You know you’re back in California when you start seeing billboards for medical marijuana.

We left Gold Beach, Oregon, this morning at 9 a.m., after talking a little walk along the shore. While not as scenic as the drive that proceeded it, there were still some breathtaking rock formations in the ocean, partially covered by fog, before we entered the never-ending Redwood Highway.

Trees that seemed to touch the sky. Lots of them. It went on that way for hundreds of miles.


The Redwood Highway

During the drive, I heard Daughtry’s “Home” on the radio and started to cry, remembering all the people and places we have encountered on this journey, as well as the family and friends who supported us to make the whole thing possible.

It has been an incredible seven weeks and through it all, my faithful sidekick Loren has been just about impeccable. I reached back and petted her on the head as she snoozed, her head on the pillow in the cab.

“I love you, boogie,” I told her. “I’m gonna miss you, but you’re going to have an awesome life with Cindy, your new mom, and your own home. No more driving hundreds of miles every other day. Your own place, for good.”

Blinking amber eyes stared back at me with their usual peaceful expression. Loren is such a love, I just know it’s going to take her no time at all to bond with Cindy. I’ll just be her cool aunt Michelle, who took her on a wild trip across the country. I’ve always wanted to be that kind of relative, like my own aunt Gigi, who took me to the Hollywood Cemetery on her Vespa scooter and the Hare Krishna Festival in Santa Monica when I was 10.

The redwoods soon turned into golden rolling hills with sprawling oaks. It was hot, too - in the 80s. No more coastal coolness. We were in Cali!

Going back to Cali, Cali, Cali...

On the southbound 101, just past the Garberville exit, I spotted two creatures running up the highway. It was a small border collie and a cattle dog. I pulled over and call them to my truck. They came at once, panting in the harsh heat, and happy to see a friendly human. They had collars, but no tags.

If I see loose dogs in a residential area, I tend to leave them be, unless they have tags, so they can find their way home, rather than end up in a shelter. In this case, there were no homes within miles, just lots of hot asphalt.

I called Nancy at Brittany Foundation.

“What do I do now?” I asked after telling her the situation.

“Call the police station or the fire station,” she said. “Call 911.”

My GPS gave me a phone number for the local sheriff station, but a voicemail answered, so I called 911.

“I found two stray dogs running up Highway 101,” I said. “I need to talk to the Garberville police.”

They connected me to the sheriff’s substation, which I found within a few minutes. I had put the dogs in the back of my truck, with a large bowl of water. Loren was unfazed by the commotion, happy to be in the air-conditioned comfort of my truck.

Once at the station, after meeting the officers, I noticed that one of their collars had phone numbers embedded in it. I left frantic messages for both and was told that they would be held in a small, local shelter until the owners were found.

I kissed the little black dog on the head and wished them the best, hoping I had done the right thing.

My phone rang two hours later. It was their owner, who was out of town. The dogs had been left with a friend and broke out of their backyard confinement. They were now safe with a different friend.

The owner was concerned because there was a third, a large white dog with black feet, that was missing from the pack. I prayed she turned up, but felt good that this story had a mostly happy ending.

"Thanks for the ride!"

We stopped in Ukiah so I could get some cash and the teller struck up conversation with me after I said I had lost my ATM card.

“Did you get it in the mail yet?” he asked.

“No, I’m traveling and it should be there when I get home,” I replied.

“Really…where are you coming from?” he said.

For the life of me, I could not remember where we had spent last night. Instead, I pulled out a postcard and rambled on about the overall road trip, that we were on our last day and heading back to Southern California tomorrow.

He took a look at our photo and was quiet for a minute.

“That looks just like my dog,” he said. “We had to put him to sleep last year.”

“Was he old?” I asked.

“No, he was only four, but he had lymphoma. He went from being 100 pounds to 60 pounds and couldn’t function,” he said. “It was the hardest day of my life.”

“I’m sorry,” I said with true empathy. Been there more than once and it never gets any easier.

“Can I keep this?,” he asked about the card.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Be safe,” he said as I left.

We arrived in Petaluma around 5:30 p.m., leaving me plenty of time for a 7 p.m. recovery meeting, which I desperately needed after going three weeks without, and to pick up dinner.

Here it is, folks…my last dinner on the road, an Asian shrimp salad from High-Tech Burrito in Petaluma, which I ate in the truck with Loren. Kind of anticlimactic, I know, but I needed to eat something slightly healthy after my Oregon pig-out sessions. It was pretty good, but I have to admit...salad is not my favorite meal.


Final salad

In our room, Loren and I played with a makeshift woobie, a packet of Kleenex, to release some of her energy. Poor thing had been in the car most of the day.

"Aaa haa!!!"


"You can't get away from me!"


"Gotcha!"


"Alright..."

Tomorrow, we head out bright and early. Home. For both of us. Different places, same meaning. A place where we can just be and be loved. For Loren, it’s been a long time coming. Her Independence Day.

Add seafarer to the list of Loren’s accomplishments. We went out on Michelle & Randy’s boat on Monday night and Loren handled it like a champ, not startled by the engines, nor the choppy water. She sat patiently by Randy’s legs, a canine skipper to his captain.

"Need some help, Randy?"

She even managed the metal grated ramp and rough surface of the dock with aplomb.

"Hey, I'm no dummy...I follow the food!"

We cruised briefly around the Everett harbor. The skies were clear, the sun was out, shimmering on the sea’s surface.


"Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate's life for me!"


"I smell seafood!"


Scene from the marina

Unfortunately, high winds made the water choppy so we docked the boat back at their slip to eat.

Michelle had fried up some local razor clams, which was paired with organic greens from her garden and her mom’s homemade potato salad. We cut up the clams with scissors, as they are too tough to tear into with one’s teeth. She and Randy had harvested them by hand on one of their many clamming trips.

Clams a la Vincent


The fantastic cook (right) and her appreciative friend

The Pacific Northwest life sure agrees with them and I find myself happy for my friend, if slightly envious. Besides the rain, living here must be really cool.

Loren and I continued our trek west on Tuesday morning. We drove through Seattle to Olympia and off to the 101, after glimpsing many empty logging towns. It’s sad, these little towns, which probably once thrived but now just looked empty and downtrodden.

After many miles of forest, we turned a corner and caught a glimpse of the sea below. Breathtaking. The Oregon coast looks much like Northern California - high, rugged cliffs with the sea crashing against them, then miles of sandy serenity, some cypresses appearing out of nowhere near the water. Gorgeous.


Scene from Highway 101, Oregon Coast


"Spectacular!"


"Whoa, that's a long way down!"

I had upgraded us to a king oceanfront room with a fireplace at the Fireside Inn and was delighted with the view from our front window. Black, flat rocks, the sound of surf, miles of trail. Perfect for us and the many dog lovers that stayed here - small dogs, big dogs, old dogs, they all enjoyed the endless trail that looped around ever-changing ocean views. At sunset, it looked "Wuthering Heights," without the romance or drama.


Scenes from our window at the Fireside Inn



This part of the trip has been about relaxing, winding down from our long adventure. I had looked at the atlas with my father while camping and was shocked as we added up the states we have driven through during our 50 days on the road. 29. That makes Loren one very well-traveled dog.

We went to Newport to view an old lighthouse. Loren went pee under a sign that said public restrooms and I smiled. She is anything if not polite. There was an awesome view of the bridge, one of many suspended over the ocean, an awe-inspiring man made sight against the natural background.

Yaquina Lighthouse


Man -made meets nature

I have finished two books, which I found at an awesome store called Half Priced Books near Mukilteo, and eaten many great meals, though I’ve been a bit scared to indulge in clams, as my mystery allergic rash has reappeared.

Still, when you’re in one of the great seafood spots in the country, you gotta have it. So, I had the Captain’s Platter at Luna Sea in Yachats, a small storefront with the freshest fish around - the owner catches it on his boat from local waters! The grilled halibut, scallops, and shrimp were delicate, spiced with just a little Cajun seasoning, and served up with hot crispy fries and refreshing coleslaw that boasted sweet, tart bits of apple within its depths.

Luna Sea


Captain's Platter

For breakfast this morning, I went to the Green Salmon, a funky, eco-friendly coffee shop that’s full of local hippies for “The Green Salmon,” a whole wheat bagel with Pacific Northwest lox, matcha cream cheese, ripe tomatoes, and piquant capers.

Green Salmon Plate from The Green Salmon

We brought it back to our room, so I could enjoy the last of our oceanfront view before we head off to Gold Beach, 172 miles away, for one night, then Petaluma on Friday night, before finally making it home.

On the way, I ate Green Salmon’s roasted mango cheese danish with toasted coconut. A thousand flaky, buttery layers surrounded the decadent, creamy center. Quite possibly the best pastry in the universe.

I am taking Loren to meet her new mom, Cynthia or Cindy, first on Saturday. Cindy is retired and lives in Valencia. She had seen Loren’s story in the Signal and put in an adoption application for her. Since she has owned a pit bull mix and a Rottweiler in the past, she is familiar with strong breeds.

“What made you want to adopt Loren?,” I asked her towards the end of our conversation.

“She just seems so sweet,” Cindy replied.

“Loren is a sweetheart,” I told her. “She is a very affectionate dog and likes a lot of attention.”

“Well, that’s good…since it’s just me, she’ll be the only one I have to give affection to,” Cindy said.

Cindy told me that she likes to travel a little, which is perfect, and that Loren will be able to sit on the couch with her at night and watch TV, which warms my heart. Loren is a total couch potato and likes nothing more than to snuggle with a person for hours on end.

Cindy already has a dog bed and a food dish for Loren, as well as toys.

“I saw from the articles that she likes her toys,” Cindy said.

“She does,” I said, touched.

I’m so happy for Loren. After two years in a kennel, she is finally going home. I’ll miss her, of course, but this has been my dream all along, that Loren finds her forever person at the end of our journey and I believe she has.


"What? I have a mom to come home to?"


"I'm so happy...finally!

After a good night’s sleep in our little makeshift home, aka Michelle & Randy’s trailer in Mukilteo, Loren & I drove to the Whidbey Island Ferry. I didn’t realize that we were supposed to be in the far right lane and accidentally tried to cut in line.

“YOO HOO! You need to turn around and get in back of the line,” the toll taker yelled at me.

Never having done this before, I was a bit embarrassed and a bit angry. It was unintentional. However, I’ve been taught to take accountability for my actions.

“Sorry about that,“ I said sheepishly when I pulled up to the same booth after 10 minutes of waiting. “I’ve never taken the ferry before and didn’t know how it was done.”

“Well, there are signs everywhere!” the woman said, with a phony smile on her face.

My own smile dropped. I hate it when you not only apologize to deaf ears, but are tried to be made to look even more stupid than you already felt.

She got the death stare from me and no response.

The toll taker looked at the magnets on my truck and Loren in the passenger seat.

“I see you do a lot for the animals,” she said, handing me my change.

“Yeah,” I responded flatly, after a pause, averting my gaze and holding my head up high. Loren has taught me this trick. Like, you have hurt my feelings and I won’t acknowledge you anymore. For her, it lasts about 10 seconds. For me, it can last up to 10 years.

