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Sonic
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Laffy Taffy
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Snoop Dog
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Helga
After a three-week hiatus, I count wet noses as soon as I arrive at Animal Haven. The shelter population changes constantly and I want to see who’s new and who’s still waiting for their perfect family to show up.
The group New York Cares is on-site tonight scrubbing down walls and floors, giving the shelter a deep cleaning. I stay upstairs in the Intake Room for most of my shift and stay out of the way of the good people from New York Cares. Since most of the dogs downstairs are Yellow Dogs, the Intake Room with mostly mellower Green Dogs is the best place for me tonight.
I spent the evening with four new friends: Sonic, Helga, Laffy-Taffy and Snoop Dog.
Helga, a plump little Yorkie, hangs back quietly in her crate. But the moment we set our six feet on the sidewalk, Helga struts the neighborhood with confidence. A dog’s personality really becomes clear when it is just me and the dog together outside.
A cold wind is blowing and wise Helga determines the wind should always be at our back. (An Irish lass?) She turns only the corners that keep us moving ahead of the wind. Smart lady. Why didn’t I think of that?
Laffy-Taffy, a Shitzu-Yorkie mix, is irresistibly cute and blonde. She uses her cuteness to her advantage. I discover she is a “puller” as soon as we step outside the shelter for the first of our two walks. She must have skipped class the day they gave the leash lessons. But she is as smart as a whip, so she will learn fast.
Soon Laffy and I develop a pattern of walking together: a few steps forward, then we stop, then Laffy runs a couple of circles and looks back at me for my approval and affirmation of her cuteness. This makes for slow walking around the block, but who cares? We have no real destination.
Snoop Dog is a tiny Chihuahua. Putting a red plaid zip sweater on Snoop is like dressing a delicate baby doll. He starts shivering before we even get outside. He either knows how cold it is or else he loses his bravado once he leaves the security of his crate.
Sonic, a blond Husky-Shepard mix, is always smiling, but shows a clear preference for female handlers. He is technically a Yellow dog, but if the yellow ranking comes in shades, he is Yellow Lite. He and Laffy hold noisy conversations across the aisle. I am sorry I can’t walk you, Sonic. Maybe next time.
I am overdue to take the Yellow Dog class. Animal Haven never has enough “yellow dog” walkers at any given time. Glad to be back here at Animal Haven.
Happy New Year, Animal Haven and all you pups. May all the dogs that cross the threshold find their forever homes this year.
Oh yeah, and may the wind always be at your back.
 Ready for the Storm A mandatory evacuation of our neighborhood sent me, my husband and our dog Shadow scrambling to the home of our friends Heather and George in Murray Hill. They extended an invitation that included said dog, despite their pint-sized NYC apartment and a jungle of plants brought in from the patio.
Irene’s wrath bypassed both Murray Hill and Battery Park City, so we fared better than many. Only slightly soggy, we found a restaurant open for lunch and another one open for dinner. Not much to choose from, so we were lucky to find Resto offshoot, Cannibal, open for lunch and Les Halles, open and waiting for dinner.
Our nights out with friends usually end after dinner, but on this rainy night, we continued the party at the apartment. Two more brave souls, Amy and Laurence, found a taxi to gouge them and bring them over.
The six of us had fun in a way we seldom do these days. And as a result, we ended up bonding closer.
What About the Animals?
I worried about the dogs and cats at Animal Haven as Irene threatened the city. Being evacuees, I was in no position to foster an animal. But Animal Haven managed to find foster homes for every last one of their animals.
Apparently, a lot of bonding was going on in those hunkered-down homes last weekend.
At my volunteer shift Friday, I find Animal Haven eerily quiet. Only two little guys are bedding down in the Intake Room and many corrals downstairs sit empty.
Many of the emergency fosters turned into adoptions and the dogs and cats never returned to the shelter. Once you’ve gone through a hurricane together, things change, I guess.
My heart-stealer Leo is among the adopted. I am happy that skinny boy found his home.
Despite the open berths, the Animal Haven staff are busy. They are prepping for the next wave of animals coming in—another reminder that there is never a shortage of animals that need rescue and need a home.
Please adopt.
 Sweet Leo Returned to volunteer at Animal Haven after skipping a week and the shelter is swarming with puppies. I walked five pups, one after the other. I was never quite sure who was on the end of my leash. Later, I figured my guys must have been Alan Stuart, Montauk, Hampton I think, Moses and one sweet fellow who I can’t find on the Animal Have website.
