Last year, when Loren and I were in Alabama, we met several people who said that the local shelter doesn’t adopt out pit bulls. I found this hard to believe, so I had to come back and find out the truth.

We left Louisiana on Wednesday, me sore from my volunteer work at Arno and kind of sad to leave behind my newfound friends. It was only 150 miles on the 10, where close to the state line in Mississippi, there was a full grown alligator dead and pushed to the side of the road. In pieces. Gotta love the south.

I had scoped out dog friendly places to eat before the trip and was thrilled to find Café 615 on Dauphin Street, which is the main street in downtown, a charming mixture of history and commerce, lined with independent restaurants and shops. Rounding the corner, we came upon a well-shaded, beautiful brick patio with just one other party eating there.

We took the back corner so Loren would have a place to stay cool. Our waitress Kelly brought her a bowl of cool water and laughed when I ordered Loren a cut up chicken breast.

“Really?” she said.

I nodded, looking down shyly. I realize this may seem frivolous to some.

“You’re so funny,” Kelly said. Turned out she was a dog lover and had many of her own, plus other critters such as lizards, cats, and guinea pigs for her kids. She was looking for a home for the puppy she rescued a few months before as she was moving in with a boyfriend who had two chocolate labs. Kelly had advertised the puppy in her local paper, but hadn’t had any hits yet.

“You’re not going to turn her into the shelter, are you?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I would never do that. That’s why I took her in the first place,” she replied. “If I can’t find her a home, then I guess we’ll just have a lot of dogs. A lot of dogs.” Smile.

The cook came out and asked if Loren would be interested in some roasted potatoes they had left over. I thought she would, but Diva actually ate every bit of her chicken and left all the potatoes behind.

"Potatoes? I think not..."

I, however, polished off my plate of an open-faced lump crab sandwich with creamy dill sauce and broiled Swiss cheese, plus a side salad of greens tossed with blueberries, roasted pumpkin seeds, gorgonzola in a light vinaigrette. It’s seafood country here and I am taking full advantage. The salad was for health reasons, but it was very tasty, too.


Yummy lunch at Cafe 615

Folk music played in the background. “In a Song” by Jim Croce, sappy tunes by John Denver, “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel. Inexplicably, I started getting tears in my eyes. Then “Imagine” by John Lennon came on and I started crying at the table, which caught me off guard. I had been enjoying the perfect weather, Loren seemed content at my feet, the food was delicious, it was a stellar moment of quiet happiness, probably the most profoundly so of the trip. Yet, it was mixed with sadness, too.

I thought of how fortunate I was to be able to travel here, my freedom supported by my boyfriend and encouraged by my friends, of meeting the incredible people doing work across the country to help the animals. It was them I thought of. We try to “imagine” a better world for the creatures we love so dearly, we take action to make it a reality, yet sometimes, it’s hard to visualize a time when the madness will stop.

Right now, I imagined, there were millions of animals suffering and I felt a heavy weight on my heart to tell their story and do them justice. All this ran through my mind as I simultaneous enjoyed an exquisitely beautiful reality.

As The Verve song goes, “It’s a bittersweet symphony, that’s life…”

*******************************

Mobile Animal Shelter is located off a main road in a woodsy area. I pulled up and found a shady spot for Loren, giving her water and double checking that I locked the doors, paranoid she would somehow get out or be pulled from the truck by an animal officer.

To the left of the shelter were several chain-link, shaded outdoor dog runs with dozens of dogs, mostly puppies, scampering about. Really cute puppies, lab mixes, fluffy border collies, shepherds and terrier mixes in shades of white, gold, black, and brown.

How much are these puppies in the kennel? Just $25 to adopt.

Stacey Hamer, their animal resources supervisor, came out to meet me and assured me that Loren was safe in the car. She had clear blue eyes and dark brown hair, an arresting contrast, and a shy, sweet smile. Stacey has been in rescue for more than 30 years and lives on a nearby seven-acre property called the Hallelujah Orphanage with her sister and a menagerie of animals: horses, dogs, cats, even an indoor/outdoor raccoon that shares a bed with her rescued pit bull.


Stacey's bedfellows (just in case you didn't believe me)

With just three months of employment under her belt at the shelter, Stacey has already helped to almost triple their adoption rate, often by networking with rescues. Mobile Animal Shelter is on track to adopt out more than 4,000 animals in 2010.

She walked me around the kennels and gave me the story on each dog.

“That one’s going to Long Dog Rescue. That one and her puppy are going to Lab Rescue. This one is being adopted on Saturday,” she said, stopping at a cage where an older, mellow black lab female was sitting demurely. “This one’s coming home with me. She gets overlooked a lot, but I love her personality.”

Stacey, the angel of Mobile Animal Shelter

The shelter takes in 30-40 animals per day and can accommodate up to 186, though the numbers can often swell to 200 or more.

“Since this is puppy and kitten season, we can place four or five in a kennel,” Stacey explained.

Their facility was built in 2009 and was pristinely clean, if a little austere, painted in shades of white, blue and grey. Kennels are about 3.5’ x 7’ with shiny new stainless steel gates and a dog bed, toys, and treats placed in each. Dogs get out several times throughout the day to be socialized in the outdoor kennels while staff clean, an efficient process thanks to the state of the art drainage system.

Border collies and lab mixes were the most predominant breeds. For some reason, she said, border collies had a harder time being placed in the area, but she usually found spots in rescue for them at the last minute, when necessary.

I noted the kennel cards and was thrilled that Stacey really seemed to know her breeds and wasn’t quick to label every other dog a pit bull mix, which is often the case at other shelters, which mistake everything from boxers to bull dogs as pits.

A blue eyed black and brown beauty was noted as a bulldog mix, as was a gorgeous fawn and white new mama playing in the back with the general population.


Proper breed identification can mean life or death


"Really? I'm going to rescue? Yeah!"

Stacey had confirmed that Mobile Animal Shelter doesn’t adopt out pit bulls to the public (the same policy applies for wolf hybrids and chows over three months old).

“It’s because of the population we’re dealing with here in the South,” she said. “There are people that come in and go straight to the pit bulls and say, ‘I want that dog.” I’ll ask why and they’ll say because it’s a pit. It goes back to protecting the animal. I can’t tell you how many come in here scarred and injured. We know what they’re used for.”

Stacey works with groups like Bama Bully Rescue, a non-profit foster network throughout the state that places shelter dogs with temporary families that then ready them for adoption.

Otherwise, it’s about a 95 percent euthanasia rate for pit bulls at the shelter, a statistic that breaks Stacey’s heart.

“I have been in rescue for 30 years and I have never had a problem with a pit bull. I’ve never met a bad one. In fact, I find them to be devoted, extremely intelligent, fun dogs,” she said. “I hate to see pits come in. The staff does, too. Our first comment is, that’s a beautiful dog, too bad it’s going down.”