There was a half hour wait, where we watched a drug-sniffing German Shepherd do his job and people get out of their cars for ice cream. We stayed put, not wanting to do anything else wrong or miss our turn.

It was strange to pull onto the ferry, which is basically a big, floating parking lot. When we pulled away from the dock, the sensation was one of not knowing if you were the one moving or watching something being moved away from you.


Scene from the Whidbey Island Ferry


"When does this thing stop moving?"

The ride lasted about 15 minutes, then we were on Whidbey Island.

My boss, Michele Buttelman of The Signal, has a part-time vacation home here, a charming farmhouse just blocks from the beach. I think I need to hit her up for a key next time I’m in the area!

Michele had recommended we stop at Seabolt’s for crab cakes, as they tout having the best around. It was about 38 miles from our ferry landing, which took us through woodsy landscape, small restaurants and business, and some gorgeous shoreline.

Seabolt’s was only 10 miles from Deception Pass, our ultimate destination. Inside, it was part restaurant/part seafood counter, with local fish on display and lots of happy customers eating fish and chips.


Seabolt's

I ordered the clam chowder and crab cake. The former was really delicious - rich, thick, stocked with a good amount of tender clams and potatoes. The latter was OK - a fat, puffy fried disc with shredded crabmeat and good flavor. After the Baltimore crab cake experience, however, it was something of a let down.


Crabcake & chowder

Tall redwoods began to appear as we neared Deception Pass, which also boasted a majestic lake on the way to the campgrounds.


Deception Pass Lake

My parents, Jim and Rosie, were already there with their two dogs, Annie and Sammy. I had warned them in advance that Loren wasn’t too fond of other dogs, as she had not responded well to Michelle’s English Setter, Cheyenne, when we tried to introduce them.

This was my first time meeting Annie, whom my parents rescued from an Idaho Falls shelter in February. She’s a cute little terrier, or terror, mix - feisty, funny, altogether adorable. Sammy, meanwhile, is an 85-pound golden shepherd or dingo mix my parents adopted from a litter of farm puppies in Colorado.


"Who's the new girl?"

He’s something of a gentle giant, though he can lapse into herding instinct on occasion and want to chase down small kids on bicycles and joggers. My mom has to be on guard when walking him, which is a challenge since she doesn’t weight much more than he does.

Sammy and Annie, experienced campers, were staked close to my parent’s trailer, so I placed Loren at least 20 feet from them. Sammy was giving her the eye for a while, partial curiosity, partial warning, partial lust perhaps? Overall, the canine campers respected each other’s space and barely bothered one another during our three days together.

"Hey Loren, this is how you camp!"



"What?"


"OK, I get it...zzzzzzzzzz..."

Michelle & Randy arrived later in the afternoon. Since they both are fisherman, my dad and Randy headed out for a quick trip to the lake while Michelle finished setting up camp. Randy must be a good luck charm, because my dad, who is notorious for rarely catching anything, brought back a trout, which he fried up as a snack.


Proud pops & his trout


As fresh as it gets...

For dinner, Mom had prepared spaghetti with homemade meat sauce, garlic bread and salad, while Michelle had made chicken marsala. I’ve decided that camping is awesome when you have someone a) feeding you great meals, b) letting you sleep in their well-equipped trailer and c) giving you tools and ingredients to roast marshmallows over the fire at night.

Loren & I slept on the pullout couch, getting our usual eight hours, snuggling extra tight. It was chilly out and a little damp.

"See, the trick is to get in bed first..."

The next morning, Michelle’s friend Kim arrived and we all went to the North Beach with Randy and Loren.


Beach girls Kim & Michelle

It was getting a little warmer, so Michelle and I got some sun at the beach while Kim and Randy went hiking. Loren, after sniffing and observing everything in her radius, finally took a nap under a shaded log.




Scenes from North Beach

When Loren arose, we went for a brief walk around the beach. A heavy, tattooed guy, probably a metal head or Aryan Nation member or both, who was with his family and a handsome bulldog looked over at us. I knew what was coming. The acknowledgement nod, something I experienced in high school when I saw another rocker type in the hallway. That almost imperceptible tilt of the chin, followed by slight knowing smile.

“Nice dog,” he said after the nod.

“Yours, too,” I replied.

I get more attention with Loren than I ever did with Jake, my black lab (RIP), who traveled many states with me. It’s something of a status symbol, good or bad, to walk with a pit bull. A slight edge. Especially if you’re a kind of secretary-ish white girl. Loren makes me feel secure and cool at the same time. Like, if I can handle this strong a dog, that somehow makes me tougher - perhaps a bit akin to the gangbangers that show off their burly pits to one another. Hmm.

Our evening was spent grilling, cooking, and enjoying each other’s offerings - mom’s broccoli and chicken casserole with fresh baked rolls (can you see where I get this eating thing from?), Michelle, Randy & Kim’s steaks and squash.

For dessert, Kim had brought along a double-sided flat iron to make what she called “pudgy” pies. 

“Rarely is food named after the effect it has on you,” someone observed.

“For good reason,” someone else replied.

Recipe: Take two pieces of buttered bread and in between the slices layer apple, cherry, or a combination of both pie fillings, then squash together in the iron.

Chubby gets the filling...

Then the press...

Kim and Michelle held the iron over open flame until the buttered toast was crisp and the filling nice and hot.


Then the flame...

Once relinquished from their iron prison, the pudgy was sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Delish.


Voila! The finishing touch!

Almost as good as the camaraderie and conversation around the campfire. After all our time alone on the road, it was comforting to be with family and friends that felt that way again.


Happy campers Michelle, Kim & Randy



The silly Sathes - Jim, Michelle & Rosie


"So, these two dogs walk in a bar..."


"No one can resist my charms!"

We worked a bit of the evening’s feast off on Sunday morning, when Michelle, Kim, Loren and I hiked a few miles near the bridge over Deception Pass, while my dad and Randy went fishing and mom watched the camp. Later on I read, my second favorite pastime on vacation (can you guess the first?).


"Put down the book and pet me!"

Deception Pass is amazing - the sound water blue and green, the woods lush, the sky expansive, the smell fresh. I was told this was one of the prettiest places on the planet and I believe it.

 
View from the bridge

Driving close to 1,500 miles in three days wore me out. That and a rash that I determined to be an allergy, which required Benadryl, made me even more exhausted. The 170 or so miles to Coeur D’ Alene felt twice that, but we made it.

I had planned on staying at a budget motel off the freeway, but once I got a view of Coeur D’ Alene lake, I thought, no way. If you’re here, you gotta do it right. So I drove along the east side, praying to find a cute little lakeview hotel for under $100 a night, so we could just sit and look at the water.

Bennett Bay Inn appeared just a few miles up the road. I pulled over and not only were they pet friendly, they had a room for us! It was $85 with a Jacuzzi. Each room was decorated in a different theme, kind of like a mini-Madonna Inn. Ours was “The Roman Room” with faux plaster walls, tiny Grecian statues, and plastic vines in every corner. The Jacuzzi had pillars. It had a fantastic view of the lake. It was perfect.

"Nice digs, Aunt Michelle...



Comfy bed, too..."


Before passing out for a long nap, we went to O’Shay’s, a quaint little pub and restaurant with a patio just before the entrance to town.


"I'm loving the patio life..."

Our waitress, Sarah, was afraid of pit bulls as she had been bit by one when she was 20.

It was her brother’s dog, or something like that, and it was old, blind, and not familiar with her. When she came in the front yard, he jumped up and bit her in the hand, requiring several stitches.

“I don’t blame you for being scared,” I told her. “But Loren would never hurt a person, unless they were trying to hurt me.”

Sarah still kept her distance, though she was kind enough to bring Loren some water and provided me with great service. What can you say to someone who had that experience? I don’t know if I could be swayed to believe any differently than she did, either. You have to respect everyone’s boundaries.

In the evening, Loren and I sat on the patio and watched the sun turn the lake a shimmering silver before disappearing.

Coeur D' Alene Lake

The Bennett Bay Inn had several Adirondack style chairs and benches for us to lounge on and we had the place to ourselves.


Back of the Bennett Bay Inn

Though I originally thought Asheville would be my top town in the US to live after this trip, I think it has been replaced by Coeur D’ Alene. What a gorgeous place.

The next morning, we got up bright and early, taking a long walk along the paved bike path that encircles miles of the lake, which is the site for the Ironman Triathlon.

A.M. Lake


"Hey, you're having a decent hair day, Aunt Michelle!"

The docks groaned in the water like beseeched animals at times, making Loren cock her head.

Docks on the bay...

She sniffed and even jogged a little bit, looking up in fascination as a women with a big blonde fro of permed hair skated by us or when bikers would whiz by from behind.

Then we headed out for the 37-mile or so scenic drive. I had stopped by Java on Sherman first for provisions - a bagel with lox and cream cheese, a massive blueberry scone, and an Arnold Palmer. The drive was amazing, offering a view of the incredible bridge that perched above the lake, as well as some dazzling waterfront properties and the many boats docked alongside them. Mountains and water…there is no better combo for beauty and harmony, in my opinion.

Scenic shot from the drive...

The two-hour round trip had me worn out, so we took a three-hour nap this time, Loren snuggled up against me. We awoke around 4 p.m., so we went for another walk before going back to O’ Shay’s for a dinner of Shepherd’s Pie and salad. The pie was delicious, a huge slab of rustic mashed potatoes, vegetables, and savory ground beef smothered with a rich brown gravy. It comforted my soul.


Shep Pie at O'Shay's

I got Loren a cut up grilled chicken breast, so she was pretty pleased, too.

For dessert, I had spotted a homemade ice cream stand called Michael’s, so I pulled up for a vanilla scoop for Loren and a cookies and cream with hot fudge for me, which we polished off in the car before heading back to our place.

The night ended with us in the Adirondack bench, Loren laying by my feet as I read, before we retired to watch Wipeout and crash. She really is the perfect travel companion. Never a complain. Okay, so she’s occasionally stubborn about where she wants to walk and it can be annoying waiting for her to go (already), but other than that, Loren’s been the best.

I
"Best Girlfriends!"

t feels good to be back in this time zone, heading home. We made it 335 miles to Mukilteo, Washington tonight, where we are staying with my good friends Michelle and Randy, as well as her mom, Vicky. They made us a dinner of fresh clam chowder and made us a home in their RV, which we’ll also be staying in over this weekend at Deception Pass. My parents are meeting us there tomorrow night.

Yeah! Family, friends, nature, and good food. It doesn’t get any better than this…

We left Indianapolis with no particular destination in mind, just as far as we could get in Wisconsin in one day. I was in particularly good spirits, determined not to let my occasional homesickness get in the way of the present. Time will pass nonetheless. I better enjoy every minute.

This spirit held up until we hit Chicago and got stuck in two hours of traffic. In the rain. Having to pee like never before. It was miserable. Despite having fantasized about a few ways I might be able to relieve myself in the car without getting caught, I couldn’t go through with it and pulled over to a grocery store.

By the time we made it to Tomah, Wisconsin, my caffeine buzz was gone and huge clouds were rolling in.


Hurricane? Tornado?

As I checked into our hotel, it started pouring fiercely. The clerk said a town 20 minutes away had quarter sized hail and we should brace ourselves. While that never came to pass, the skies never really brightened until the next day.