The puppy room is full; corrals are doubled-up with puppies and the big sometimes-puppy room-sometimes I-need-to-be-alone room is now a dormitory with puppies and smaller adult dogs.
Between customers, puppies and clean-ups, I didn’t have a chance to give my latest favorite, Leo, a squeeze. Sweet Leo looks so forlorn. Before my shift is over, someone had wrapped his neck in a squishy blue cone. What ailment are you suffering, Leo?
I want to snatch him up and take him home, but that is for someone else to do.
 Cha Cha Gets Adopted
For every crooked pot, there’s a crooked lid, my mother used to tell me. In what context did my mother impart that wisdom? Was I not invited to a grade-school dance? I don’t remember the situation but I always remember the words.
A few crooked canine pots pass through Animal Haven’s doors. Thankfully, their crooked lids usually show up in the store sooner rather than later.
But no dog waited longer for her matching lid than Cha Cha.
Okay, Cha Cha is huge and New York apartments are small. Okay, Cha Cha can destruct the indestructible. But what about the love, man? Staff and volunteers remained mystified, as month after month the gentle giant continued to be passed over.
I sensed a growing feeling at the shelter that Cha Cha would just remain senior-dog-in-residence forever. Even after she was featured in NY1′s In the Papers segment, no takers appeared. I was sure that the publicity would incite a wave of adoption applications.
Bubbles
 A Champagne Toast to Bubbles Compared to Cha Cha, Bubbles sailed in and out of the shelter. But I worried that the Bubbly might wait awhile for a prospective adopter to see the good deep-down.
Bubbles wore her heart on her sleeve when she should have played a little hard to get. Her separation anxiety manifested itself into ceaseless barking and her bunkmates surely got an earful.
I can image their advice to her:
—Just act coy, Bubbles!
—Live up to your name, Bubbles. More effusiveness, less desperation!
—Just put on a little lipstick!
Cheers to the folks who took these girls in their hearts and gave them a home.
 Yankee, Before Grooming —Your mother wants that?
I am holding Abagail who looks fragile and frightened. Pink skinned, almost hairless after a serious grooming, the little poodle has a sad-sack aura about her. Red tear stains cover most of her face and her paws.
But the comment by a tactless neighbor stings and I feel defensive.
I explain to the woman that Abagail was rescued from a puppy mill. My mother adopted her and I would be bringing Abagail to Maryland to meet her new parents.
Of course my mother wants that. She kept us kids didn’t she? She never made us feel ugly or pathetic even around age 11 or 12 when I may not have been ugly, but certainly awkward and pathetic.
A Smidgen of Doubt
It’s the night before our four-hour drive from New York to Maryland. Gene and I are coping with Abby’s nervous energy. She pees on the rug twice before we put her in a crate. She alternates between cowering in the crate and running in circles through the apartment. She is low to the ground and runs with a rat-like furtiveness.
I have a pang of doubt.
Abagail exhibits the behaviors typical of a puppy-mill dog who has spent her life neglected and cooped up. She will need a lotta love to get over her nervousness. Gene has been playing Neil Young’s version of Lotta Love the last few days and the song is stuck in my head.
A Good Sign
In the morning, I walk Shadow, my newly adopted dog, along South End Avenue. We run into the girl who recognized Shadow from the Animal Haven website the moment Shadow and I stepped out of the car together two months ago. I took the girl’s recognition as the first sign that Shadow belonged to us.
I take running into that girl again for the first time since then as a good omen for Abagail’s future.
On the hottest two days of the century, we are working out the logistics of picking up and loading up rental car, who is going to sit where and how we will keep the dogs safe and hydrated. But finally, we are on the road.
Homecoming
Was there any reason to doubt?
—Where’s my dog? are my mother’s first words after we pull up to my parents’ house.
We make a few attempts to dissuade her from rechristening the dog Yankee Poodle. I suggest Fuji, because it is an apple and represents Japan where we grew up. My brother John suggest Cubbie, because he is a Chicago Cubs fan. Gene suggests Yanko The Dentist after an obscure early 20th Century comic strip called Sherlocko The Monk. This idea is immediately dismissed. Yankee she will be. Yankee’s crate is in the center of the living room and Shadow lies beside her.
The conversation is dog, dog, dog—a fun night for dog people. A trip to Petsmart in the morning and my parents are ready to get on with the business of helping Yankee adapt to her forever home.
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