She described the process, which is performed by a certified euthanasia technician, as being as compassionate as possible under the circumstances, a lethal injection that takes just seconds to end an animal’s life.

“Before an animal goes down, it is talked to and loved and given treats. They’re not just thrown on the table. The people here care,” Stacey said, tears forming as I broke down and cried, struggling to take notes. “We are judged and called dog killers, but we’re here because of what the public is doing. It’s their responsibility.”

Following the procedure, bodies are stored in a freezer until they are taken to a landfill for disposal.

“I don’t sleep at night,” Stacey said. “I ask myself every day why I, an animal lover, am here. I can’t stand the eyes of pain. But here, a lot of animals that would normally go down don’t have to. God gives me the resources so they don’t have to.”

All the bully type breeds I met, Stacey assured me, were heading towards rescues, whether that meant in Alabama or via transport to out of state facilities. She often buys them time beyond their seven day hold as strays or even shorter owner surrender periods by placing them in empty quarantine or observation kennels.

“Oh, we’ll get them out of here,” she said. “They don’t come in and go down on the same day unless they are sick or aggressive.”

Pregnant bullies hold an extra special place in Stacey’s heart. She is currently fostering one herself.

“These are the ones we have to make extra efforts for, so I really push our volunteers and fosters. I can’t let mamas go down,” Stacey said.

Because finances are so tight at the government funded facility, spay and neuter is not performed on outgoing animals, but rather is a requirement of the contract an adopter signs, to have their animal fixed within 30 days. Most people follow the rules, Stacey said, and her staff keeps earmarks on any adopters they even remotely suspect might be breeding with follow up phone calls and visits.

That lack of resources extends to the pit bull policy. As Stacey illustrated, if they had more volunteers or could recruit more rescues into providing their volunteers to perform home and background checks, she believes they could eventually make a real dent in the adoption of pit bulls in the area.

It’s part of her ever-growing improvement list and the shelter is aligned with a group called Mobile Animal Rescue Community Outreach to try and improve the pit bull situation, as well as provide mobile spay and neuter clinics with local veterinarians and set up a pet food pantry for owners who have fallen on hard times.

Stacey is currently working with local schools to provide humane education to students.

“We gotta start young and teach that animals are not toys or a throwaway commodity, that when a dog gets old like Grandma and gets arthritis, it’s not time to put them to sleep. That people need to love an animal until the end of its life. We’re really trying,” she said.

Stacey, a painter and geologist who used to work on rigs set against Colorado’s majestic mountains, said that she recently received a call from her former employer to come back, but finds that she can’t leave the shelter.

“I have to help these animals. It’s hard, but I won’t stop,” she said. “As long as there’s Clairol to cover up my gray hair, I’ll be here.”

"I hope you'll always be there for dogs like me, Stacey!"

********************

Deuce is one of the lucky ones. The blue pit bull is happily chewing his black Kong on the plush carpet at the Mobile home of April and Tony, a young married couple and a Bama Bully Rescue foster family.

The two-year old dog was rescued from a Birmingham Shelter after scoring well on a temperament test. A sleek boy whose coloring would be referred to as “gunmetal gray” in the automotive world, Deuce’s ears are mere nubs, a byproduct of a homemade crop job gone horribly wrong.


"Is that a Kong? A KONG?"

Extremely food motivated, the two-year old temporarily controls his manic juvenile energy to perform a trick that earns a treat and affection from his foster mom and dad. April makes him stay for what must seem like forever to the canine, who is almost trembling as she reminds him to slowly take back his Kong.

"Do you have my Kong?? MY KONG?"

“He used to have resource aggression, but we’re working it out,” April said. “He’ll be ready for a home soon. That‘s what we do at Bama. Prepare them for adoption, work out their issues in advance, so they‘re ready to be a part of their new family.”

Finished, Deuce promptly runs up and down the hallway, a whirling dervish of wiggly pit bull excitement.

“Deuce should really be a service dog or a search and rescue dog,” April noted. “He’s just such a smart boy.”

Tony and April agreed to take Deuce this January after losing their beloved fawn colored pit bull named Roxy in December. Roxy is enshrined on a pillow on the couch, her pink nose upturned, looking much like a solid caramel Loren and just as kissable.

“Roxy was my heart dog. I loved her more than anything,” April said. “Even my mother, who didn’t like pit bulls at first, came to love Roxy almost as much as I did.”

April and I had met earlier that evening at Zoe’s Kitchen, a fresh soup, salad, and generally healthy restaurant with an outdoor patio for Loren, who sat at my feet, tail thwacking wildly as the band at the wine bar next store started playing. My four-legged café society friend.

Loren soon attracted a teenage Zoe’s employee, who rushed outside to greet her.

“Aaawww, you are so cute,” the lanky blond girl said. “I just love you.”

April eyed her with a wry grin.

“Do you know what kind of dog that is?” she asked sweetly.

“No, I can’t tell,” the girl answered, hugging Loren, who had jumped on her legs. “She’s just sooo sweet.”

“She’s a pit bull,” April said.

“Well, she’s just great,” the girl said, holding Loren’s face in between her hands and smooshing her wobbly cheeks. Loren rewarded her with several sloppy kisses on the nose.

Fishing out a card, April handed it to the girl. “Here. I’m with Bama Bully Rescue. Pit bulls need a lot of help in Mobile. You should talk to your parents, see if they’ll let you foster one.”

I was impressed. We rescuers, always seeking the opportunity to educate or recruit, then striking whenever possible.

The girl took the card. “I’ll do that,” she said, bounding back to the restaurant.

April and Tony, both Alabama natives, are only one of two Bama Bully volunteers in Mobile, so she is trying to increase local participation in their program. She also fields calls from current pit bull owners who “need” to give up their pet.

“So many people do that, move without thinking of their dog. I can’t imagine ever doing that,” she said. “It’s like, hey dumb ass, you didn’t know you were moving? You couldn’t have found a dog-friendly apartment?” A roll of the eyes.

I laughed and wasn’t surprised later on to find out that blunt, tell it like it is April and I share the same birthday.

“Tony and I can’t have kids. I think God did that so I could serve the dogs. I can make a bigger difference in the world this way,” April continued. “It’s fine with me. Dogs are the best. They don’t tell me I’m fat. My nephew told me I was, but my dog never would.”

　
"You're the best, April!"


WARNING: NO GRATUITOUS CUTE SHOT OF LOREN TONIGHT. I'm mad at her. She won't snuggle with me anymore. I guess we've reached that point of the trip where she's over me. So, instead, here is a shot of me and Deuce. I know, I'm not that cute, but he certainly is!

The crazy and emotional bully show in San Antonio had left me exhausted, so I was happy just to get a good night’s sleep. Sunday morning greeted us with a fresh slate and we were ready to get the heck out of Texas and into Louisiana, where I knew great food was ahead. I was also excited about the prospect to meet more rescue people at Animal Rescue New Orleans, where I was scheduled to volunteer on Tuesday.