We headed out bright and early for North Dakota. I was coveting a cheese store across the road and couldn’t believe my good fortune when they were open at 8:30 a.m. Wisconsin is not only a very pretty state, it has entire stores devoted to cheese! That’s awesome.

Love me some cheese store!

I perused the aisles and settled on some cheese curds, a garlic beef stick, and some caramel pecan clusters called “Snappers.”


Decisions, decisions...



The winner!

Loren gratefully accepted my offers of the first two, which sustained us until we made it to St. Paul, the skyline poking out in the distance, becoming clearer as we came to our off ramp to the Tavern on Grand.


St. Paul, MN

What a neat city. Lots of mature landscaping, brick, iron, and a really nice college town feel, which I’ve come to realize, is my favorite type of city (like Asheville). I found a shady spot for Loren and headed to the tavern across the street.


Tavern on Grand, St. Paul

Of course, I had to order the pike, as their logo says “Minnesota‘s State Restaurant Serving Minnesota‘s State Fish.”

As I ordered it, I asked the waiter a question.

“If this is Minnesota’s state fish, why do you import yours from Canada?” I pointed to the menu where it listed this information.

He smiled. “The fish from Canada is consistent in size and quality. We can’t say that about the fish from our lakes, unfortunately,” he said. “We serve the most pike of anywhere in the country. Something like 2/3 of the pike caught is sold right here.”

“Wow,” I responded.

The waiter recommended the pike grilled (it also comes fried or blackened) and I wasn’t disappointed. The flaky, delicate fish was moist and clean-tasting, lightly spiced, and enhanced with a good dollop of Bernaise sauce. Rich and buttery. Accompanied by simple grilled potatoes and vegetables, it was one of the best meals of the trip.


Pike, glorious pike, at the Tavern on Grand

Feeling better about the world, we barreled on to Fargo, North Dakota and stopped at a hotel. They said they were booked and I was glad to have a reason to leave. It felt weird, all that open space, that nothingness, filled in with big box stores and restaurant chains. People were lingering about the hotel, smoking. The whole scene said tweaker to me. We moved on.

About 50 miles later, though I was still amped on too many Arnold Palmers, I came to my senses and found us a place to stay. I know that weird state of thinking you can drive forever - I once made it from Portland, Oregon to home in one day, driving close to a thousand miles, and felt like I was hallucinating over the last three hours. Better safe than sorry.

The Super 8 at sunset - Jamestown, ND

The only room available had a Jacuzzi, so I ponied up an extra few bucks and took it. It felt like kind of a waste on just me, but I enjoyed relaxing in the nice hot bubbles before calling it a night.


"Enjoy the Jacuzzi...I'll just hang here..."

Loren seemed to love me again. It took a little coaxing to get her on the bed, but she jumped up, stretching out, letting me rub her belly until I heard her snore and drifted off myself. Slept like babies.

Driving from Jamestown to Billings was a challenge, especially without a Starbucks in sight, but we did it. Wide open spaces. For hours and hours. Huge sky. Massive clouds. It was pretty, in its own way, but not very stimulating. Thank God for the books on tape that I had picked up near Tomah. I don’t know how else we would have made it through.

Of course, there’s also the exciting side trips, like seeing “Elsie” the world’s largest Holstein cow, looming over a small town. The entrance gate was deserted, so we drove up the gravelly hill to see her up close. She was a big girl.

Elsie & the Toyota


"Not sure I like the big cow...let's go!"

Hungry, I consulted Gidget and we ended up in Ulin, which was three miles off the highway. It was almost a ghost town, save the few cars and people in Annie’s Place, a little restaurant that seemed to have all the post-church action. These were farm folk, plainly dressed, drinking gallons of coffee and enjoying a chat. They stared at me when I walked in, like I was an alien of some sort, which I probably was. I imagine they don’t get too many visitors.


Hello? Is there anyone home? Ulin, ND

I had placed an order for roasted chicken, took Loren for a walk, and when I came back it still wasn’t ready - they hadn‘t even started it. “Forget it,” I told the cook/cashier/owner, who seemed grateful that I cancelled. The smell of grease lingered on me for at least an hour in the truck. I found a Subway later on down the road, which was unusually satisfying, in a familiar, comforting way.

The landscape changed towards the Montana border as we passed the off ramp for the Theodore Roosevelt State park. It was beginning to look more like New Mexico and Arizona, the flat, leveled-off mountains in a kaleidescope of colors - red, green, beige, even purple. It made my eyes happy. Little patches of water began to appear, too. Now it felt like we were heading West and home. The time zone changed, too, as did the atmosphere - no more humidity. Yeah!


Montana...



We stayed in Billings the first night, leaving the next morning for Missoula, but had to stop for an oil change at Corridor Automotive first.

It seemed we found the most dog friendly service station around. Loren was warmly greeted with pets, smiles, and enthusiasm.

“We love dogs here,” Tom, the manager, said. “I have five myself, all rescues.”

“I get all my dogs from the Prison PAWS program,” John, the owner, said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“They pair shelter dogs with women prisoners, who train them before they go into homes,” he replied.

“I love that,” I said. “What a great idea.”

“Yeah, it gives the prisoners something to do, something to care for and be compassionate about,” John said. “And the dogs that come out of there are fantastic, really well-trained.”

I took Loren around the block for 20 minutes while my car was worked on. The area was rife with rundown rentals and industrial buildings. We headed back to the shop, where Loren was presented with a bowl of water and some dog biscuits.

Tom’s wife Darlynn, a mail carrier, came in and saw my truck. “Think you have enough paw prints on there?” she asked, laughing.

When I explained what we were doing, she smiled brightly.

“I fought against the breed specific legislation they were trying to pass here a few years back,” she said. “I told them, as a mail carrier, that I had way more problems with poodles than pit bulls.”

“Did it pass?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said proudly.

“Right on,” I said.

Loren seemed quite at home at the shop, sniffing around, very curious, greeting everyone that came in.

“I think she wants to be your shop dog,” I told the guys.

They laughed and were happy to take a picture with her for our blog.

"Call me Shop Dog!"

On the way to Missoula, we stopped in Bozeman, another little college town with great restaurants and stores lining the streets. I spotted a patio adjacent to a funky little diner and pulled over to ask if they took dogs. They did, so Loren and I had lunch at the Garage Soup Shack.


"Another day, another patio..."

Considering the name, I had to order the soup - a rich, not-too-thick bowl of delicious clam chowder that had a little kick, along with a refreshing spring mix salad and a tasty grilled cheese with tomato and bacon sandwich. I snapped off the bacon ends and gave them to Loren, who, as usual, made herself right at home on the patio, charming the waitress and thwacking her tail like crazy whenever someone came near her.


Soup Shack Special

Snow-capped mountains begin to peak through the clouds and my heart lifted. I love that sight. It was cold, too, in the 50s and 60s, depending on whether or not you were in the sun, but I didn’t mind. Better than the heat.

After the 350 mile journey, we were happy to see our hotel in Missoula. There was a dog show going on, so we couldn’t have a first floor room - they were overrun with dogs and their owners! So, we went up to the third floor, Loren totally cool with both the stairs and the elevator.

As we went on our last walk of the night, a minivan with a traveling kennel towed behind it pulled up. There were five small compartments, each containing a spaniel of some kind, their people getting out to take them for a walk before checking in.

It struck me. The shelter dog was traveling in higher style than the show dogs. Funny.

 TOTALLY RANDOM PHOTO:

Gas station in North Dakota...or Montana...I can't remember anymore...

Is it me or is this a funny name for a gas station? Second only to the "Fit n Fahrt" - which cracked my dad & I up when we were in Germany. 

After our brief overnight in Charleston, West Virginia, we had a 400 mile trek to Indianapolis, where we were scheduled to meet with Christine, a friend of Stacey’s at Animal Farm, who ran the Indianapolis Humane Society.

Since we were heading this way in large part due to the breed ban in Ohio, I was horrified when Gidget was sending us towards a Cincinnati highway. So much so, I pulled over and actually consulted my Atlas. (Unheard of, for anyone who knows me well). I even asked a truck driver what to do, just to make sure I was on the right path.

The new route took us through Louisville, Kentucky, which looks like a really cool city. Lots of independent music stores, book stores, ethnic restaurants, and boutiques, surrounded by the lush Kentucky landscape and charming architecture. We stopped at Homemade Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen (!), which was in the Roadfood book, for a hummus and spring mix sandwich, as well as a piece of mixed berry pie, which I wolfed down on the Interstate. (Pretty good, but I would compete my own blackberry pie against it confidently).

Indiana wasn’t as flat or as dry as I expected. The rolling hills were less hilly, but the trees were still there. Loren and I rolled into town around 5 p.m. and stopped at West Park for a stroll. The area we stayed at, near the Pyramids, was very suburban and the park gorgeous.

West Park

A wooded path looped around a little lake, festooned with lily pads, ducks cruising along the surface. Loren, though hot, was fascinated by the new environment, sniffing along contentedly before the humidity took over. She took many a break, under whatever shade she could find. Taking her cue, I laid out too, for a few minutes and gazed upward. There’s something special the Midwest sky, so open, so blue, and today, big fluffy clouds abounded. It was beautiful.


"Break time!"

For dinner, I had to try a local specialty - spaghetti and chili - also known as four way with onions. That means meat sauce, cheese, and onions over pasta. It had a cinnamon tang, similar to what you find in Moussaka, which I found really tasty. I also ate a Greek salad, to balance out the damage.

The skies turned dark the next morning, when we went to Indy Humane. I was immediately struck by spacious play yard in the front, complete with a picnic bench and dog houses. Inside, the space was warm and inviting, cheerful even. We were greeted cheerfully by staff. Loren immediately made herself at home.

"Hellooo...I'm here!"

Christine gave me a tour. She only started there in December, 2008, but her passion and commitment were palpable, as Christine has been involved in the animal welfare movement for over a decade.

We looked at the cats first.

“The policy here used to be to euthanized cats with feline HIV, but we’ve instituted a new program and have adopted out eight since then,” she said.

Like all the shelters I visited, cat intakes were more than that of dogs, especially in the summertime, the peak of kitten season. Thought admittedly a dog person, I once had a cat named Pookie, a fat orange tabby I adored.

There was a young version of Pookie there, whom Christine interacted with.



My Pookie lookalike, getting TLC from Christine

Many cats were waiting in the back, until a spot on the adoption floor opened up.

Christine & the cats at Indy Humane

In the dog areas, I was happy and surprised to see many of the kennels empty.


A quality problem

“We had a huge level of adoptions this weekend and last,” Christine said. “We’re putting in calls to other shelters to bring their dogs here.”

One reason the adoptions were so high was a well-publicized puppy mill bust, which brought 20 survivors to Indy Humane.

“Those dogs were snapped up in no time,” Christine said. “Best of all, all our little dogs went with them, because of the publicity.”

Of the big dogs, a nine-year old purebred German Shepherd was one of the sadder stories. His owners, who claim they paid $15,000 for the dog and brought all his papers to Indy Humane, had surrendered him once they lost their home.

"Where did my family go?!"

