me to go to the animal shelter and get a “service dog in training” tag and kit. I did as he said, then realized I had a lot of reading to do to figure this out.

  Depending on the nature of a disability, a person is assigned a certain kind of animal. If I’d been blind or deaf, I’d have had to get a dog that had been through service animal college. If I’d had seizures, or needed a dog that could signal a diabetic attack, I’d have had to purchase a specially trained dog. My prescription was for mobility. I needed a dog that could pull me upstairs, carry my things, function as a leg rest when I was seated, keep me from falling, or if I did fall, help me up. Basically, act as a sentient, powerful cane. There were classes I could attend to help with mobility training but I decided I’d read all the books myself and give it a shot.

  Geisha seemed like the best option. She was friendly with people, calm in her demeanor, and she was my first girl. I was very attached to her. I took her everywhere I went anyway. Why not throw the service dog vest on her and call it a day? She turned out to be a handful. She started growling at passing dogs. Geisha was older and was getting set in her ways, like an old, grumpy lady. She wasn’t interested in toting me around.

  So I gave Hercules his shot. He’d never been out in public, but ever since my back injury, he’d been attached to my hip, so I figured I’d take him out for a test drive. I wanted to visit a friend in Stockton. I loaded Hercules up with a harness bag that held my laptop computer and all my crap, then we headed out to get on the BART. It was rush hour, and the train was loaded with people, but Hercules didn’t even flinch. He pulled me up the stairs, got me settled into a seat, and then lay down by my feet. I couldn’t believe how docile he was. He was just happy to be with me. Happy to do his job. He instinctively knew what I needed. From that point on, Hercules became my right-hand man.

  I never thought I’d own a handicapped parking placard. I always considered them a fraud. Every Little Person I knew had one, but only fifteen percent of them really needed it. Little People used them selectively. If they were with someone tall, they wouldn’t use them, ’cause they’d be ashamed, but if they were by themselves or with another Little Person, you better believe they’d whip those babies out and take the closest space. Now that I couldn’t walk long distances, I finally gave in and got the permit, and what a difference to be able to park so close! I wished I’d had the damn thing for the last ten years.

  I didn’t feel sorry for myself, and I didn’t regret any of the stunts or wrestling jobs or abuse I had put my body through for the last six years. I wasn’t worried about my future, and I wasn’t gonna let my back injury slow me down. No one knows how long they’re gonna live, and I wasn’t gonna spend the time I had worrying about my health when I could die in a car wreck or on a damn airplane the next morning. Frankly, a fiery crash was preferable to liver cancer or lung cancer or diabetes.

  That’s why I got the bright idea that if I bought a pair of tennis shoes with wheels built in to the bottoms, then Hercules could pull me faster. In theory, this was a smart idea. In practice, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Wheels on your shoes in hilly San Francisco seemed like fun, until I realized I had no idea how to use the damn things. I got the wheels out and moving, and Hercules was like, “Oh, this is so much easier.” He took off at a trot. Then a run. Bam! Right into a lamppost. So much for my bright idea.

  I was feeling much better, but there was still back pain every day. The doctor told me to change my diet, stop smoking and drinking, stop working so much, and lower my stress level, but none of that was actually gonna happen. I’m a workaholic. An adrenaline junkie. I wanted to experience a full life, even if it meant I ended up in a wheelchair, and even that wouldn’t stop me. I could hook up my dogs and they could pull it like a sleigh.

  Fuck, I already had the damn elf costume to match!

  * “Breeds of dogs involved in fatal human attacks in the United States between 1979 and 1998,” special report, The Centers for Disease Control, 1999.

  I was a sharp dresser early on.

  And I knew the value of a good hat.

  With CoCo, my mom’s dog, on the brown plaid couch where we’d watch TV together. I loved CoCo a lot and later named my first pit bull, Coco, after her.

  My maternal grandmother, Nonnie.

  With my paternal grandmother, Elsie.

  In the law library at DeWitt, around 1991.

  In my office at DeWitt.

  Holding Zsa Zsa.

  The Cat Man: feeding time at DeWitt.

  With Alvin and Jerry.

  With Allison Queal.

  On tour with the Radio City Rockettes.

  As Mini-Me.

  With Loni Anderson.

  From mini gladiator …

  … to reality TV star. With Valentino, Hercules, and Bebi.

  Bebi, Valentino, and Hercules.

  Traveling with Hercules.

  The whole family at home: Mussolini, Hercules, Domenico (top), Valentino, and Bebi.