We stopped at the state line tourist/info center for a walk around the grounds and info on Lafayette and New Orleans. Last summer, we stayed in the French Quarter, this time we were staying in the Metairie/Jefferson area, so I picked up some maps on taking the back-roads instead of the somewhat soulless I-10.

Spring is the perfect time in the south, when the landscape is full and lush, but the humidity hasn’t crept into the weather yet. There was a small lake, where we lingered to take a few pictures.


"I'm on Gator Watch..."

A man was there with his son and I asked him to take our picture and quizzed him about gators, which I am not fond of, but knew were prevalent in this part of the country. Just before the state line, I saw a small alligator dead on the side of the road. I didn’t want to meet his angry mother or father.

“Well, this is gator country,” the man said. “If you want to see some, you should stop at the gator park on the other side of the highway. Good food there, too.”

Umm, no thanks. I don’t care about barriers and all that stuff - if there’s a chance, however remote, of becoming gator food, I’ll pass. And I don’t see gators as food, either, so no gator gumbo or poppers are on my menu.


"No gators here, Aunt Michelle."

The 400 miles went by quickly and we checked into our hotel before taking the three mile trek to Prejeans, one of my favorite restaurants from the previous road trip. Somehow, even with a GPS, I got lost and so took an impromptu trip through the neighborhoods in the area, which were quite nice, if you like a huge lawns and simply built homes or trailers.

At Prejeans, which was a lot louder than I remembered with its busy, cavernous dining room and a live Zydeco band, I ordered the fried green tomatoes and a bowl of seafood gumbo. One bite of the former and the miles became worth it. If you’re a sauce lover, like me, Creole or Cajun food just can’t be beat. The thick, crunchy, piping hot succulent tomatoes were smothered in a lightly spicy cream sauce laden with crabmeat for a truly decadent start. The gumbo was stocked with shrimp, crawfish, and large crab claws, which I sucked to extract the briny meat. Fantastic.

Unfortunately, they were out of pralines. The horrors. During our trek through the south, I could not find a praline that stood up to Prejeans, with its crumbly, buttery, melt in your mouth mixture of sweet and salty from the pecans. The next morning, I was doubly disappointed to find the kitchen wouldn’t put out any more until that afternoon. As we were due in New Orleans, I told my sad story (“But I drove all the way from California…”) to the hostess, who gave me a business card and assured me they would ship me some at my request. (I think I’m going to put in an order for pick on my way home).

The 90 freeway promised, according to the brochures, a glimpse of historic Louisiana, but it looked like much farm land and small areas of industry to me, until we made it to Franklin, which boasted a jewel of a find, Lisa Po’Boy Shop, an ancient little shack on the main road with the barest of interiors. The elderly male cashier rang up my shrimp order with gnarled yellow finger nails on the manual machine. Gnarled yellow business cards dated as far back as 1975, when the restaurant opened, were posted on the paneled walls.

I took the sandwich to go and ate it as we rolled along the small town, which looked kind of abandoned. I was pleasantly surprised at the hefty amount of shrimp tucked into the fresh baked, chewy roll, accompanied by tart bites of pickle, tangy mustard, lettuce and tomato. The shrimp was battered and had a faint Cajun spice amidst the crunch. It was delicious.

The bridges took us by ports where ships of all sizes were docked. Along the roads were a half dozen strip clubs or I’m sorry, Gentleman’s Clubs (though I don’t think a true gentleman would pay money to watch a desperate woman take her clothes off, but I digress). The locale made sense, though…get the horny sailors as they get off the boat.

Our hotel in Metairie was located near the airport and amongst strip malls. The suburban setting comforted me. We had a few hours to kill before check in, so I typed in parks on my GPS and came upon LaFraniere Park, which I had little to no hopes for, considering it was in such a bustling area near the highway.

Instead, as we made the turn, we were confronted by a hundred or more acre oasis of rolling green lawns, encircled by canals and dotted with benches for viewing. Swans and ducks serenely skimmed the water’s surface and hundreds of pigeons squawked near the bird sanctuary, a circular maize of walkways and bridges where families of all kinds cavorted. Little kids ran after chickens and teenage girls threw bread crumbs into the water. Couples laid on the benches, looking more into each other’s eyes than at the beautiful scenery around them, while Loren found a particularly beautiful spot to talk a break.


Lafreniere Park


"Was that a squirrel?"

We sat there, she and I, watching the water softly wave by and the weirdest black birds with short red beaks, half swan, half turkey, along with it.
 

As we walked back to the truck, a white goose wanted nothing to do with Loren and let her know in no uncertain terms, squawking and hissing as we ambled past. Forget pit bulls. I‘ve learned not to mess with angry geese. We quickly went the other way.

At 7 p.m., I took Loren to Animal Rescue New Orleans, where I was to meet with Charlotte, their executive director, and Traci, a volunteer for dinner. Loren was going to be kenneled for a few hours and her ears perked up immediately when I rolled down the windows and she heard dogs barking. To her, I imagine, it’s the sound of home.

Located in an industrial area, ARNO, as it is known, occupies a small warehouse full of crates, kennels, and runs, sheltering both dogs and cats. The rescue sprang up after Hurricane Katrina and has since placed more than 6,000 animals in their furrever homes.

“Is that good?” Charlotte asked me as we barreled along in her Mercedes station wagon towards our dining destination uptown.

“That’s amazing,” I told her. “The Brittany Foundation, where I volunteer, has placed about 1,400 dogs since it started in 1993.”

“Oh, that makes me feel better,” she said. “Sometimes I don’t feel as if that’s a high enough number.”

Though petite in height, Charlotte immediately commanded attention, with her olive skin, long, thick reddish brown hair pulled up in a ramshackle stack and cool black glasses. She had a husky voice and laughed easily. I would have pegged her for a New Yorker, if not for the faint Southern drawl.

Charlotte had hugged me when I first stuck out my hand and moved piles of towels, treats, and other assorted donations from her passenger seat in order to make room for me.

“What can I say? It’s a rescuer car,” she said and I giggled in recognition.

“I get it. You should see my truck,” I said.

“I drive fast, too,” she said, taking the corner of the winding street like a racetrack driver.

“That’s cool, I do too,” I replied.

I liked Charlotte immediately.

Traci was waiting for us at Cafe Atchafalaya, a young Crystal Gayle with long, shiny black hair, wide blue eyes and a charming Southern accent. There was live contemporary music, black clad waiters, white linen topped tables, and an incredible menu featuring fresh local seafood. My dining companions ordered drinks and I a mocktail - cranberry and club soda with lime - perfect for when it’s too late for iced tea and too nice a place for just water.