On the opposite end of the spectrum, a trio of chocolate and black lab mix puppies played in an adorable tangle amidst their small crate.

 
"Hey, wassup?"

Thankfully, Indy Humane’s overall adoption rate is extremely high. Over 90 percent. Of the dogs they take in, approximately 10 percent or less are pit bulls due to their location as well as their demographic.


Indy Humane pit mix


Bulll breed? Hard to tell...

“Go to the city and the kennels are overflowing with pits,” Christine said. “We bring in a lot of them to Indy Humane, but have to be careful not to overdo it. Some of our long-term adopters don’t want to see high numbers of bully breeds. We have to keep it balanced.”

For the harder to place animals, Christine, a married mother of a three-year old adopted son, as well as four dogs, four cats, and fish, goes the extra mile.

“I’m up until midnight, looking at our inventory, trying to find foster homes, rescue groups, whoever I can find, to take our dogs and cats,” she said.

Several members of Indy Humane’s staff belong to a non-profit pit bull advocacy group called Indy Pit Crew, which provides training, free spay/neuter vouchers, and other resources to owners.

“We’ll offer people free dog food to get their dog spayed or neutered,” said Nina, Indy Humane behaviorist and Indy Pit Crew volunteer. “Whatever it takes.”

"Nina tastes good!"

Nina and Lisa, also an Indy Humane behaviorist and Indy Pit Crew volunteer, are proud parents of pit bulls themselves. Stella rides around with Lisa in her “Indy Pit Crew“ emblazoned SUV, cheeks flapping in the wind. Coal, a gorgeous gray and white bully taken during a drug bust, has a slight, silly underbite and awesome demeanor. So much so that his mama Nina uses him for temperament evaluations at the shelter.

“He gets along with everyone, he’s just a solid, solid dog,” Nina said.

Indy Pit Crew is just one way Indy Humane is partnering with the community to benefit its pets. Plans are in the works for a resource center, closer to lower-income target zip codes, that will provide pet owners with options other than turning their pets into a shelter.

Until then, Indy Humane is focusing on using online social networking, such as Facebook and email blast programs, to increase its visibility in the area and encourage its residents to adopt, rather than shop for pets. An “Adopt 500 Animals in May” campaign met its goal (slightly late, on June 4).

Tristan, Indy Humane’s communications manager, realized the power of online marketing before he went to work at the shelter. At his previous company, located in a lower income area, co-workers would often find stray kittens and dogs, especially pit bulls, in the parking lot and just beyond.

“I started posting them on Craiglist and also sending out emails to staff whenever a dog or cat would be found,” Tristan said. “At least a dozen animals were adopted out that way.”

We discussed the complex nuances of the animal welfare issue: education, low cost or free spay and neuter, providing owners with the resources they need to keep their pet, and what an uphill battle it felt like at times.

“It’s easy to preach to the choir,” I said to Christian. “It’s reaching those outside the circle that’s so hard.”

“Yeah, I know. A lot of people in this country don‘t understand why there‘s a movement to help homeless pets when humans are suffering, too,” Tristan said. “But I believe that we have to have compassion and recognize these creatures as the living, sentient beings that they are. Otherwise, what hope is there for us as a society?”

"I agree with you, Tristan..."

My feelings mirror Tristan’s. When we turn domesticated animals away or dump them or mistreat them, we not only violate their trust and right to a decent life, we create a far-reaching social problem with a shameful, unacceptable solution. The killing of millions of homeless pets each year.

I wish there was no need for me to volunteer at the Brittany Foundation or tour shelters with Loren on our road trip. I wish none of it existed. Unfortunately, like the abuse of children or the elderly and war and all the other horrible things in this world, the situation is manmade. All I can do is my little part to make things better. Be a part of the solution rather than the problem.

At Nina’s suggestion, Loren and I took drove to the downtown area and went for a stroll on the canals that start on 10^th street. What an oasis in the big city, the water calm and serene, surrounded by sidewalks and lawns on either side.

Scenes from the canals of Indy





Apartments and town homes faced the water. Couples walked by hand in hand, one lounging on a bench, the girl with her head in her boyfriend’s lap. An older man walked his small fluffy white dog. Joggers jammed by, Ipods in place. The scene was really peaceful, until a group of young teenage boys rode by us on their bikes.

One of them made a kissing sound when he spotted Loren. “I’d do your dog in the butt!” he screamed as his friends laughed.

OK, that was a first…and hopefully a last. I predict a lot of therapy in this kid’s future.

Craving something semi-healthy, I spotted a falafel place a half mile from our hotel and placed an order. As I waited, a man came up to me, commenting on my Indy Pit Crew T-shirt.

“My wife’s dog keeps having babies. I don’t know why,” he said with a smile.

“Well,” I said, trying to hold back my sarcasm. “You could have your dogs spayed and neutered.”

“Oh, I know. But my wife’s from the country and she’d never go for that,” he responded. “People in Rockville, where I live, want Yorkie puppies.”

“There are lots of great little dogs for adoption at the shelter, right here, at Indy Humane,” I responded.

“Yeah, but people don’t want to drive all the way out here and there aren’t any shelters where we live,” he said.

He continued to tell me about his dogs, his barn cats, the country way of life in general. I just stood there, growing slightly numb as one does during an unreciprocated conversation. Finally, the cook came out and handed the man his bag of food.

His parting comment shocked me.

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” the man said. “Things might change someday. It’s just going to take a long time.”

Hungry and tired, I took Loren for a potty break before going to the room. She was not ready to go back in yet, not only stopping in her tracks, but crossing her legs, too.

I was in no mood. After trying nicely to cajole her in the door, my food growing colder and my hunger increasing by the minute, I dragged her in.

Loren gave me a dirty look, a pout even, and for the first time on our entire trip, did not jump up on the bed with me when I called her. I tried and tried, but it was no use. She laid out on the floor near the foot of the bed instead. She was clearly over me.

I couldn’t help it, I was hurt. I cried. I was all alone. Thousands of miles from home. Without the comfort of my best canine girlfriend to get me through the loneliness.

I finally feel asleep, when the phone rang. It was my boyfriend, three hours behind in California.

“Loren doesn’t love me any more,” I said and explained the situation.

“Aw, you poor thing,” Wayde said. “You’re really alone, huh?”

“Yes,” I said sadly.

“Don’t worry, she’ll probably jump up on the bed in the middle of the night,” he said.

After we hung up, I went to the bathroom. When I got back into bed, there was a red and white lump laying near my pillow. I kissed her head and cried a little more. This trip was making me a little nutty.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

Niagara Falls was a turning point for us - literally and figuratively. We had gone as far east as our itinerary allowed and were turning back for California for the stretch home.

I hugged Loren as we got back in the car. “We did it, Loren, we did it,” I said, nuzzling into her soft muzzle. She was panting and slightly slobbery, but I didn’t care. “Thank you for being such a good companion. Thanks for putting up with me.”

Our next stop was Pittsburgh, as we had rerouted our path to avoid Ohio on the advice of Animal Farm Foundation. Ohio has enacted a “vicious breed” ban that apparently allows officers to confiscate dogs that look like pit bulls and euthanize them. I trust AFF implicitly and was happy to skip such an ignorant part of the country. (Breed specific legislation will be a hot topic in our book, when I have more time to research).

Pittsburgh was originally suggested to me by Rebecca Courtad, a volunteer for the Western Pennsylvania Humane Society. Rebecca was kind enough to sponsor me and Loren and became a friend via Facebook.

Unfortunately, she was going to be out of town when we arrived.

“I can’t believe I’m going to miss you,” she emailed me. “But there are several volunteers and staff that would love to meet with you and Loren.”

One of them was Abby Kirkland and her 11-year old son, Reid, who rendezvoused with us at Rita’s, a frozen custard stand in the Greentree neighborhood.

It was Abby who introduced Loren to frozen custard. The cashier had given her a small dish of vanilla for free.

"Hmm, what's this?"

“Are you sure it’s OK if she eats ice cream?” I asked like a nervous first-time mother.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Abby reassured me. “My dogs eat it all the time.”

Loren sure loved it, lapping it up like an eager kid on a hot summer day.

"More please!"

While Reid took Loren on a series of several small walks, I got to know Abby. She’s volunteered at the WPHS for several years, sometimes fostering, but usually playing matchmaker for prospective adopters and the available dogs. She, like a lot of volunteers, has a soft spot for bully breeds, which make up the majority of dogs at the shelters.

“It’s a tough situation,” she sighed. “They’re such great dogs.”

Abby often brings Reid to the shelter to walk dogs. He had an ease with Loren that belied his years, walking her with strength and controlling her with authority when a couple came to the same patio with a small black dog. He also fielded questions about her by curious patrons.

"Keep the love and custard coming..."

By the end of our date, she was sitting in his lap.


"Lap dog!"

“What a cool kid,” I told Abby. “I wish there were more like him.”

Since Reid had a pressing game of Capture the Flag to attend to, they bid us goodbye and we went back to our room for a long night of watching “True Blood” on HBO.

Our trip to WPHS coincided with the big Penguins Stanley Cup victory parade in downtown Pittsburgh, not too far from the shelter’s location. Surprisingly, we sailed through the light traffic and were early for our appointment.

A volunteer named Theresa greeted us with a big friendly smile. Loren immediately introduced herself with a big sloppy kiss and forceful hug, nearly knocking poor Theresa out of her wheelchair.

"Hi Theresa!"

“I’m sorry,” I said, pulling Loren off.

“No problem,” Theresa said. “I love all the dogs that come in here.”

Once Loren was deposited in the executive director’s office, Gretchen Fieser, the WPHS director of public relations and business relationships, gave me a tour. The WPHS facility is a large, open, two-story building painted in bright, cheerful colors, with appealing graphics and several kennel areas, as well as an adoption area.

Gretchen in the kennel area

WPHS, started in 1874, is one of America’s oldest humane societies. As an “open door” shelter, they take in all types of animals…and I mean all. Goats, chickens, rabbits, gerbils, even…

“We get one or two alligators a year,” Gretchen said. “The biggest one was about four feet. He lives at a sanctuary in Florida now.”

Approximately 14,000 animals come through WPHS’ doors every year, with cats making up the largest number of intakes. Some are feral, but many are owner-surrendered. Gretchen took me into their area, where teeny tiny kittens were in cages alongside more mature cats.

A young black cat pawed at his crate, meowing for affection. I scratched his head and felt the tears coming. Others just looked at me, wide-eyed. Every cage was full. I shook my head and got angry. How hard is it to take care of a cat, for Christ’s sake?

The reasons varied, as Gretchen read their tags. “Moving. Allergies. Kid left home and mom didn’t want to take care of cat,” she recited.

Next, we met the dogs who were in the intake area being evaluated for temperament. Just like NYC, it was bully after bully after bully. Black ones, white ones, beige ones, spotted ones, sad ones, friendly ones, young ones playing together, somewhat oblivious to their surroundings.

Pittsburgh pits looking for love...


for homes...


for a second chance...

“Pits and pit mixes make up 50 percent of what’s available on the adoption floor,” Gretchen said.

There were also shepherds, beagles, Sharpeis, and the fattest yellow lab I had ever seen. “Owner got ill and couldn’t take care of anymore,” read his chart.