  8

  Pimpin’

  hortywood had never been a full-time job for either me or Allison. For the most part, it had been the equivalent of bonus cash. It was money we couldn’t rely on, but appreciated when it showed up. Before my injury, my primary paychecks came from performing, but for Allison, she made her money in Orange County real estate.

  By the time I got back to Los Angeles in 2007, the city was in the grip of a real estate frenzy at the same time that Shortywood was really taking off. We now had about two hundred Little People around the world on our talent roster, and job calls were happening every week. Allison was living with her boyfriend down in Orange County, and her real estate job had become more than a backup—it was lucrative. She kept trying to do both, but it was just too much work and travel. We talked it through, and it dawned on me: Allison was leaving Shortywood.

  Allison and I had built the company together. I’d relied on her heavily to keep the business from falling apart while I was on the road, and she’d been a great partner. She was a hard worker and always responsible. It was hard to lose her. She wasn’t gonna be easy to replace, but there was no way I could handle everything by myself. With my dancing and acting career completely kaput, Shortywood was my bread and butter. It was my sole source of income. It had to be a success. I had no backup plan. And now there was overhead. All those costumes that lived in Allison’s house had to live somewhere. I rented an office in Hollywood, and Shortywood went from being a two-page website with a cell phone to a full-fledged management office. I had my own desk. I could put my feet up on it if I damn well pleased. Finally, after decades of dreaming about being a boss, I was the boss!

  Only sixty percent of my time was spent managing talent. The other forty percent of my day was spent operating a pit bull rescue. Essentially, I functioned like a transport system for pit bulls, picking them up from rescue shelters, pounds, abandoned buildings, or running wild on the streets, and finding them homes. I was resolved not to become a boarding facility for any reason. I wasn’t gonna repeat the mistakes I made in Vegas, but I still wanted to be of service to these dogs.

  Pit bulls were back on the front page of the news. Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick was arrested for owning and operating a competitive dogfighting ring called the Bad Newz Kennels, which fought dogs across several state lines. Police had removed over sixty dogs from his property in Virginia, where they found bloodstains on the walls of a room, and a bloodstained carpet. The house was actually customized for dog fights. It had a high fence to keep people from seeing what was going on, and a bunch of sheds where the dogs were trained, or where injured dogs were left. Vick had executed eight dogs himself, by hanging, drowning, and slamming one dog’s body to the ground. He was also a registered dog breeder.

  Oh my God, was I pissed. Michael Vick may have grown up in the projects, but once he went to college, he should’ve learned his lesson. And once he became an NFL superstar, he should’ve known that killing dogs
was wrong. There was no excuse for it. He deserved to lose everything he’d worked so hard to accomplish. All the endorsement deals and the admiration of his fans, I was glad to watch it all crumble down around his feet. The media wouldn’t let the story go, and as hard as it was to hear the details, Michael Vick’s downfall was shining a light on a major problem for pits. The cruelty was astounding. It shocked the public out of their ignorance. For that, I was happy. For those sixty-plus dogs that had suffered, I wanted Vick in jail.

  For me to say Vick needed to do time, I had to be steaming mad. And by doing time, I meant they should throw him in the hole. No TV, no radio, no special food requests, no gym access, no day for day. If you’re gonna punish somebody, then punish them and enforce the education programs. Make them mandatory. Guys need to be taught right from wrong so they will understand what they’ve done and not do it again. Sitting around all day, working an easy job, and having all your meals provided for you doesn’t teach you nothing. Believe me, I know. All you learn is how to be a smarter, better criminal. We’d be better off as a society if most of these guys had to do service as punishment instead of time. They’d learn more and have to work harder to pay their debts. Could Michael Vick come out of prison a changed man? Yes, he could. I was walking proof that reform is possible. Would he be a forgiven man? Not by Shorty.

  Vick’s actions caused a huge spike in phone calls to my office, of people reporting pit bulls and bait dogs being used in fights. Suddenly, people felt more empowered to speak up on behalf of injured dogs, even if they weren’t willing to adopt the dogs themselves. We were so overloaded with calls, I couldn’t juggle both jobs and keep Shortywood profitable, so I asked Sebastian if he’d help me out in the office. He’d been going on gigs for me for years and he wasn’t one of the Little fucks who complained all the time. If I booked him, he showed up and did the work. Maybe it was his high school years as a wrestler that gave him the discipline and work ethic I respected. Whatever, we got along. I also knew he was a better organizer than I was. Anal-retentive is a better term. Seb always did things by the book. He seemed like the right choice.