Rescue girls on the town - Traci (left), Charlotte (middle) and me

We decided to share a series of appetizers, starting with fried oysters, tender underneath their shatteringly crisp cornmeal breading and decadent, spicy sauce.

“You have to eat the whole thing at once,” Charlotte instructed. “There’s the oyster and it’s belly and it needs to be eaten together to get the full effect.”

I did so and rolled my eyes heavenward in satisfaction.

“That is so good,” I said. “That is incredible.”

Same for the fried green tomatoes, which were even better than Prejeans. Even the salads here are thoughtfully and creatively composed - fresh greens dressed in a light vinaigrette with sweet and savory candied pecans, shaved slices of pear, and pungent blue cheese.

Then came the freeform ravioli, stuffed with fresh, sweet lump crabmeat, sautéed shitake mushrooms and spinach, finished with a lemon butter sauce. Charlotte also let me have a bite of her crab cake, which was nearly all meat under it’s butter-rich crumb coating, sitting on top of a creamy, spicy red remoulade sauce.

“Oh my god,” I said. “Everything’s incredible.”

“Eating is a sport here,” Charlotte said proudly.

Traci, a Louisiana native, had been married at church down the street shortly following Hurricane Katrina. She and her husband had temporarily evacuated to California, but came back to the state Traci knew and loved to start their new life together.

“We figured if we could make it through the cross country travel and living with relatives and all the chaos, that anything else that would come our way should be easy,” she said.

It‘s impossible not to think of the hurricane when in New Orleans. It‘s left a mark, not just physically on properties, but on its residents souls. On the ride back, Charlotte told me stories about Katrina that made my hair curl quicker than the heavy Southern humidity.

She was a volunteer at Lamar Dixon animal shelter at the time and said there were thousands of displaced animals and humans that didn’t know what to do with them all. Volunteers would cut off old collars, to Charlotte’s amazement.

“’What are you doing?,’ I would ask them. ‘Don’t you know that could be the only form of identification linking a pet to its owner? Their only form of ID?,’” she rolled her eyes, taking a hit off her cigarette, politely holding it next to the open window so the smoke avoided me.

Charlotte has a bad back that requires surgery, but is too scared to go under the knife.

“Funny, though, during the storm, I was throwing 70 pound pit bulls over my back and it didn’t hurt,” Charlotte said.

A friend who temporarily relocated had asked Charlotte to check on her dogs and cats, after having to leave them behind during evacuation. Two dogs and many, many cats. It was a few weeks after the hurricane and Charlotte didn’t hold out much hope for the dogs, but reassured her friend that the cats were probably OK.

“She had high beams in her house, in the attic,” Charlotte said. “Sure enough, all her cats were perched up there. The dogs, though, they didn’t make it. It was really sad, because you could see paw prints above where the water had risen.”

She looked at me, brown eyes glistening. I shook my head in disbelief.

“The worst thing was when you would find a dead body,” Charlotte said.

“Human?,” I asked tentatively.

“Oh yeah. If you found one you were supposed to tie it to a tree or some place stationary so rescue crews could locate it,” she replied. “We called Katrina the great equalizer. White, black, young, old, everyone looks the same after you’ve been in the water for a few weeks.”

*****************************************

Like most rescues, ARNO was a hubbub of activity in the morning. Dogs know they are going to be fed and walked and loved on by volunteers and they can’t wait.

It was 9 a.m., and after reading the volunteer protocol about cleaning, feeding and walking and signing a release, I was ready to go. Loren was placed in the 10’ x 10’ outdoor kennel, with a big fan blowing on her. Her neighbors were Kaia, a sweet young golden mixed breed who didn’t like other dogs and Bear, a massive older black lab mix who didn’t like people messing with his territory, aka his kennel, which he lounged around in like a king, flopped out on a dog bed.

ARNO has several areas - the hallway leading up to the lobby/kitchen area is lined with cat cages, approximately 50, with felines of all ages and sizes and colors, some with special needs, clearly indicated by brightly colored signs. A woman from Colorado was cleaning out litter boxes and handling the feedings. She comes five times a year, one week at a time to do so.


Kitty love at ARNO

The cats were mellow, taking naps on their little hammocks or snuggled into their circular beds. Inside the dog kennels, things were a bit more hectic.

The routine was one volunteer took a dog out for a 10 minute walks, carrying poop bags so as not to offend the neighbors, allowing for another volunteer to clean their kennel with Trifectant, followed by water, and finally, preparing their daily meal, a combination of kibble moistened with a few tablespoons of wet food for flavor.

My first dog was Grateful, a brown and white pit bull with cropped ears that looked a bit like Loren. She was raring to go and off we went, down the street and across the railroad tracks, until we hit a large, grassy patch. Grateful immediately launched herself onto her back and wiggled across the grass, back and forth, scratching herself and rolling over multiple times. She was exalted.

It’s times like this that I truly appreciate dogs. Who knew what had happened to this poor girl, living in a crate now, awaiting someone to fall in love with her and provide a new home. In the meantime, she was going to make the best of the present and for now, that meant splendor in the grass.

After a few more walks, it was my turn to clean kennels. I watched as Lily was tenderly carried from her crate to the sidewalk by a volunteer.

“That’s a French bulldog, right?” I asked Jeff, the head volunteer who lives on the premises. Tall, in his 40s with strawberry blonde hair and tanned, freckled skin from the hard outdoor work he performs each day, Jeff had come to ARNO to help out after Hurricane Gustav, planning on staying for one day. Two years later, he’s still there.

“Actually, she’s a Boston Terrier,” he said.

“She sure is cute. She’ll get snapped up right away, don’t you think?,” I asked.

“You would think so. But she’s been here for a few months,” Jeff replied.

I sighed. “There’s no rhyme or reason to this, is there?” I asked.

“No, there really isn’t,” he said.

How could this cute, young, supposedly in demand, purebred dog end up a shelter for months? It’s crazy. I never can understand why some dogs get adopted and others remain for months, even years. At Brittany Foundation, I watched in astonishment as Frankie, a grumpy, yappy 10-year old Yorkie immediately got snapped up almost immediately by a family while eight-year old Miley Cyrus, an adorable Yorkie with wombat ears and the sweetest personality, stayed behind for another year until a foster family finally took her in.

After cleaning, it was playtime in the side yard, a long concrete, fenced in area where ARNO dogs got to frolic, city style. Victoria, a 16 year-old volunteer who resembled a teenage Christina Ricci, was a girl of few words but in obvious command of her surroundings, showing us volunteers how to wrangle Jackson, Carrollton and their five pups from their large kennel into the yard.

Carrollton had been found in the streets with a broken leg, lactating, which led the ARNO crew to search for her puppies, which were located just a few blocks away. Their owner signed them over and now three of the remaining five were in process of being adopted.n Like just about any rescue will tell you, puppies go quick.


