I was in the Downey shelter one time and saw a golden mix that the shelter had named Gino. He was young, no more than two years old, which normally would not have made him a likely candidate for us to rescue.
But we took him, because he had bad cut marks on his face. They had healed long ago, and I figured they were the result of a fight with another dog. But they made him look a little angry and intimidating, and in that environment it was extremely unlikely that he would be adopted.
So we took him, and as always our first stop was the vet. He gave Gino a full examination, including the facial cuts, and what he said stunned me.
He showed me that there were similar marks below Gino’s jaw. Amazingly, it was not the first time he had seen this condition, and he knew exactly what it meant. Someone had wired Gino’s jaw shut so that he could not bark, and Gino’s straining against the wires had caused the permanent cuts above and below the jaw.
Ironically, the same cut marks that caused him to be fairly unadoptable now ensured that there would be no shortage of people wanting him. Once he was in our care and we explained to people what had happened, everyone wanted to take Gino and pamper him for the rest of his life.
The most remarkable thing of all was Gino’s temperament. What he went through must have been horrible, but he was incredibly happy and friendly. He never stopped smiling, and his tail never stopped wagging.
We found him a great home within the week, and for years after that would get pictures from his owner, with declarations that Gino was the best dog of all time.
Yes, looks can be very deceiving, unless you look really deep.
Please, Not the RV Again
Apparently, dogs don’t get jet lag, or RV lag, as the case may be. They woke us up on our first morning in Maine with a barking outburst at a little after five thirty, just as they had in California.
And just as in California, Debbie pretended that she didn’t hear them so that I’d get up and do the feeding. Our dogs can awaken people in coffins, but Debbie didn’t stir.
I drove over to Damariscotta Lake Farm, where the members of our group who were staying there were having breakfast. The muffins are so good that I would drive an RV to get them, and that’s saying a lot. I never want to get into an RV again.
But there the three of them were, sitting in the parking lot. I was driving some people to the airport in my car, Cyndi Flores was driving one of the RVs to Virginia, and Terri and Joe Nigro were driving another one there. That left one, which I was supposed to be in charge of.
I called our contractor, Chris McKenney, and asked him if he knew anyone we could hire to drive the thing down there. I wasn’t desperate, but I offered money and my right arm, which was significant, since at the end of that arm is the hand I use to operate the TV remote control.
He found someone. In fact, his brother Dickie was willing to do it. The deal was concluded, and the next day the RV was out of my sight forever.
Two days later, I was driving on the small dirt road not far from our house when I came upon a beautiful white poodle. He was dirty, with small thorns in his coat, as if he’d trudged through some shrubbery. There was a tag on him, but the phone number on it was hard to read. Of all the people to find a stray dog, you’d figure it would be me.
I coaxed him to the car, which did not exactly take a lot of persuasion, and he jumped in. I figured I’d drive him home, and then take steps to find his owner. As I was driving, I passed a woman walking along the side of the road. This is not exactly midtown Manhattan, and pedestrians are in rather short supply.
I thought it was possible that she was out looking for this dog, so I stopped and rolled down the window. “Excuse me,” I said, “is there any chance that you’re looking for this dog?”
She came over to the window and looked in. “No, sorry. Did you find him?”
“Yes. Any idea who the owner is?”
“No,” she said, “but I heard that these dog people moved in down the road.”
That was us … we were already known as the “dog people.”
I took the poodle home, but rather than keep him in the garage for the time being, I decided to bring him into the house. If the other dogs freaked him out, I could always put him in the garage.
So I brought him inside, and he acted like he’d been there all his life. He was a fantastic dog, and I was a little sorry when after a few phone calls I was able to find his owner. He would have made a good addition to the house, because with only twenty-five dogs, it was feeling kind of empty.
But the owners had been frantic about his disappearance, and I was pleased that he obviously had a good home. They had a second dog, and I was sure the poodle would have a bunch of terrific stories to share about his stay with the crazy dog people.
Not long after that, Debbie and I were driving on another road about five miles from our house. This is a more heavily trafficked road, and has a speed limit of fifty miles an hour.
Up ahead we saw what seemed to be another stray dog. He was white, maybe a spaniel mix, and was standing in the middle of the road. We stopped, of course, and Debbie got out of the car. Within ten seconds the dog was in her arms and then in the car.
We couldn’t bring him home, since he weighed only about thirty pounds. In our house that would mean the other dogs would pour ketchup on him and have him for lunch. So we found out where the nearest animal shelter was, and we drove there. He didn’t have a tag on him, but we were hoping that the shelter could scan him and determine whether he had an implanted chip.
He didn’t have a chip, but the people who worked at the shelter were confident that they would find the owner. My strong instinct was not to leave the dog with them; I’d never left a dog at a shelter in my life, and it went against my grain. But they patiently explained to me that this was not Southern California, and that nothing bad was going to happen to this dog.
