 Yankee (Pre-Season) A scruffy mop of a dog came to Animal Haven early last summer. She arrived from a puppy mill where dogs are over-bred, neglected and abused. Like most puppy mill dogs, Abagail was fearful and cowering.
I picked her up from the shelter on the hottest day of the year. I flagged down a gypsy cab and we took a bumpy ride from SoHo to Battery Park City. I heard small noises of unhappiness coming from the dog carrier.
The next day, Gene and I drove the shaved, pink-skinned girl from New York to her new home in Maryland with my parents. I sat in the backseat with our dog Shadow, and Abagail rode in her crate in the front.
Dad gave Abagail her new name, Yankee Poodle, appropriate for a poodle from New York. Since then, Mom and Dad concluded she’s not a poodle, but a Bichon Frise and I suspect she didn’t originate from New York. So what’s in a name?
 Staying in the Batting Cage The Second Inning
Over the next couple days, the bewildered Yankee Poodle would not come out of her crate. I did get her outside for a walk, but she could only walk in circles.
We discovered she loved chicken.
When Gene and I returned to Maryland in December, we found that Yankee had started the long road to recovery. She relished the parade of food and the soft quilts and how my mother spoiled her. Still, she was happiest in her crate.
Yankee put on some weight and she ate like a beast. My mom doesn’t call her Yankee, just “My Baby.” And Yankee is her baby.
Though Yankee wanted to badly, she didn’t leave the platform at the foot of the staircase. She danced at the edge when she was excited. But just when I thought she would step off, she pulled back.
Rounding The Bases
 Look at Yankee Now By February, Yankee weighed 26 pounds and had found her bark.
I suggested to my mom that she should probably not gain any more weight. Mom said she has gotten picky with her food. That’s what happens when a dog is no longer starving.
Yankee walks in a straight line and we discovered she loves massages.
My parents and Yankee are a perfect match. They have all the love and patience she needs.
-
-
Sonic
-
-
Laffy Taffy
-
-
Snoop Dog
-
-
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.
 Picture of Lily When I volunteer Fridays at 6:00 pm, final walks and final cleaning are the main agenda and we work fast. Walk any “Green” dog, the staffer says. (green = easy)
I leash up a newcomer, a pudgy, four-year-old Beagle, yet unnamed. A. says she calls her “Lady.”
“Lady” isn’t too interested in the challenge of the staircase.
—But that’s the only way out, sweetheart.
If she were any larger, I wouldn’t attempt to pick her up. But I do, and I carry her up the stairs.
—Lady, you just made the weight limit.
Lady and I walk down Centre Street, then cross Howard Street. Lady picks up steam in the crosswalk and I am grateful. Every SoHo street is busy. After starting up Lafayette Street, Lady tires in the home stretch. Standing still suits her just fine. With encouragement, we make it back home.
I put the Beagle in her corral and she launches a heart-breaking wimper.
A. tells me to walk Natasha next, so I head down the back aisle to find her. Natasha is in the corner corral, the one with the door too high to see over. Natasha’s info doesn’t indicate a color, but if A. told me to walk her, she must be a green dog. A. said Natasha, right? Right.
What if there is a big feisty brute behind that tall door?
I open the corral door and a small happy black puppy, maybe four or five months old, tells me she is very happy to see me. Her leashed up, with treats in my pocket, Natasha and I hit the SoHo streets. I give her a treat just for being adorable. Natasha never forgets for a second that I have treats in my pocket.
—It will take a lot of treats to grow into my big paws, she says.
I return for Lily, a small rambunctious Shepard Mix. She has one bloodshot eye, probably not from Lasik surgery. Her head is all brown-and-black and her body is solid white, like the head was pasted on the wrong body.
Lily is a handful. Forget the stairs, she wants to grab the leash, taste my sneakers and chew my pant leg. Lily and I struggle to make it down Centre Street. That is, I struggle. Lily could care less. But once we turn the corner onto Grand Street, we figuratively turn the corner as well. Lily’s walking improves.
—Dear God, she just stuck her head through the fencing around that tree.
Lily slips her head back out easily. Relief.
—Lily, you are not going near those fenced trees again.