Even I am not immune to puppy charms

Once in the play yard, the little black and tan furballs scampered about, making toys out of whatever they could find, plastic bottles, strips of cloth, playing tug of war.


Tug of war

They began jumping in and out of the pool, as their frazzled parents watched on.


"You kids are making me crazy!!"

“Jackson’s just their step dad,” Victoria explained in a low voice. “He was already here and they liked each other, so he’s part of the family now.”

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “She didn’t tell them until after the first date that she had five kids. Typical woman.”

We all laughed. Inside the play yard was Derek, a local teenager who originally started volunteering as a way to placate his family for being expelled from school, but who was now warming up to the animals, and Margaret, a retiree from Wisconsin who comes down twice a year to volunteer.

Maverick was next up for exercise. The big, black pit mix was an extreme example of the Loren school of walking - which is start, stop, act stubborn, and repeat. Except Maverick really didn’t want to move at all, no matter how hard I tried to coerce him. Victoria suggested I take him in the yard and play fetch.

Suddenly, this reticent dog sprung to life, running for the ball and bringing it back before gently dropping it either behind the forklift or near my feet, depending on his mood. He moved kind of slowly, at least compared to most pits I knew.

“How old is he?” I asked Jeff.

“Not that old, believe it or not,” he said.

I checked his teeth, which is a good way to gauge a dog’s age, and was horrified to see his canines ground down to flat little nubs.

“Wow,” I said to Jeff. “He was a bait dog, wasn’t he?” Bait dogs are used to entice fighting dogs to, well, fight. Most don’t make it out of that scenario alive.

“Probably,” Jeff said sadly. “We don’t know for sure.”

I threw the ball and watched Maverick retrieve it with gusto.

“You know what’s sad?” I said to Jeff. “In another life, under different circumstances, Maverick would be someone’s perfect backyard dog, happy to play catch and run around with the kids.”

“I know what you mean,” he said.

It was time for lunch. I drove a few blocks and saw T-Bobs, a slightly shady looking joint that advertise Po Boys and hot lunches. I ordered the shrimp and it was overstuffed with crispy little fried nuggets. Impatient, I ate it too soon and burned the roof of my mouth. It was my second injury of the day. I had acquired a large blood blister on my finger earlier that morning from misjudging the kennel gate latch. I was a piece of work.

It was now 1:30 and an entirely different scene in the kennels when I returned. All I could hear where the immense fans blowing. The dogs were laying on their sides, like overgrown snoozing cats. It reminded me of Brittany Foundation, after everyone had their walks or time in the dog run. It was nap time.

It was a very touching sight and I was happy for these dogs. Though it’s not as ideal as a home, at least they were being taken care of here at ARNO. For many, it’s a vast improvement from their life on the street or on the end of a chain or being tied up in a basement with just a cardboard box to do its business in, as was Arby, a rather spastic Cocker Spaniel that I took for an afternoon walk or Brenna, a small bully mix who had sparse fur growing back from an extreme case of mange and the reddest eyes I‘d ever seen, a result, most likely, I was told, from being kicked in the head.

Little Red immediately stole my heart. She was a condensed, darker caramel version of Loren, but just as sweet. Her low-hanging nipples indicated the life of a breeder. She was in isolation for heartworm and was happy to get out for a few minutes, also springing onto her back for impromptu back scratching, which elicited belly rubs from me. Pit bulls. Such shameless hussies and clowns.

“I love her,” I told Jeff. “She reminds me a lot of Loren.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jeff said. “Everyone else said that Grateful’s Loren’s twin, but I thought she was more like Little Red.”

As I washed up and got ready to leave, I joined Victoria briefly in the cat room. She was gently cradling Buzz Lightyear, a two and a half week old kitten, just having bottle fed him. He was the runt of the litter and, Victoria calmly informed me, had just a 50/50 percent chance of making it.

“I need to find someone to take care of him when I get back to school next week,” she said. “Maybe my school counselor will keep her in her office and let me feed him during my breaks.”


Little Buzz Lightyear in Victoria's hands

According to Victoria, she’s the only animal lover in her family. She spends every free moment at ARNO, spring break, summer, holidays and weekends. Victoria, who’s been volunteering at ARNO since she was 12, told me that she wants to be a veterinarian, a marine biologist or a professional clarinet player.

“If I’m not able to volunteer anymore, I’ll come back to ARNO and adopt the ones that don’t find homes because they’re dog aggressive or whatever,” she said in her shy, but assertive way.

I said goodbye to Victoria, who told me she wanted to meet Loren before I left. I went to the restroom for one last pit stop, then to pick up Loren. To my surprise, Victoria was inside the kennel with her, on the ground, hugging Loren tight. They looked very cozy.


"I love Victoria..."

“She’s special,” Victoria said.

“She is, huh? Of course, I think so, but then I wonder if I am biased,” I responded.

“No, she’s really different. She’s an awesome dog,” Victoria said, lighting up in Loren’s presence, a faint smile on her usually somber face.

“Yeah, I know. I can’t believe she got returned twice. I just don’t get it,” I said. “She’s got an application from a young chef in Los Angeles and I’m hoping the third time’s the charm.”

“Some dogs just take longer than others, but they eventually find the right person. Loren‘ll find hers,” Victoria said calmly, wise beyond her years.

Somehow her quiet conviction reassured me.


"Jeff and Victoria rock!"

* A special shout out to Richie at Corvette Automotive, just down the street from ARNO, who replaced my fuse and got my lights working again for FREE. That’s some Southern hospitality!

WARNING: GRATUITOUS CUTE SHOT BELOW

The parking lot was alive with hip hop music, buff, tattooed men and even buffer dogs, like a concert, only instead of drinking beer and chatting up chicks, these guys were showing off their four-legged property. It was 10:45 a.mand the American Bully Kennel Club show in San Antonio was just about to start up.

I was waiting behind a truck filled with massive pit bulls, their block heads and cropped ears peaking up from the crate in back of the bed. There were white ones and black ones, marked ones and brindle ones with spiked collars being dragged in the parking lot by their owners. They had the same markings of the pit bulls I am used to, but were way stockier, stouter, lower to the ground, their faces more impassive than curious, most slobbering in the budding Texas heat.


Waiting for the show to start

Cars boasted stickers with names of kennels - Bullet Proof, Kountry Boys - and in one case, an especially committed kennel had an elaborate mural painted on the back of their truck, immense bully heads in a swirl of color and intricate calligraphy.


Seen in the parking lot

I took a deep breath and grabbed my camera, not sure of how to play my role here. Should I be stealth, pretend I wanted to buy a dog, see where that led or just be honest, to a degree, and say I was writing a book about pit bulls? This I debated while in line, when a bully in front of me started throwing up clear bile. It’s owner failed to take notice.

“Hey man, your dog is throwing up,” someone casually said to the owner, a huge African American guy with short braids in a low ponytail.