All of the animals are vaccinated at intake and spayed/neutered if determined eligible for adoption. We witnessed the spaying of Shy, a beautiful brown female pit bull, at the onsite medical clinic.

The veterinarian was especially pleased to perform the procedure on Shy, since she was going to a home soon. “It’s always good to know they’re being adopted, especially the pits,” she said.

WPHS has seen an increase in the adoption of pit bulls due to their “Super Seven” program, created last July by intake team leader Susie Gilbert.

“There were just so many pits here,” she said. “We put together a dream team of dedicated volunteers who train them on the basics, as well as how to interact with other dogs. It just makes pit bulls much more adoptable.”

Since “Super Seven” started, 77 pit bulls have been adopted from WPHS and five are currently in the program. Volunteers don a “Super Seven” t-shirt at events around town and talk up the program, which has been featured on local radio, television, and print.

Gilbert has received requests from close to a dozen shelters across the country, asking for information on how to start a “Super Seven” in their community, which she is more than happy to share.

“What is it about pit bulls for you?” I asked Susie.

“They’re the underdogs. I always pick the underdogs,” she said. “They remind me of me. They have a rough, tough exterior, but once you get to know them, they’re real softies.”

Gretchen is in her seventh year at the shelter, Susie on her sixth. Ask how they keep going day after day in such a challenging environment and you get two very different answers.

“I have to focus on the ones who get out, on the successes, on the whole picture,” Gretchen said. “I can’t just focus on one.”

Susie pointed to a series of black and white photos taped next to her computer monitor. “This is my wall of shame,” she said. “These are the ones I couldn’t save.”

Susie & her wall of shame

The group included Whoopi, a sweet-faced female white pit bull who was returned to the shelter five times, mostly due to separation anxiety, before being euthanized.

“As much as she was my everything, I had to let her go. We have a kennel full of pits waiting for one chance, let alone five.”

While we spoke, a man was surrendering two pit bull puppies to the shelter. The unrepentant backyard breeder had sold four from the litter; these were the unwanted remains.

Disposable inventory

According to Gilbert, the puppies are far more adoptable than the shelter’s never-ending supply of one and two year old bullies.

“The puppies aren’t as scary to people,” Gilbert said. “Super Seven gives the dogs that normally wouldn’t get looked at more of a chance. We teach them how to behave appropriately in a kennel, so people are drawn to them, which is especially helpful if they’re black or plain-looking.”

One pit that beat the odds was Joey, a 12-year old, crop-eared black male graying at the muzzle who was surrendered when his owner went to jail. His new mama? Gretchen.

Gretchen & Joey

“It was love at first sight,” Gretchen said. “I was just struck by his face and personality.” Today, Joey accompanies Gretchen to public relations events, including an annual trip to meet employees at Saks Fifth Avenue and educational programs at juvenile detention centers.

Paco, a nine-year old male graduate of the Super Seven program, was recently adopted by a 67-year old retiree.

“We believe we can teach old dogs new tricks,” Gretchen said.

The women of Hello Bully believe they can give pit bulls a new image. The non-profit foster network/advocacy organization created their logo to include a friendly, iconic cartoon of the breed that will soon be featured in comic books and other educational materials.

“We’re hoping to get into schools with Hello Bully,” said Daisy, founder and freelance graphic designer. “It can make a big difference when kids come home and tell their parents, ‘I got to meet Hello Bully today!.’”

Loren and I met Daisy and Hello Bully board member Amy, at a funky south Pittsburgh diner called the Doublewide Grill. We were running close to an hour late, thanks to the maddening crowds cheering on the Penguins (the news reported later it was 375,000 people!) and were grateful that they waited for us.

March of the penguins fans

The patio was perfect for Loren, who made herself right at home with a bowl of ice water and lots of attention from Daisy and Amy.


"I'd make a great Hello Bully model!"

Hello Bully has a board of seven and 25 volunteers to fund their outreach programs that include free spay and neuter vouchers, as well as training and exercise resources that provide pit owners with the tools to deal with unwanted behaviors.

“If we can give people management techniques, we can avoid getting these dogs turned into shelters,” Amy said. “About half of the pit owners we deal with decide to keep their dogs.”

The rest are often fostered by the Hello Bully network. Amy has two pit bulls; the male is a therapy dog. Daisy’s pit pack includes Miko and Mizuki.

Funds for the programs and foster resources are raised by several small events and a new gala, called “Lovers Not Fighters,” which was recently held at a local restaurant and attracted close to 300 guests.

“We had lawyers, doctors, mechanics, and tattoo artists. It was a true melting pot,” Daisy said. “It was just a devoted group of pit bull owners lovers bonding over their affection for the breed.”

Their five-year plan includes opening a non-traditional shelter where adoptable dogs live in a home rather than kennel environment. They see it as a “halfway house,” so that the transition to being homed wouldn’t be such a shock for the dog or its new owner.

“Temperament tests and evaluations are done while the dog’s in a high-stress shelter, where they often fail,” Daisy explained. “We want to give them a better chance to succeed.”

Unfortunately, as Amy illustrated, it’s an uphill battle.

“Some people still have the impression that shelter dogs are defective, that they have to go to a breeder, even if its an ad in the Pennysaver from some guy that‘s doing it in his backyard,” she said.

“You can’t stop stupid,” Daisy said.

That night, Loren and I were contacted by another WPHS volunteer, Laurie, who offered to meet us for breakfast. The following morning, Laurie parked next to our truck at the hotel and made the mistake of leaving her door open. Loren jumped right into her car and proceeded to drive over to Panera Bread with her new best friend.

"Are we there yet, Laurie?"

The meet and greets didn’t stop there. Loren was soon enamored of Carly and Connor, two kids out for breakfast with their mother, who had stopped to talk dog with us for a while.


"Kids are cool!"

As I came out with my food, Laurie introduced me to another WPHS volunteer, whose name escapes me. She was dressed in a pretty red suit, having started a new job. Previously, she had volunteered at the shelter close to seven days a week, but found it increasingly difficult after one of her favorite dogs was put to sleep.

“It was so hard on me, much more than I expected,” she said through tears.

Laurie nodded sympathetically.

We ate our breakfast on the patio, so Loren could join us. Laurie, originally from Virginia and the proud mom of boxer-pit mix Mercer, has volunteered at WPHS for almost three years. It has its high points and low points.

“A few weekends ago, we had 80 owner turn-ins on cats in 48 hours,” she said in disbelief. “People were lined up around the block with crates in hand.”

Laurie said the shelter was working on some Trap-Neuter-Return (TNR) programs on feral colonies with help of willing Pittsburgh residents. This approach spays and neuters feral cats and returns them to their environment, rather than turning them into a shelter, which is a mark of almost certain death for the un-socialized creatures.

Pits aren’t the only ones with problems.

Loren & I headed to Charleston, West Virginia, next, a drive of about 250 miles. Having had such a good experience at Panera, we stopped there again at lunchtime for a long overdue salad.

On the patio were a college professor, Doug, and one of his former students, Charlie, discussing poetry and music. Doug took an immediate liking to Loren and offered to hold her for a while so I could eat. He and his wife rescued a Corgi and were looking for another dog.

"I am pretty cute, aren't I?"

Too bad Loren is a bit particular about her four-legged friends. She doesn’t seem to have any problems with the two-legged variety.

(For more information on the Super Seven program or WPHS, visit www.pahumane.org and for more information on Hello Bully, visit www.hellobully.com)

I was sad to leave AFF and I think Loren was, too. We walked around the pastoral property, taking in the sights and smells before I headed over to the office for breakfast.

“What’s your schedule like today?,” Stacey asked after I expressed my sadness.

“Nothing major. Just have to drive to Cooperstown,” I said. “About 200 miles.”

“Why don’t you stay for our training class at 1 p.m. then?,” Stacey said.

Yeah. This gave us time to get cleaned up, packed up, and head to town for lunch, as well as spend more time learning with Loren. We hopped in the truck and got ourselves a sandwich before class.

There were four other dogs in the training room, along with AFF staff and a married couple of scientists visiting from California. The husband, a geneticist, is working on research that proves a dog’s breed does not prove its inherent aggressiveness, which should go a long way in preventing or overturning breed specific legislation (BSL) that has banned pit bulls in places such as Kansas, Denver, and Ohio.

Loren took her place with Courtney, who brought her in the room last. She looked around with curiosity, just a slight bit of nervousness, for a few seconds. Soon, she was putty in Courtney’s clicking, treating hands, rolling around on the floor and barely noticing the other dogs around her.

"Just call me roly poly..."

Bernice watched Loren with a practiced eye. She began training pits after acquiring a six-month old from a shelter and being asked to leave obedience class because of her new dog’s breed. After eight years at AFF, Bernice has helped hundreds of pit bulls acquire the successful behaviors that gets them adopted.

“Loren’s a really good dog,” Bernice said. “She’s solid, comfortable, confident. For a dog that’s been in a shelter for two years, Loren’s really incredible. She’s home ready.”

"I think you're pretty special, too, Aunt Bernice."

I smiled like a proud mama…make that auntie.

Stacey had noticed something from across the room. Bear, a handsome brown male, was “flirting” with Loren, making eye contact, whining, and wanting an introduction. She suggested they go for a walk together.

"Who's that sexy redhead?"

Ashley and Stacey walked the dogs while I followed closely with a camera.

“We’ll just take it slow and see if there’s any interest on Loren’s part,” Stacey said.

Bear was raring to go, but Loren didn’t seem to notice him much. She was much more fixated on the goings on at the farm. Bear, however, was pretty firmly keen on Loren.

"Give it up, big boy."

“He so wants to sniff her butt right now,” Stacey said, making us all laugh.

Ashley held Loren with strength and ease as Bear made his approach. Loren looked at him with a furrowed brow, which was a slight sign of stress. They got within a couple inches of each other, but Loren wasn’t really having it. No aggression, just no interest, either.

There would be no butt sniffing today.

"So close and yet so far away."

One by one, we made our goodbyes. Pulling away from the farm, I smiled through my tears. We had made great friends. Another adventure awaited.

We drove to Cooperstown, where I had made camping reservations, in about four hours. The winding back roads gave me another opportunity to appreciate New York’s beauty, it’s fertile farmlands, the charming homes spaced amongst the acreage.

Since it was after 5 p.m., the park ranger had left. Instructions said we could go to the cabins and check in the next day, so off we went. The place was gorgeous - dense with trees, fresh air, rustic cabins. This would be a perfect resting place for a few days.

Unfortunately, there were no bathrooms. Or cell service. One maybe I could have lived with. Both were unacceptable. We hightailed it out of there and I frantically scanned Gidget for hotels in the area. Most of them were independent and I imagine, wouldn’t accept dogs.

Finally, Gidget came up with a Super 8 in Norwich, so we spent another hour driving to our new home. The hotel was located right off the highway, across from a dairy bar, and down the road from a charming little downtown area. This would do.

I stopped for a little carb comfort at Pasquales, an authentic pizzeria complete with brusque, yet sweet waitresses, talk of the Yankees, and accents I’ve only previously heard on “The Sopranos.” It was family run - the waitress called the wiry, tattooed gentleman tossing pizza “Pops.“ I loved it. The pasta with red sauce and sausage was delish, too. We drove to the dairy bar, got a soft serve, and called it a night.