I get help harnessing big, red Clifford. With a harness and two leashes, I feel like Clifford is a pony and I am the sleigh. This is my second walk with Clifford and I am much more comfortable with him today.
I check the AH website over the weekend. Nick is adopted. Natasha is adopted. Myrtle is adopted. Clifford, too.
Lily and Lucy—I’ll see you next week.
 Nick: The Cutest Boy on the Block A pattern emerges.
The animal shelter population is always shifting. This time, Lona and the last two Billy Joel puppies are gone. Tammy, the little girl missing an eye is gone too. She never appeared on the adoption website. The staff is busy and I don’t ask where she is.
But mellow Myrtle, the black Chihuahua is still around and on display in the store window today.
Nick, the soft Yellow Lab puppy, still calls the animal shelter home.
—Why are you still here?
Nick walks like a little gentleman-in-training while every other puppy walks like its the first time they have seen SoHo on a leash. The puppies—in front of your feet, doing a circle around you.
—I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to step on your paw, but you put it right in front of my moving foot.
The young ones run ahead and look back at you to say, aren’t you coming?
People on the street react to lush Nick like they spotted a celebrity. Two sets of people don’t just admire him; they want to adopt him. The shelter is just around the corner, I tell them.
Nick stops in front of a gold reflective door to gaze at his own image, and why shouldn’t he?
 Elmo, a skinny white poodle with a black Groucho Marx nose, kept pace with me so perfectly I had to keep checking that I still had a dog at the end of the leash. Elmo would be perfect for my parents, I think. Small, older, mellow.
I tell my mother about Elmo and she says absolutely, yes she will adopt him. She says, your father and I were going to look at poodles Monday. Coincidence? Or meant to be?
But Elmo had left the shelter for his forever home, which means another poodle waits somewhere for my parents to adopt.
Eager to help, I find a white poodle in an Ellicott City, Maryland shelter on a poodle rescue website. Just as eager to adopt, my parents drive over to meet him the same day. Sweet Delancy jumps into my Dad’s lap. They pronounce him perfect.
But two potential adopters applied for Delancy ahead of my parents and for the second time, they miss out. Many people seem to be adopting dogs, but the small mellow ones and the irresistible puppies are snatched up while bigger, older dogs linger in the shelters.
 Clifford and Namesake Wearing my purple volunteer shirt, I enter the animal shelter and admit I forgot all the instructions from Orientation.
I didn’t forget exactly. During Orientation volunteers, potential volunteers, staff and customers were milling around and weaving in and out of tight spaces. I couldn’t see much of the time. Orientation was like a typical concert experience for me—not made for short people.
New volunteers can only walk the easy-going “green” dogs. I am assigned to walk Clifford, a green dog in shelter parlance, but in real life, a big red dog. He is, in fact, a Mastiff Mix aptly named after the Scholastic mascot, Clifford the Big Red Dog.
Clifford requires a harness and a double leash. He bursts out of his corral and flies up the stairs with me in less than full control. I’m swimming in the deep end.
Clifford and I walk around busy SoHo blocks and I try to hold him close to me. Immediately, I notice respectful, admiring looks from people on the street. Guys nod their approval and not because I look great in my purple t-shirt.
I return to home base and M. tells me to keep Clifford upstairs; someone wants to meet him. A young woman in a smart trench coat drops to her knees and starts petting Clifford. A trench coat? This is a good sign. Isn’t Clifford the Big Red Dog a detective? I’m sure I’ve seen cartoon Clifford with a Sherlock Holmes hat and a magnifying glass.
The lady in the trench coat starts firing off questions and I admit to her that it is my first day and my first walk with my first dog. Even though I can’t answer questions about Clifford, she keeps asking them and I look helplessly toward the two staff members who are busy with customers. The lady starts addressing the questions to Clifford himself.
‘Would you like to live on five acres?’
Yes, yes, I’m sure he would.
‘Do you shed?’
Uh-oh. I look down and see three dog hairs on my jeans.
‘I think you shed, Clifford, right?’
Say no, Clifford! Say no!