“Huh?” He looked down, barely moving, as solid as an oak tree and just about as unyielding to movement.

“Do you want me to get him some water?” I asked, grabbing my keys and preparing to rush to my truck.

The human oak tree finally moved his dog out of line and brought him outside, where the bully promptly collapsed. With his owner rubbing its sides, looking blank, I ran to get water and Loren’s bowl. When I got back, the dog had got back on its feet, but was still slobbering. I poured some water, but he refused to drink.

“Here you keep the bottle,” I said and handed it to the man. “For later, if you need it.”

“Thank you,” the man said, almost imperceptibly. For a big guy, he sure was quiet. Maybe he liked to let his dog do the talking for him.

“No problem,” I said.

After a minute, we both got back in line. Outside, families were unloading from their trucks, with kids in strollers alongside dogs bigger than their contraptions. White, Hispanic, black, it was a genuine multicultural affair, with one look generally dominating for the men. Hip hop gangster. Low slung pants or shorts, graphic T-shirts, hats turned to the side, tattoos up and down arms, on necks, underneath eyes. For women, the look was either of soccer mom or hoochie mama, with lots of bling, low cut shirts, and in one case, laced up high heeled boots paired with short shorts. For some families, it was matching outfit time, with babies to grandmas boasting colorful T-shirts emblazoned with their kennel name.

Inside the convention center, it was pandemonium, with Tupac and Dr. Dre booming and a swirl of attendees crowding vendor booths hawking everything from thick leather collars studded with five inch spikes to puppies as young as eight weeks old.


For the well-dressed bully...


No, this is not an S & M show...and this is a stuffed dog, thank God

The smell was familiar to anyone who’s ever been to a large, indoor adoption event - musk, plus a mixture of urine and disinfectant and perhaps a touch canine fear - except this was stronger than anything I’d been exposed to. Dogs were paired up in cages and crates, some with barely enough or no room to turn around, stacked from largest to the smallest, showcasing puppies, most with cropped ears and spiked collars, on top. I saw poop stains and urine stains smeared across the floor, something that would never be tolerated at the adoption fairs I participate in.

There must have been 50 or more breeders there and their status was announced, like most conventions, with the size of their graphics and amount of technology in their booths. Some spaces had small, stark two-color banners and a few business cards strewn about, while others had floor to ceiling, full color banners and video displays, as well as plush, carpeted platforms where they would pull out their dogs and proudly hold up their improbable heads with thick, heavy chains.


Note the gang signs in the video


Bigger is better


A different kind of life on a chain

Even when I would try to be discreet and take candid shots of the crowd, if any of these dog guys caught me, they would immediately stop themselves and their dog and assume the position, crouching over and pulling their dog’s head up, then looking up themselves, macho pride spreading to the corners of their mouths and their eyes.


Assuming the position


The pupparazzi

I came across a man holding a big brindle male. Most of the dogs present seemed to be males, their balls intact, of course. What the hell, I thought, and approached him.

“I’m writing a book about pit bulls. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?,” I said, reporter’s notepad and pen in hand.

Instead of being reticent, Roderick of Smash That Kennels in Houston was more than happy to talk to me. He was there with his sons, ranging in ages from four to teenage and was an avid pit bull lover.

Smash That Kennels (Roderick and Petron on right)

“I’ve never fought a dog. My stomach couldn’t take it,” he said. “I’ve just always had pit bulls. They never bit anyone. A lot is in raising them.”

Roderick started breeding Razor’s Edge bullies, a very popular bloodline, about five years ago.

“We try to keep the bloodline exclusive. We don’t breed all Willy Nilly. We breed for temperament. We wouldn’t breed Petron,” he nodded to the huge beast by his side, “to anyone with an aggressive female.”

Smash That Kennels breeds about six pups per year, which sell for up to $2,500 apiece, and also provides stud service with dogs like Petron for $1,000 or more.

“That’s nothing,” Roderick said. “Petron’s grandpa on his mom’s side, I hard some dude paid $65,000 for him.”

According to Roderick, he does background checks on those who want to purchase his puppies and makes them sign a contract that requires a follow up in six months. He doesn’t see a connection that breeding bullies might take away the potential adoption of a pit bull from a shelter, where hundreds of thousands are killed every year.

“The type of people that buy my dogs aren’t going to go to the shelter. They know what they want and they can get it here,” he said.

Still, he has a soft spot for the type of pit bulls he grew up with, the ones that languish away or worse in shelters, and wants to open a rescue for them, rehabilitate them, and get them adopted out.

Ezekiel of Army of God Kennels in Mesquite, Texas is another contradiction, a breeder who rescues stray pit bulls and tries to find them homes while simultaneously producing up to 36 puppies per year, which he sells for $1,500 to $2,500 each.

He trains all his dogs, which live either in his home or with relatives rather than kennels, and takes them to schools and parks to educate people about the breed.

“Bullies aren’t mean, they’re real sweet,” he said.

He not only requires a contract from adopters, with a clause that they must spay or neuter the puppies, he won’t sell to single men.

“I don’t want them to go to fighters or backyard breeders trying to make money,” Ezekiel said.

When I asked how he felt about producing puppies when there are so many dogs dying in shelters, Ezekiel paused for a moment.

“I don’t really see it that way, but you bring up a good point. If I have a litter that doesn’t sell, that dog won’t get rebred. I won’t keep rebreeding. I don’t see the point in doing that,” he said.

As we spoke, a small, fawn-colored female was resting by Ezekiel’s side. Her name was Guera and despite her obvious sweetness, she was given an intimidating look courtesy of cropped ears and a collar with three-inch spikes.


Ezekiel & Guera

Ezekiel, a young active duty military man, Iraq veteran, and father of a three year old daughter, began breeding two years ago and feels that the name of his kennel has made inroads into reaching a culture that needs to hear a little more about God.

“This is a huge diversity of people here, white, Mexican, black, and when they ask me why Army of God, I say why not? Who’s the founder of us, who gave his life for us? Some of these guys are big time drug dealers or thugs and God has changed their life. I see it a lot. I see it making a difference in this community,” he said.

The one female breeder I spoke to, Laura of Throwback Bullies in New Mexico, began breeding four years ago and is now producing four to six litters a year from dogs like Raja, a smaller but still stout bully in the top cage in her booth.

Raja on display

“I’m not in it for the money, I’m in it for the dogs, to bring their reputation up to where it belongs,” she said. “I hope we’re making a difference by showing how you should raise a bully. It’s about pairing good owners with good dogs.”

Laura, too, makes owners sign a contract, thought she admitted to shipping dogs to other states and even as far as Canada. When I asked how she controlled the application process when she couldn’t meet the owners, she Throwback Bullies does background checks on everyone they sell dogs to.