The next day was fairly uneventful, so I could catch up on my writing and other tasks. Loren and I took a lunch break, ending up at Hot Diggity Dog a few miles down the road, where they gave her a free frank of her own. Nice people - rescuers with a Pomeranian from a hoarding case, five cats, several rabbits, and fish.

Niagara Falls was our next destination, some five hours away. We took our time getting there, taking in the small villages and towns along the countryside, where many cows resided and more than one operating tractor was spotted. For sustenance and motivation, we stopped at Dunkin Donuts for a large iced tea and donut holes. Not sure if America runs on Dunkin, but NY sure seems to. They are as ubiquitous as Starbucks in California.

The town of Niagara Falls was not as I expected. Instead of a natural wonder backdrop, it was more of a tacky, Las Vegas strip without the grand hotels look. Miles of motels, strip malls, and tourist shops. Even the entrance to the park was glitzy. Crowded, too. The parking lot attendant suggested we come back in the morning, which sounded like a much better plan to me.

For our nature fix, we stopped along the Water Fowl Viewing area overlooking the Niagara River and took a mile long walk. We saw just one duck, skimming across the water, but that was fine. The river itself was something to behold, as was the sky.

Niagara Falls River

After checking into our hotel, we headed 12 miles to Buffalo, where my Roadfood book mentioned a must-try hot dog joint named Ted’s. I was also on a quest for frozen custard at the behest of my Signal editor, Michele Buttelman, who insisted I try this delicacy before leaving the East Coast. Serendipitously, an Anderson’s was right across the street from Ted’s, which was hopping on a Saturday night.

Lines snaked around the tables, almost to the door. I could hear the sizzle of the grill and smell the tantalizing aroma. I ordered a chili cheese dog, onion rings, and a loganberry juice and took it to the table outside. A spicy homemade hot sauce added a kick to the dog and the onion rings were amazing, a tangled, crispy mass of fried goodness (or badness, depending on how you look at it).

Saturday night at Ted's


When in Buffalo...

The frozen custard at Anderson’s was a find too - creamy, silky, yet somehow later than traditional ice cream.



Icy cold yummers

We returned to our hotel. Tired from all the driving and annoyed at not getting to see Niagara Falls yet, I was a bit grumpy. That was when Loren decided to circle our hotel at least ten times on our nightly poop walk. She made all the motions and I knew it was that time of the evening (when you spend 24/7 with anyone, you get to learn their habits), so I was getting grumpier by the second.

“Damn it, will you just poop?” I asked her. “I’m sick of this.”

She just kept going round and round, sniffing, stopping, but no action.

Finally, I sat down on a curb, threw down the leash and started crying. I was exhausted. I missed my own dogs, whom Wayde had sent pictures of that morning. I also missed him, my friends, my mountain home. I was sick of the hotels, the checking in, the unloading and reloading, the driving, the inconvenience of it all, not knowing anyone. All of it.

Loren just looked at me, her front legs crossed, confused, her amber eyes blinking fast.

“Look at all I’ve done for you and you can’t even poop for me? Is that too much to ask?”

More blinking.

I took a deep breath and stopped crying. I had lost it. Poor Loren. She was such a good sport about everything and here I was yelling at her like a complete freak. It wasn’t her fault. She had the right to take her time and poop where she wanted.

She finally did. We went back to the room, a bit estranged. Loren stretched out on the mattress as I got ready for bed. I put my face close to hers and looked her in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m an ass sometimes. I appreciate your patience with me.”

She sighed and we snuggled up together. Never go to bed angry, right?

Wayde had told me that night that seeing Niagara Falls would change my attitude and it did. We got there early, around 9 a.m., always the hot ticket for tourist spots. There was a smattering of people, but nothing crazy like the day before.

You could hear the water before seeing the falls. The Niagara River below was seafoam blue, a rainbow perched in its mist. Around the bend, the falls pounded their way to the river below, creating several more rainbows.

 
The falls

"You've seen one natural wonder, you've seen them all."

I took a deep breath and watched in awe. Nothing like nature to put you in your right place.

The park itself was magnificent - acres of manicured lawns, smaller rapids and falls to admire, a bridge that led to the opposite side of the falls, closer to Canada, for viewing. We spent an hour checking out everything that allowed dogs (there were some exhibits, movies, and tours that didn’t).

Niagara Falls Park

Loren, of course, was much more enthralled with the squirrels that teased her throughout our walk than the falls. She wasn’t scared of the water or the sound it made, which made me really proud. The girl can pretty much hang in any situation.

"Forget the falls...was that a squirrel?"

On our way back, I noticed several dog owners enjoying the trails, too. An elderly man sat with his black cocker spaniel, enjoying the view and talking to the dog. I waved and he waved back, an unspoken camaraderie between us.

I spoke too soon. I don’t hate New York. Just New York City.

We were ushered out of the city by a ominous thunderstorm while returning from our Central Park morning walk. What started as a light drizzle under gray skies turned into big, wet splotches that stuck to my glasses and obscured my vision. Everyone scurried about under umbrellas as Loren and I ran back to our hotel unprotected.

“I haven’t seen it turn black like this in years,” I heard a man say as we tried not to slip on the streets.

Both soaked to the bone, we made it to the Novotel and walked through the elegant lobby with as much dignity as possible. In our room, I toweled Loren off tenderly and tried to laugh it off.

“We’re getting the hell out of here, girlfriend,” I told Loren. “Back to the country, where we belong.”

We were only parked 1,000 or so linear feet from the hotel, but it still took us 25 minutes to get back to the Novotel and collect our luggage. It felt good to be back in my truck, though. You can take the girl out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the girl.

Longing for some green, it was a thrill to drive out of the congestion and into the lush, open landscape surrounding the Hudson. I thought of the flight that landed there. That must have been quite a ride.

“Tragedy” by the BeeGees came on the radio and I sang along with the high-pitched parts, enough to make anyone’s hair stand on end. Loren barely gave me a second glance. She was sitting up front with me, instead of snoring away in the back, out of petting reach. I laid my hand on her back and smiled, settling in for the day’s journey.

Our first stop was to meet Christelle, a Best Friends writer, in West Hartford, Connecticut, a two-hour drive that took us through an upscale side of New England.

Christelle was waiting for us in the parking lot and gave us a big hug. She knew what we’d been through in NYC. We settled on the patio and Christelle watched Loren so I could get some lunch. When I got back, Loren had her arms wrapped around Christelle’s knees, giving her a hug.

“So, why did you pick Loren out of all the dogs at Brittany to bring with you?” she asked me.

It was a trip being the subject rather than the interviewer.

“She’s just such a sweetheart,” I told Christelle. “I had a feeling she really loved people and would be well-behaved and want to snuggle up with me at night.” Boy, was I right.

I went on. “My second choice was Buffy, a big, black Lab and pit mix. She’s just about as sweet as Loren and has lived at the sanctuary practically her whole life,” I said. “Still, Loren was always my first choice.”

“She is a very sweet dog,” Christelle said, patting Loren on the head. “This is the first pit bull I’ve really had any interaction with.”

Suddenly, Loren was straining on her leash and whining, a most unusual behavior. She had spotted a squirrel, the first of many during our lunch. It’s one of the only times on the trip that she got visibly anxious. Once the squirrels were out of the picture, she settled down and laid by our feet.

Christelle and I talked about the trip and her involvement with East Coast Dachsund rescue. She has a 16-year old Dachsund named Simon, whom she adopted at eight years old. “It took him a while to adjust because he was a puppy mill survivor, but once he did, he was a very happy dog,” Christelle said.

Two hours went by very quickly. This tends to happen when animal welfare people come together - never a shortage of conversation.

"Nice to meet you...wait...was that a squirrel?"

We bid Christelle goodbye and went on our way to Amenia, New York, to meet the women of Animal Farm Foundation, a 400-acre pit bull rescue and training center that had invited us to stay for a few nights. Their mission is to restore the image of the American Pit Bull Terrier and to protect them from discrimination and cruelty.

Crossing into New York from Connecticut, I was struck by the beauty of this state. Signs dotted the road, announcing that some areas had been established in the 1700s. The pastoral scenery was breathtaking, especially when we pulled up to the Animal Farm Foundation.

The picturesque property boasted a massive red and white main residence, with several smaller houses and barn structures placed throughout the acreage.
 

Side view of Animal Farm Foundation

I started pulling up to the main house when my cell phone rang. It was Stacey Coleman, AFF’s manager.

“Am I going the wrong way?” I laughed.

“Yes, you need to turn around and head the opposite way. We’ll be waiting for you,” Stacey said. I could hear the smile in her voice.

Three women were standing outside a grey, two-story apartment, waving us down. We got out of the truck and Stacey engulfed me in a big bear hug. I was going to like it here.

Our AFF welcome crew - Stacey, Courtney & Caitlin

She, Courtney, kennel manager and trainer, and Caitlin, assistant, fussed over Loren before showing us to our apartment, located under another employee’s house. It had a separate room with a doggy door and kennel for Loren, plus a bed room for us both to share, bathroom, small kitchen, and laundry facilities. Nirvana.

“Do you want to go on a tour or settle in? We’re having dinner at my house around 6:30,” Stacey said.

I opted to settle in as Courtney offered to feed Loren. She did it in a unique way, though, stuffing the wet and dry mixture into a series of Kong rubber toys.

“We like to make our dogs work for their food,” Courtney said. She used to be a dolphin trainer and has been at AFF since October. “This is a great enrichment technique for dogs who spend time in kennels.”

Wow. I’m going to have to bring this back to Brittany, I thought. Pam, the kennel worker there, is always looking for ways to keep the dogs entertained and this could be very effective. It was just one of many tips I was to learn over the next 48 hours.

Courtney drove us to Stacey’s house, located about 10 minutes away from the AFF property. She is the proud mother of Brisby, a handsome brindle pit mix. His Christmas photo was posted next to her speedometer.

Stacey’s house is a charming, wood-sided two-story that smelled heavenly when we entered. She was making lasagna and garlic bread. Yeah. A home-cooked meal.

One by one, Stacey introduced me to her pack of six dogs. Gertie came first.

“She hopped in my car eight years ago and changed my life,” Stacey said.

At the time, Stacey was working in Indianapolis. At lunch time one day, a co-worker was terrified to find a dog chasing after the fast-food sack in his hand. Stacey called the dog over and it promptly jumped into her car.

The dog was a one-year old female pit bull, suffering from mange. With hardly any fur to protect her, Gertie, as she came to be known, was bleeding from her skin, which was covered in sores.

“I had two dogs and couldn’t possibly take her home,” Stacey said, rolling her eyes. “So I took her to the Humane Society and told them to treat her for whatever she needed. I would pay for it and help find her a home.”

The humane society refused, slating Gertie for euthanasia and letting her suffer unmedicated in a kennel. Why? Because she was a pit bull and thereby unsuitable for adoption.

“One kennel worker tried rubbing bacon grease on her to ease her suffering, because that’s what his father had taught him to do,” she said. “He was the only who attempted to help.”