They promised to call us if they couldn’t find the owner, and to notify us when they did. Debbie felt we should leave him there, which was good enough for me. I knew that she would be overprotective, and if she thought it was OK, then I was willing to go along with it.
While I was giving them our contact information, Debbie went into the back and looked in the kennels. She came back with a ten-year-old yellow Lab named Daisy that had been found as a stray. She’d been adopted out once, but returned because of a “raspy bark.”
We decided we wanted to take her, and the shelter gave us an application to fill out. One section prompted us to list the names, breeds, and ages of any other pets we might have. I didn’t feel like spending a month filling out the application, so I explained our situation to the director of the place.
She seemed to take it in stride, and called both our California and Maine vets to determine that we were for real. Apparently, they gave the OK, because within a few minutes Daisy was our first Maine rescue.
We got her home and introduced her to the crew, and ten minutes after she arrived in the house, she was sacked out on the couch, flat on her back.
Some things never change.
Dorothy, We’re Not in California Anymore
If you’re an animal, Maine is the place you want to be, except for the part where the people shoot you.
First of all, and I assume this is important to animals that are not domesticated, the land seems plentiful. Unlike in California, where in the summer the only way an animal can find water is by buying Aquafina at the 7-Eleven, there’s water everywhere. You throw a rock and you hit a lake.
The woods are lush and filled with stuff to eat. If you like eating grass and shrubs, there’s plenty of that. You like eating other animals? This is the place.
And the people that live here are animal lovers. In California, when a workman would come into our house and experience the dogs mobbing him, you could see the panic in his eyes. We would have to put the dogs in rooms, behind closed doors, before most people would even enter.
In Maine, we have workmen here all the time, and t
hey barely react. It’s a totally different mind-set. They think it’s funny, and they don’t show the slightest hesitation about coming in. Once inside, they spend some time petting and then go about their business. If I walk them out to their pickup truck when they’re finished, usually I see a dog sitting on the front seat, waiting patiently.
Of course, the majority of people we’ve met are hunters. That means they shoot animals with such frequency that the state has to create hunting seasons for each type of animal. Not to do so would mean that so many would get shot, we’d run out of them.
From our Maine house, one can hear gunshots very often, even though hunting is not supposed to be conducted in our area without permission of the homeowners. But everybody here has a gun, except of course for me. Having a gun would scare me to death; I’d keep the gun in the house and the bullets in Connecticut.
The entire situation is counterintuitive, at least to me. How can you love animals and want to shoot them? Now, in fairness, many of the hunters are doing it for the meat, to help feed themselves and their families. But even they seem to enjoy the process; certainly they don’t describe it as onerous in any respect. It’s a sport to them, and though I’m a sports fan, I just don’t get it.
Actually, when it comes to animals, I’m probably a contradiction as well. Obviously I love dogs, but I’m not at all comfortable around many other species.
Soon after we arrived, our contractor came over with his nine-year-old son, Patrick. There was a large turtle out behind our deck, which I was not inclined to go near. Patrick went over to it with a small stick and put the stick near the turtle’s face. Suddenly the head and neck shot out and grabbed the stick.
I almost jumped out of my skin, as everyone laughed at me. It turned out that it was a snapping turtle. I didn’t even know such things existed; I thought the snapper in snapper soup was the fish.
Of course, my aversion to strange animals pales in comparison to my aversion to bugs, and there are plenty of them here in Maine. To hear locals tell it, the blackflies are so ubiquitous and large, they fly off with small children. And then there are the ticks and the mosquitoes.
So we’ve taken preventive measures. We have two machines called Mosquito Magnets out in the woods. And we have an exterminator come in monthly to spray for mosquitoes and ticks, and another one to spray for ants, and another to keep away rats and mice. And we put Frontline on the dogs every month to protect them from ticks and fleas, plus we give them periodic injections to ward off Lyme disease.
Except for hiring a Marine battalion to surround the house, we’ve pretty much done all we can to protect ourselves. Hopefully it will work, because the only other alternative is to move into a biosphere.
In any event, I’m going to stay indoors a lot here.
Epilogue
Today is the one-year anniversary of our arrival in Maine, a fact that has generated a flurry of e-mails from the members of Team Woofabago.
The messages are all the same. Everyone reflects on the grand adventure and recounts anecdotes and feelings from those five days in September 2011. Most notably, and rather bizarrely, they thank Debbie and me for letting them be a part of an event that they will never forget.
It makes me revisit that time and look at it with fresh eyes. Now I can examine it free of stress and worry and judge it by how we felt and what we accomplished. It leads me to one inescapable conclusion.
These people are still nuts.