In the spectrum of shredding, Clifford is low-end. I want to tell the lady in the trench coat that if she just touched my dog, Aimee, she’d have enough hair in hand to weave a toupee.
The other staffer, A. comes over and tells us both about Clifford. He’s a big sweetheart, she says. I can see that—Clifford is sitting like a prince and nuzzling his face against my jeans. But he has separation anxiety A. admits, but there are a lot things you can do to work on that. She runs through a list of tactics.
The lady in the trench coat decides to fill out an application but wants to bring her mother and sister to meet Clifford. Fair enough. I bring Clifford downstairs and put him inside his corral. He makes his separation anxiety known with the saddest howl I’ve ever heard.
When I return the following week, Clifford is still at the shelter, ready for his walk. If you get a chance, stop in and meet Clifford.
 G. and I are subjecting our Yellow Lab, Aimee, to the worst humiliation a dog can suffer–the cone.
Aimee has a food allergy, the vet said. She has red rashes all over her belly that she scratches and two bald spots (perfectly symmetrical) on either side of her back where she has bitten. Therefore, the cone.
The latest cones are clear and seal with a velcro strip. But that doesn’t improve the cone experience enough for poor Aimee.
Aimee’s equilibrium has always been off and the cone makes her balance worse. Misjudging distance, she walks into doorways and furniture with her cone. She needs help jumping on the couch.
Earlier I posted that Aimee weighs 57 pounds. Correction: she weighed in last week at 86 pounds. G. says he and the vet were holding her on the scale and they probably got a misread. Aimee doesn’t look any fatter to me.
(Artwork courtesy of Gene Cawley)
 When you order stuff from the Internet, pay attention to the size.
I ordered this dog bed in Extra Large from Orvis, remembering that the largest size dog clothing rarely fits 57-pound Aimee. (Weight at her last weigh-in, not necessarily current.)
But I didn’t process the 50″ diameter specification. Think about 50 inches, take a tape measure to the floor area and see how it fits before you buy.
Aimee looks downright petite on her king-size bed. She reminds me of Lily Tomlin’s Edith Ann in her oversize rocking chair.
Aimee sure is happy though. And that’s the truth!
 Dogs, by nature, are prone to obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD).
Who hasn’t seen a dog circle a specific number of times before they sit? I don’t know if vets diagnose OCD as a disease the way psychiatrists diagnose it in humans (or how people self-diagnose OCD and label their neighbors with OCD).
Dogs embrace their OCD. Their behaviors bother only their human caretakers, not them. I think dogs are comforted by their tics and quirks.
Meet Aimee. She is our five-year-old Yellow Lab and she is classic OCD. She paces in the elevator. She can only eat treats in her special spot. She licks obsessively. She licks her paw and then changes position slightly and licks some more.
The result: she she leaves a perfect ring of saliva on the rug. A crop circle so perfect, you and I couldn’t have drawn it with a protractor. (Remember protractors, anyone?)
Maybe Aimee is just trying to tell us the UFOs have landed.
Even as an animal lover, I was horrified that the Queen of Mean left $12 million to Trouble, a white Maltese who lives up to his name.
But do the math –Mrs. Helmsley’s estate is worth from $4 billion to $8 billion. Her gift to Trouble is at most .003% of her estate. That’s 1/3 of one percent. If I left my little A. that percentage of my net worth, she would be begging for Kibble on a New York street corner. And Helmsley left all but $50 million to charity.
See? Its all relative.
Speaking of, Ms. Helmsley’s human relatives fare worse. Two of four grandchildren get nothing, and “they know why”, Helmsley states smugly in her will. The other two get less than Trouble, but the gift has sticky strings. They must visit their father’s grave every year or be cut off immediately.
Shouldn’t Helmsley want the grandkids to visit because they care? A forced visit is tainted. Even if they would have paid annual respects without prodding, each visit will reported by the New York Post, positioned as a homage to greed.
They remain under her thumb.
Was Helmsley afraid to stipulate they visit her own grave instead of her son’s? Since Harry, Leona and son are all housed in the same mausoleum, a visit to the son equals a visit to Leona.
Ah, but even if the grandkids hit financial skids, they can always move in with Trouble.
|