When Stacey decided to adopt Gertie, she was told by the shelter that she couldn’t because she had lost all rights when surrendering the dog. That’s when she brought in a lawyer. One week later, Stacey was the proud owner of her first pit bull, after signing extensive paperwork releasing the shelter from any liability.

Gertie has proven to be the soft touch in her pack, nursing foster kittens back to health and often acting as peacemaker for the rest of her dogs, including Franklin, a high-strung, very sweet Schnauzer.

“We call him the trailer park Schnauzer, because we don’t know what he’s mixed with,” Stacey said.

Then there’s Rudy, a black lab mix, and Josephine, a golden shepherd mix who inadvertently bit off Stacey’s pinky finger when she had to break up a dog fight. Oggy, a sweet little fluffy dog, constantly hugs your legs for attention, while Petunia, a fawn and white pit bull, shares a separate space in the house with one of Stacey’s five cats.

“The other dogs pick on her,” Stacey said. “But Petunia and the cat get along great.”

Six dogs, including two pits, living in a house with five cats? How did she manage that?

“The cats know they run the house. I never let the dogs get too aggressive or assertive with them, otherwise it would never work,” she said.

At bedtime, the dogs settle in with Stacey and her husband Mike in their room, all of them on the floor in dog beds except for Oggy, who scored a spot with the humans. The cats have free reign.

After the delicious vegetarian lasagna, salad, garlic bread, and coffeecake, Courtney drove me back to the apartment. I met Rich, who shared the upstairs with Ashley, his girlfriend and AFF trainer.

There was a warty, glistening frog near the door.

“He comes here every night,” Rich said.

Ugh. Afraid of pits? No. Frogs? Yes. I inched my way around the creature, hoping not to touch its slimy skin. Talk about the heebie jeebies.

Loren was happy in her dog room, having eaten half of the food out of the Kongs. While I got ready for sleep, she ran to and fro, in and out of the doggy door, which she guarded until I called her in the bedroom.

She immediately jumped on the twin bed, giving me approximately one-third of it to sleep on throughout the night. We snuggled tight.

I stroked her wrinkled forehead, making out the red and white markings in the twilight. She and I sighed at the same time. I love her, I thought. I’m going to miss her very much when this is all over.

The next morning, Loren and I took a half-hour walk through the property, watching a line of geese make their way into a shimmering pond to join up with the other birds gracefully skating across the water. I admired the rolling hills, the wide skies, the peace of it all.

"So much grass, so little time..."

At  9 a.m., I met Stacey and Caitlin at the office/training facility, which doubles as a house for a couple of dogs. Most of the dogs here have their own “room,” with a bed and toys, with a doggy door that leads to a large, fenced enclosure.

Vincent, a fawn and white male, just one year old, was out and about when I came in. A shelter rescue with big, pointy ears, Vincent roamed the office area excitedly, tearing into a squeaky, thrashing it about like a shark, stopping only for occasional affection breaks.

"I'll get you, squeaker!"

Ashley took Vincent into the training room and worked with him on a technique called shaping. For example, throwing an object on the floor and getting a dog to touch it without pointing to it, but rather giving the treats and positive reinforcement when they get anywhere near it. Eventually, the dog figures it out.

“Shaping requires them to think more. It’s a really good mental exercise for the dogs,” Ashley said.

"That was fun!"

Within minutes, Vincent was following Ashley’s suggestion of touching her right and left palms with his noise. Every time he did, she’d make a noise with her clicker and give him a treat.

Each treat has a value - low is kibble, medium is a chunk of dog food roll, and high is something really pungent, like dried liver, salmon, or beef. The stinkier the better.

Punky, a brown and white charmer, was next. This incredible girl can actually jump rope!

 
"You should see my double dutch!"

Training time over, we delivered Punky back to her room, which was decorated in a cheerful Hawaiian theme in a standalone building with a large yard outside the kennel. It even had a custom pit painting by Beth, an AFF employee, above her futon. Pretty stylish.


"Welcome to my pad!"

Courtney took us to “downtown,” which was a more traditional kennel setting, with wire enclosures inside and a place to potty outside.

“Some dogs are actually calmer in a kennel where they can see other dogs and have more stimulus,” she explained.

Scarface was one such resident, a one-year old male with a serious bulldog underbite and a lot of character. We petted him through the gate.

"You dirty rat...you  killed my brother!"

Overall, Animal Farm Foundation has about 20 dogs at any given time, mostly pulled from NYC shelters. These are some very lucky pit bulls, as AFF not only has killer accommodations, but they spend every day training, socializing, and exercising the dogs.

“We don’t subscribe to the myth that every pit bull is dog aggressive,” Stacey said. “Many of our dogs enjoy play dates together and can be housed with other dogs, should potential adopters already have one.”

Since we had plans to go into the city for an art exhibit and were leaving at 2:30 p.m., Ashley and Stacey had me get Loren for a brief training session in the office area. She responded very well to the clicker and was soon sitting on command.

"How's this, Aunt Stacey?"

Outfitted with a clicker and treat-filled pouch, after Ashley demonstrated how, I had Loren sitting and stopping to make eye contact with me in no time. It was shocking how easy this was, it just required patience and time.


"I see you, Aunt Michelle...and the treat!"

“This is a great technique for when you’re walking and she gets excited about another dog or distracted by something,” Ashley said. “You can have her make eye contact with you and get refocused.”

“What if you only have time to do this for a few minutes, three or four days a week?,” I asked, thinking of the Brittany dogs and how beneficial this could possibly be for them.

“Any time you spend doing this for the dogs is good for them. It not only helps make them more adoptable, the mental stimulation is tiring for them, which is helpful when they spend a lot of time in a kennel,” Ashley said.

I switched from my standard uniform of jeans, tennis shoes, and a hoodie to new dark jeans, my Kenneth Cole strappy sandals, and a sweater, topped off with my $5 “Pashmina” scarf for our trip to NYC. The SUV contained me, Stacey, Caitlin, and Bernice Clifford, the lead behaviorist at AFF, who supplied us with her trusted GPS, Sally. (Everyone seems to name their GPS - my parents is Barbie and mine is Gidget).

We were off to attend “Dutch Seen: New York Rediscovered,“ an exhibit of contemporary Dutch photographers at the Museum of the City of New York. Charlotte Dumas, one of the artists, had photographed several NYC shelter pit bulls, including an AFF rescue named Gretel.

First, we had dinner at Hanratty’s, a leather and wood neighborhood restaurant that has been in business since 1917. I had the Cajun chicken and pasta with broccoli rabe, not finishing much after scarfing down too many hot, fresh rolls with butter. The rest of the table went vegetarian. Unsurprisingly, many animal welfare workers and volunteers don’t eat meat.

“What has been the most surprising thing for you about AFF?,” Stacey asked me.

I paused for a moment. “I knew it was going to be amazing, but I’m just so impressed with how much time and effort you spend on each dog,” I said. “I didn’t realize the training was going to be so extensive.”

I thought again.

“That and how nice the facilities are for each dog. They have it better than a lot of people,” I said.

They laughed.

We had our leftover pasta wrapped up so we could try to find a homeless person to give it to. Stacey and I were on the lookout as we made our way back to the museum.

Turns out, she used to help refugees from other countries find housing and work when she lived in Indianapolis, including a Pakistani woman and her five children. Stacey took in the latter personally when the mom fell ill and was hospitalized.

“For how long?,” I asked.

“Oh, about three weeks,” she said.

“That’s a long time!”

Stacey shrugged her shoulders.

“Wow,” I said, impressed. “You’re a chronic philanthropist, huh? I mean, a chronic do-gooder…”

“When I see wrong in the world, I just can’t sit back and accept it. I have to do what I can to change it,” Stacey replied.

We left our pasta on a park bench, having found no candidates along the route. Inside the museum, the rich, the powerful, and the beautiful were mingling in a sea of Chardonnay and designer labels. Tall blondes with amazing bone structure abounded, as the audience was largely Nordic. It was like something out of “Sex and the City.”

I put my camera around my neck and observed through the lens, always more comfortable in the worker bee role than making any attempt to be social. Not in this crowd, anyway.

The photographs ranged from the whimsical to the sad to the serious. Dumas’ dog portraits were very powerful, illustrating the tough lives these dogs led in a single snapshot.

Onlooker at Dumas' exhibit

Stacey, Bernice, and Caitlin were all very proud of the Gretel portrait, which represented a Guardian Angel over the other dogs, as she had found a home and new life.


AFF's Bernice, Stacey & Caitlin with Gretel's portrait

The epilogue for the rest were a mystery.

As we read the artist’s biography and exhibit copy, the mood turned somber. In the text, was the phrase “many given up because of their aggressive nature.”

“Oh, this is unacceptable,” Stacey said. “I am going to get this changed.” (She did, the next morning. The museum took her call, apologized, promised to fix it, and even offered an opportunity to bring the AFF dogs up for a night. Score another victory for Stacey.)

An impromptu visit to NY Animal Care & Control shelter was next. Bernice wanted to see if there were any dogs there they might be good AFF candidates.

I struggled on whether or not to go in. I hate shelters. It always makes me cry to see the dogs in cages, many without any hope. In the end, I decided to accompany them. I am a journalist. I have to see things like this and report back my findings. Whether I like them or not.

A volunteer was walking a large brown boxer/pit mix on the street. I called over, “Handsome boy.”

“He needs a home,” the volunteer responded.

I smiled in recognition. Always working the adoption angle.

We went to the adoption area, which was located at the back of the building. First dog I saw was an older black pit with a scarred face, wagging her tail. Second dog I saw was a black and white pit. Third dog a red and white. And so on.

Pretty pitty awaiting adoption at NYC Animal Care & Control

At least 80% were pits or pit mixes. Dogs that look like pit bulls, as AFF likes to say. That can include up to 25 different types of breeds including boxers and American bulldogs. A playful chocolate pit caught Bernice’s eye.

Unfortunately, we weren’t done yet. Bernice led the way to the intake area. While there, we saw a woman taking home a mature cat and tiny little kitten she had adopted. She was very excited about her new family members, named Ginger and Bella.

A happy family at NY's Animal Care & Control

Down the hall, dogs were separated in a series of kennels for temperament evaluation, since they have to be determined eligible for adoption. Again, pit after pit after pit, with a few fluffy shepherd mixes thrown in.

Dogs awaiting assessment at NYC Animal Care & Control







There’s also a quarantine area for sick animals and lastly, a death row area for those scheduled to be euthanized. I only made it to the third door down, which had double decker kennels. An old black cocker spaniel was on top of a pit bull. I knew who would be more likely to survive.

I ran back to the lobby area, where I wasn’t the only one crying. A young girl, her lip pierced, was holding a stuffed Rottweiler, silent tears running down her face as her mother and boyfriend brought in a trash-bag wrapped dog. They were there to have their Rottweiler cremated.

A volunteer came over to me, bending down to look me in the eye.

“Are you OK?”

“No, I’m not,” I replied. “I just hate this.”

She nodded in sympathy.

“We are a horrible species,” I said. “Humans are a horrible species to let this happen.”

“I know,” the volunteer said. Her name was Megan. “I know.”