“We hope they won’t be used for fighting. The starting price for our dogs is high. I can’t imagine anyone paying $2,000 for a dog, then taking them to a fight,” she said.

She was the one breeder who considered that she could be adding to the problem of pit bull overpopulation.

“I think about it every time we have a litter. It’s a hard decision to make. These dogs are what’s in right now. Ten years ago it was the gang style pits, that’s what you find in shelters now,” she said. “I hope it doesn’t turn into a thousand rescues for bullies ten years from now.”

I continued to circle the auditorium, getting a bit overwhelmed from the sensory overload and my own spinning head. Why didn’t these people see what they were doing was, in my opinion, very wrong, not only by creating a supply of dogs when millions die in shelters, but creating a monstrous-looking breed that appeals to an element that wouldn’t exactly further the reputation of the pit bull, if this demographic was typical of its fans and owners.

Lost in thought, I was pleasantly surprised when a young looking woman with long brown hair and braces stopped me with a flyer and started in with how many pit bulls were dying in shelters and how her organization, Product Bull, was trying to help them by rescuing and rehabilitating homeless pit bulls and taking them into schools and libraries for humane education. Her name was Michelle and she was a former bully breeder who stopped the practice after three years.

“In Brownsville, where I live now, the shelter takes in 30 to 40 dogs a day and 70 percent of those are pit bulls, which are put down immediately or pulled only through rescue. Other dogs are given three days for adoption, but pit bulls aren’t even given one hour,” she said. “We are trying to fight BSL. We believe people should have a license to own a pit bull.”

She also believes that the public needs to see the doctors, lawyers, grandmas and teachers that own and love pit bulls, not just the stereotypical gang-banger type so prevalent in popular culture.

“These people are all they see,” she said, waving her arms to her side, indicating the people around us.

Michelle noted only about one out of 20 attendees at the show would stop and listen to her spiel.

“They don’t care to listen,” she said. “They’re here to show dogs, gain points, and gain recognition. They’re not here to re-educate the public on how beautiful the breed is.”

Sure enough, the show was beginning. In the ring, which was lined with crowds of people, the huge beasts were being lined up and judged by a woman in a traditional black and white striped referee shirt. The judge walked up and down the line, feeling muscles, inspecting teeth, much like an AKC show, except these dogs weren’t exactly the well-trained creatures one saw there. They were being forced to sit and stay and seemed like they’d rather be elsewhere.

There was about six men and one woman competing and in the end, a solid brown bully took the prize. I think it was for best female or something, because each dog sported huge nipples, clearly indicating the life of a breeder.

I had had enough. As I headed out, I stopped at the rescue booth again to say goodbye to Michelle and to meet the other two organizations who shared the space.

One was ResQ Awearness, which produced a line of very cool graphic style T-shirts in the vein of Affliction and Sinful. A portion of the proceeds benefit rescue groups.

The second was Heaven Sent Pit Bull, a 501 c-3 which rescue, rehabilitates, and trains pit bulls to become AKC Canine Good Citizens and therapy dogs. Eventually, some become service dogs that are placed with the physically or mentally challenged. Sherrie, a single mom of three, ran the operation with the help of her children, including Hunter, who had sold me a T-shirt after his impassioned plea.

Since I hit it off right away ResQ Awearness co-owner Kathleen Mannix and her son Jake, I asked them to dinner. I hadn’t had any company in days and I always enjoyed hanging out with rescue people. I told them to invite Michelle and her husband as well as Sherrie and her kids.

It was about 2 p.m. and I needed to pick up Loren, who was enjoying a spa day at a local groomer. She came out with a bright, girly ribbon and a happy to see me expression. I kissed her on top of her fresh-smelling head and she reciprocated with a long lick on my nose.

That’s one thing I never saw at the show. People being affectionate with their dogs. Why would they, though? They were clearly an accessory, a status symbol similar to a sports car or expensive pair of shoes. They were not a pet or a companion animal. Once again I marveled that Loren, who has not had the easiest life, actually had it better than a lot of dogs I met across this country.

We met at Crumpets for dinner, which had a lovely outdoor patio and a heavily vegetarian menu. The night was perfect and I wore the free ResQ Awearness t-shirt Kathleen had given me. It was black, with an image of a dog who looked a lot like Loren amidst intricate designs and the word “awareness.” Kathleen and her sister had created the company just three weeks before, looking for a creative way to improve the pit bull image while helping rescues. I loved it.

Me, Loren, Kathleen & Jake at Crumpets

Kathleen and I ordered the vegetarian plate, which had grilled vegetables, pasta with sundried tomatoes and pine nuts and best of all, melted brie on crunchy bread. If there’s anything better than melted cheese and fresh, toasty bread, I have yet to find it.


Yummy veggie plate

Sherrie and her son Hunter joined us as we were deciding on dessert. Hunter quickly took Loren’s leash and asked if he could walk her. Though he was only in fourth grade, this was one strong, pit bull savvy kid and led Loren through the lush, grassy yards surrounding the property.


Hunter with Loren - what a cool kid!

His mother was in a quandary. The breeders at the show had gotten together for a raffle to donate money to her organization, but Sherrie didn’t know that they were raffling off a puppy. She felt guilty about taking the money, doing so only after meeting the family that had won and insisting on providing them with six months of free training.

“They seemed like a nice family,” she said. “And they really wanted a dog, but didn’t have the money for one.”

We assured her she did the right thing and Sherrie seemed to relax a little. In her low, husky voice, reminiscent of Alicia Keys, she told us she received about 100 calls a day, mostly from people trying to get rid of their pit bulls rather than wanting to adopt or get training. Sherrie did what she could on limited funds and a busy schedule.

All of the pits at Heaven Sent live in the house with Sherrie and her kids. Hunter came back with Loren, who promptly tried to jump on Sherrie’s lap and smothered her with kisses. Sherrie held Loren close and smiled, obviously right at home, while Hunter asked if he could show us a picture.


Sherrie, right at home with Loren on her lap

It was a shot of him, covered by a sleeping bag, surrounded by about ten pits of all different colors and sizes, all asleep together on the floor. It was beautiful.

“You never see photos like this on the news, but you’ll sure see something about the event today,” Sherrie said. “Or dog fights. We have about three dog fighting rings a week broken up in San Antonio.”

“Really?” I asked. “That’s horrifying.”

Sherrie nodded. “Yes. That’s why I bring my dogs to libraries, parks, schools, even city council’s office, whenever I can. We have to turn the image around for these dogs, show that they aren’t just gang dogs or fighting dogs.”

When I suggested putting together a positive pet fair, showcasing pit bulls doing things like agility and providing adoptions to the public, Sherrie looked at me wryly.

“Whoa, whoa, you keep saying adoption, but there aren’t any pit bull rescues here besides me,” she said.

“What about the shelters? Wouldn’t they want to participate?,” I asked.