Maine has been wonderful. I would recommend that everyone move here, except for the fact that one of its primary charms is the lack of crowds and traffic. But the place is beautiful, and the people have been absolutely terrific and totally welcoming to us.
I know I talk in platitudes about Maine, and maybe that will change over time, but right now it’s how I feel.
The dogs are doing great. They absolutely love the winter, to the point that it’s hard to get them to stay in the house. Bernie the Bernese goes outside when it’s snowing, and just lays down. Once he’s covered with snow, he gets up, shakes himself off, and lays back down again.
Debbie loves watching them enjoy the snow and the cold. While I certainly share those feelings, I characteristically add a dose of guilt for all the time we kept them in the Southern California heat.
I will forever be grateful to the people who joined us on the trip … who volunteered, unasked, to do so. The commitment that they made in terms of time and effort was extraordinary, so much so that as I look back on it, I find it hard to believe. These were adults with real lives, real jobs, and real responsibilities that they put on hold. And in most cases, it was to help people that they barely knew or didn’t know at all.
The fact that they did it with a smile, with laughter and confidence, and without apparent friction, only makes it more remarkable. They came together with a seriousness of purpose; they were there to do a job. And they seemed like they were having fun in the process.
Next time I drive twenty-five dogs cross-country, I’ve got to remember to try that “fun” approach.
At the end of the day, it all came back to the dogs. Had I spread the word that we were moving furniture or vehicles or any other possessions, no one would have stepped forward. Nor should they have.
And they didn’t just transport the dogs; they bonded with them and loved them. The e-mails all include references to each person’s particular favorites, even remembering nicknames they gave them. The dogs soaked up the love, and I’m sure it made the trip much less stressful for them than it would otherwise have been.
But if I’ve learned one thing during our descent into dog rescue lunacy, it’s that dogs bridge gaps between people. They smooth over the human condition, and they provide an extraordinarily valuable function. They take people of all political persuasions, religious faiths, and geographical locations and represent something that everyone can love.
The value of that really cannot be overstated. The people I have met as I travel the country doing rescue events, as well as the people who have adopted dogs from us, have enriched my life immeasurably. I have no idea whom they vote for, what God they worship, or whether they worship one at all.
And the truth is that I really couldn’t care less. There are powerful bonds between us, and they have four paws and shed a lot.
We will not need to rescue prolifically now that we live in Maine. There just isn’t a problem here, or anywhere in New England. In fact, homeless dogs are brought up to this area from down South, because here they can be adopted. I don’t know if studies have been done about why some places in the United States have animal rescue problems while others don’t, but I’m going to look into it.
The overriding point for us personally is that from now on we won’t have to bring in so many; there just isn’t the need. Maybe someday we can have a normal life, with a normal number of dogs.
Like fifteen.
Tara—The Greatest Dog in the History of the World.
With Randy Miller—There’s one real man at that table, and it isn’t me.
Little Sara graciously sharing her couch with Benji and Terri Nigro.
Little Sara—not sharing her couch with anyone.
Bumper—Louisville to New Mexico to California to Maine … that dog gets around.
Wanda and Bumper—Just before we took Vegas by “storm.”
Feeding time—“Grassy area for two? Right this way, please.”
Joe Nigro and Emmit Luther getting the fencing ready.
Cyndi Flores and Terri Nigro preparing a delicious meal.
Sally—Compared to life with a hoarder in the Mojave Desert, this is a piece of cake.
Mamie—Only wanted to sit on the couches, but had to be hoisted up each time.
Benji—Always alert and ready for whatever …
George Kentris with Louis, Otis, and Kahlani—George was truly there when we needed him.
Comfort Inn in Findlay, Ohio—George’s hotel was an oasis for us.
Bumper—“Just let me know when
we get there … until then I want to sleep.”
Jack—“Why is no one petting me?”
Big Sarah—Never stops smiling.
Ready to load up in California.
Noel and Jack—Loving life.
Wanda, the gentle giant—Her mission was to cover the entire RV with slobber.
Emmit Luther—Without Emmit, Randy, and Joe, we’d probably still be in Nebraska.
Nick Kreider with Jack and Noel—Nick was petting the entire way.
Me with part of the gang—telling them not to shed in the RV’s.
Cindy Spodek Dickey, Cyndi Flores, Terri Nigro, and Mary Lynn Dundas—Smiling every single second of the trip, and I still have no idea why.
A brief unsuccessful attempt at sleep.
ALSO BY DAVID ROSENFELT
Andy Carpenter Novels
Unleashed
Leader of the Pack
One Dog Night
Dog Tags
New Tricks
Play Dead
Dead Center
Sudden Death
Bury the Lead
First Degree
Dogtripping: 25 Rescues, 11 Volunteers, and 3 RVs on Our Canine Cross-Country Adventure Page 20