Again, the cynical grin. “They don’t adopt out pits in San Antonio. Shelters make them rescue only and there aren’t any rescues stepping up, so they get killed,” she said. “They’re trying to ban them. San Antonio is not pit bull friendly.”

Wow. Every time I think I see progress for pit bulls, I hear something like this and it stops me in my tracks. I had to give it to the ABKC breeders. They had found the one way to get around BSL, by creating a sanctioned breed. Instead of saving the dogs that already existed, they just bypassed the issue by introducing more dogs into the world while millions died in shelters. It defied logic, at least mine.

All of us were exhausted from the long, crazy day and headed to our respective cars, lingering in the parking lot as we continued to talk. Typical rescuers. As I said my goodbyes, I confessed that my biggest fear while traveling was seeing a stray pit bull or a chained pit bull.

Sherrie shot me a look, eyebrows furrowed, sadness filling her dark brown eyes.

“I wish that was the worst thing that we saw,” she said. “We get calls on dead dogs. From fighting or neglect.”

Kathleen and I were shocked into silence as Sherrie continued.

“We bury them,” Sherrie said. “We try to give them a little peace and show them some love.”

For more information, visit

　WARNING: GRATUITOUS CUTE SHOT BELOW

I take back all those bad things I said about Texas. San Antonio is pretty nice, quite clean, green, and suburban. Right now, we’re at La Quinta, with Loren splayed out across the king sized bed. (It’s rough sleeping through all those miles, ya know). There are a few other canine customers on our floor and whenever they bark, Loren’s ears perk up, but other than that, she’s down for the count. I am right behind her, after finishing this and finding some dinner.

We’ve driven 1,500 miles in three days to get here, leaving Brittany Foundation on Wednesday morning and making it to Tucson around 7 p.m. Hungry for lunch, we stopped at Crazy Coyote Tacos in Banning. For being in the middle of the desert, these were some kick ass fish tacos - thick, rustic handmade corn tortillas enfolding crispy yet tender fish smothered in a creamy dill sauce and taste-bud tingling hot sauce.


Crazy Coyote's awesome fish tacos

There were also some scary looking dinosaur statues near the entrance, which like any good auntie, I made Loren pose with.

"Whatever, Aunt Michelle!"

In Tucson, we stopped at Mariscos Chihuahua for garlic shrimp and fries, recommended on Roadfood.com. I wasn’t impressed. After eating at Rocamar or La Tarasca in Sylmar, I guess I’ve been spoiled. Or maybe it was too much fried food in one day.

Like much of Wednesday, Thursday morning greeted us with rain, which followed us out until we hit the Texas border. I was tired from not sleeping well the night before, getting up at 5:30 a.m., which is very un-vacation like. The landscape between the two states reminded me of a combination of Utah and New Mexico, red rocks here, golden rock formations there, surrounded by miles of endless shrub and native plants which, since it is spring, were mostly green.

Prior to our departure, I purchased “Middlesex” a 21-hour audio book by Jeffrey Eugenides, which won the Pulitzer Prize. It’s an awesome “read” and has kept me good company, as Loren pretty much sleeps the whole time we drive. Combine that with an endless steam of Arnold Palmers and it’s quite a time in my old Toyota.

Consulting my handy GPS for a lunchtime restaurant in Las Cruces, New Mexico, I hit upon, get this, “The Pit Stop Diner.” So, of course, I had to go there.


How could I not go in, right?

The motif was Route 66/American travel and their menu featured Mexican and American dishes. I knew in the land of the chile it would be stupid not to try something native. So, I had my very first dish of huevos rancheros, with both red and green sauce. The red sauce had some serious chile bite to it, the green, mild and flavorful, melding just right with the fried eggs and rich, cheesy beans.

Tasty huevos rancheros ala Pit Stop Diner

On the way out, there were at least five feedlots with thousands of cows sitting, standing, or laying in their own muck. I had seen “Food, Inc.” on PBS the night before and it confirmed what I’ve been reading more and more about over the last six months. That is, our meat production in this country is not only unhealthy, it’s inhumane and something I am having a harder time supporting. Unlike last year, there will be no beef or pork in this blog, I am giving them both up and am working on a semi-vegetarian diet, with seafood and limited poultry. Which is a challenge when traveling in a meat-intensive region such as the south, but I am doing pretty well with it so far.

My mouth dropped as we entered El Paso. To my right was a hilltop shantytown, to the left, hotels, highways, stores, and the usual American surroundings. I hadn’t realized we were on the border of Juarez, Mexico. It reminded me of Jamaica, where one side shows the abject poverty of that country, the other, luxurious trappings built for tourists. We were stopped at border patrol and passed through without inspection. I am about as white as they come, after all, and they didn’t even look in the back seat at my travel companion.

We settled in Stockton around 5 p.m., which was actually 7 p.m. Texas time. Our Motel 6 was a pleasant surprise, updated from the usual hyper tropical tackiness into a more sedate, sophisticated palette of orange, beige, brown, and white, with faux bamboo floors and a circular shower. I fed Loren in the room, then myself at Pepito’s Diner up the street, and had a stellar, fresh chile relleno and mild green enchilada.

With only 313 miles to drive today, we slept in and left at 9:30, stopping in Junction around noon. This town is a throwback to the 70s, with cars, motels, and homes from that era and drive-thrus with names like “The Milky Way.” They also have huge, lush green unfenced yards, where I saw a fat chocolate lab happily scampering about, as we made our way to Schrier Park for a walk by the lake.

Schrier Lake in Junction, TX

It was a perfect spring day, just the right amount of sun touching upon my bare arms, with a bit of a breeze in the air. Loren sniffed happily along the lake, taking frequent breaks as she pleased, taking the time to literally stop and smell the flowers. She looked so cute in her little pink bandanna, the tough-looking girl daintily crossing her paws and taking in the scenery around her.


"Gotta stop and smell the flowers..."

I stopped at the Flour Power Bakery and Café for lunch, which, thankfully, had a large vegetarian menu. The grilled veggie panini was served on tender yet crisp homemade flatbread, its contents held together by a thick layer of melted cheese and accompanied by a delicious side Greek salad with homemade dressing. Of course, being in a bakery, I would be remiss not to have dessert and so enjoyed a chocolate ganache cake ball, basically, an intense, truffle-like object that I finished off in four bites. A perfect little sweet ending to the meal.

The reason we’re in San Antonio is to attend the ABKC Bully Show tomorrow. Well, at least I am. Loren will be getting a bath while I try to navigate this foreign land of breeders and get a grasp of their culture. As an avid rescuer, I’m not sure how I can keep my cool around people that I believe significantly contribute to the problems facing pit bulls in this country, but I am also a journalist. That means finding the story and telling it, even when I don’t agree with it. Wish me luck.

WARNING: GRATUITOUS CUTE SHOT BELOW