I sighed. “I really admire you for what you do here, though. I volunteer at a no-kill shelter because I can’t handle this.”

“Yeah, it can be really hard,” she said. “I’m signing up for the compassion program, but I’m not sure if I‘m going to be able to do it or not.”

Megan went on to explain that the compassion program is for the euthanasia-scheduled dogs, where they get to go for extra walks, have a nice dinner, and be doted on by volunteers before they are killed.

I sobbed harder. What a beautiful and ugly thing.

She also told me about the “Safety Net” program, aimed towards public housing tenants of NYCHA, or New York City Housing Authority, who have recently been ordered to turn in their over-25 pound dogs. Some feel it was just a cover to rid the area of pit bulls without instituting an actual breed ban.

According to Megan, pits were being turned into the shelter in droves.

“I have a lady who has two pits she’s desperately trying to keep. I told her I’ll do everything I can to help her,” Megan said. “We can often put dog owners in touch with legal resources and avoid them having to turn in their pet.”*

Our conversation was interrupted by a massive, golden pit bull mix dragging a cop into the lobby. He had a four-inch wide leather belt around his neck, a makeshift leash or chain that looked like it had been snapped off at the end.

"Got any food back there?"

“Yeah, we found him knocking over trash cans and breaking into stores, eating Vanilla Wafers,” the male cop said, struggling to manage the dog. “Poor guy. Happens all the time. People get puppies, then they don‘t want the responsibility, so they just dump ‘em in the streets…or they get free from their chains and run away.”

I watched the golden dog taken away by shelter workers, who were very kind and genial with him. Perhaps for some dogs, a shelter is a step up. At least they have, well, shelter, food, and attention. For however long. I prayed this awkward boy would get a second chance with a family that would love him, not treat him like a burden or a piece of trash to be disposed of.

"On to better things, I hope."

On the way home, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “I’m sorry,” I said through sniffles.

“No need to apologize here,” Stacey said. “We all get it.”

“What is it that’s specifically bothering you?” Bernice asked gently.

“How do you choose? How do you choose who’s going to live and who’s going to die? How do you walk through those kennels, knowing most of those dogs won‘t make it out alive?”

Bernice looked out the window, pausing before she replied.

“I try to look at it from a positive perspective. This shelter has improved so much over the last few years. They used to all be double decker kennels, with no protection at the bottom and lips on the edges that would often break the dogs legs when they were being pulled out,” she said. “The staff and volunteers have changed, too. They used to be somewhat indifferent, and now it seems like they really care.”

She continued. “It’s not just the conditions that have improved, but the adoption rates have jumped from 5 percent to about 45 percent for the pit bulls and 70 percent for overall breeds,” she said.

“That’s great,” I acknowledged, still sad.

The car was quiet for a moment.

“You can only do so much,” Bernice said. “At least our dogs get a chance at a whole new life.”

So did Loren, thanks to the Brittany Foundation. She was pulled from a high-kill shelter in Lancaster, California, just another pit bull scheduled for death, before being rescued.

At bedtime, I gave Loren the new woobie that Stacey and the rest of girls included in a goody bag for us. She snuggled right up with it and went to sleep.

  
"New friends and a new woobie...life is good...nighty night..."

*For more information, visit www.nycacc.org/safetynet.htm or call (917) 468-2938.

You know this shirts with “I (Heart) New York?” They should make one with “I (Unhappy Face) New York,” just for me.

This place is insane! Besides the $20 worth of tolls it takes to get here from Philadelphia and the never-ending $8 Holland Tunnel and the rude drivers and impenetrable throngs of people, there is absolutely no grass in this city! Where is a girl like Loren to do her business?

Before actually arriving in Manhattan, I got all teary-eyed when we saw the skyline from the highway. I never really thought I would make it here, all the way from California. There’s something magnificent about those skyscrapers poking their way heavenward, a sense of promise and excitement. Knowing that so many people started their American journey here from other countries.

Start spreading the news...Michelle & Loren are in NYC!

After going through the long, dark Holland Tunnel, where I was the only person (dork) who honked, we made some twists and turns and were quickly on Broadway and in the thick of things. The streets were teeming with people, coming from every direction, of every shape, size, and nationality. Never have I seen such crowds, not at the U2 concert at Dodger Stadium, not at Santa Monica Beach on the most perfect day, not at the anti-Iraq war protest in downtown Los Angeles. This was a different entity altogether.

Sunday afternoon madness

Then there was the driving. We made our way through traffic that doesn’t obey signals or appreciate a sense of order. Flashes of yellow from all four corners, honking, pushing, squeezing into impossibly tight spots, cutting me off. I quickly realized it was kill or be killed and so fortified by a Venti Starbucks green tea and lemonade, I jumped into this real-life game of Frogger with an intensity that surprised me. Soon, I was honking, cussing, and acting like a native.

Our destination was Happy Paws Pet Resort, which thank God had it’s own parking “lot,” a strip of asphalt the size of residential driveways in Southern California, but at least I didn’t have to find a spot on the street.

Loren was greeted by a quarter of staff and volunteers from Animal Alliance Foundation, who were anticipating our visit. They were holding a microchip clinic for the area, which attracted 26 participants. Barbara and Shawn Tolan are brother and sister, their father, Tim, was also there, as was Daniel Rivera, a vet tech. All are pit bull lovers and owners.

"You may hate NY, but I kinda like it here..."

“People contact me all the time about neglect situations. My sister’s neighbor had a pit bull puppy that were they threatening to throw out in the streets when they moved,” Daniel said. “I asked them to bring her to me instead. I could tell she’d been abused, she was hand shy and got scared over loud noises.”

The dog is now one-years old, a red-nosed pit named Ginger who is clearly the apple of her new daddy’s eye if the way her treats Loren is any indication. After Loren was groomed by a kind lady named Lisa, a California expatriate who did the service for free since she is a rescue dog, Loren was sitting in Daniel’s lap, belly exposed, getting kisses and belly rubs at the same time.

"Nirvana!"

While Loren was getting her bath, I took to Broadway, home of Bloomingdales and Dean and Deluca, and shopped like a girly girl, picking up a pair of dark Levis, two shirts, a strappy pair of Kenneth Cole heels, and a pair of earrings for $100! Of course, I had to try a sidewalk hot dog. It was pretty good, but they didn’t have chili…or cheese…so I got mustard and sauerkraut instead.


The quintessential NY street meal

At one point, there was a gorgeous brunette couple on the street in front of me, the man even prettier than the woman, while on the sidelines, an elderly man searched the trash bins for food, his tongue sticking out. Models and madmen, mixed in with moms who push strollers in high heels.

Though Loren had a hard time parting with her new friends at Happy Paws, I was ready to check into our hotel. Two families from North Carolina were parked in front of me, leaving me a tiny wedge to sit and wait for them to unload pillows, a cooler, and a fan, as well as enough luggage for three weeks. Minutes passed - and the owners of the Honda Civic I was parked precariously close to arrived - unhappy and impatient.

One of the southern ladies helped me maneuver out of the tight spot and avoid hitting the Honda. Sigh. By the time the gray-haired Italian doorman came over to help me unload, I wanted to unload more than the baggage. How about that I hated his city and wanted to go home to California, where parking is plentiful and most people don’t drive with murderous intent?

“That’s a good looking dog,” he said, immediately putting me at ease and focused on something other than my extreme annoyance.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I had a dog that looked just like her, but he passed away,” he said. “His name was Stallion, because he was a magnificent animal. There will never be another like him.”

The doorman became my fast friend, directing me to the parking lot across the street where I had to leave my car ($40 per day!), as well as some places to take Loren for potty breaks.

People here consider planters as parks - my kind doorman and two others directed me to streets with nothing resembling lawns, just little patches of dirt with a few vines, some were even fenced! WTF?

After two miles of this, I stopped and started to cry. I hated this place. I wanted to go home. I wanted my boyfriend, my dogs, and people that would smile when they saw me, not look away, if they bothered to look at all. I wanted to be on my hiking trail in the mountains, with nothing but the sounds of nature to soothe me, silly little Buster trotting free at my side. I wondered why the hell I was here in the first place.

I took a deep breath and composed myself. Loren was waiting patiently by my side, panting from all the exercise and, I’m sure, the manic energy that surrounded us both. For a country girl, she took to the city with a fair amount of ease - stopping at lights (unlike the rest of the masses), avoiding the grates whenever possible, and, when we were at the hotel, deciding finally that elevators were not the enemy and trotting right in.

She even managed the revolving doors as if she‘d been doing it all her life. Loren laid on the cool marble floor when we checked in. Two guys called to her from the bar and she would’ve gone to have a drink with them, had I let her. Hussy.

We finally went to Central Park, seven blocks away, because Loren will poop on the street, but not pee (!). I was so excited when I saw the actual grass - then I saw fences. The grass was gated off! At least for the first 100 yards. I wanted to scream and probably should’ve. No one would have noticed anyway.

"Go ahead and scream...I've got your back!"

I may hate NY, but I love Loren. Her happy, toothy grin always brings me back to gratitude. She seems to be having a good time, so I decided to adopt her attitude, but it’s hard because I also have to think like a dog - which means being on hyper-alert about what’s in front of me and look out for other critters on the horizon. I can’t ever relax. No wonder she sleeps 20 hours a day.


"Stressed? Fugudaboutit!"

Since the city doesn’t take kindly to pooches eating on patios with their owner, I ordered a falafel combo plate from a friendly street vendor. He had the full set up - scooping up the falafel mixture and frying it on the spot, adding grilled veggies atop saffron rice, and big squirts of yogurt and hot sauce. Best falafel ever. Brought it back to the room and watched the action at Times Square from the comfort of my tenth-story room. We watched the Tony Awards on TV, which where taking place just a few blocks over.

Central Park was our first stop this morning. Fairly uneventful, even with an unleashed Weimer Reiner playing a little too close by and a pug that had free run of the paved area. Several homeless men and women lined the benches, looking on with dead eyes. The streets were alive with the sound of traffic, sirens, and construction at 7:30 a.m.

At 10, we met with Jennifer Bristol at Animal Haven, a no-kill rescue in NoHo.


"Who is that big guy trying to steal my thunder?"

Encased in warm wood, the store front had an elegant feel. Tiny kittens played in the window display, which rapidly caught Loren’s attention.


"How much are those kittens in the window?"

This SoHo shelter had a loft-like feel, three stories, with dogs and cats housed on three floors. The dogs get walked four times a day by a roster of volunteers and are also worked with by an in-house trainer.

I asked her if Loren would suffer as a result of being so close to me for seven weeks, then being returned to a kennel.

“We’ll she’ll have some separation issues at first, just like your dogs would if they spent every waking minute with you and then it stopped,” she said. “But she’ll adjust. They’re not like us. You’re doing here a lot of good, being exposed to different situations.”

Big smile.

Right now, Animal Haven has 19 dogs, including a two litters of adorable lab and mixed breed puppies, as well as 20 cats. A beautiful female Aussie mix looked up at me with her one blue and one brown eye.

“She’s going home tomorrow with her new family,” Jennifer said proudly. They have a high adoption rate, including the pit bulls they take in from city shelters and owner surrenders.

They also have a store that carries animal food, toys, and bedding, and encourages customers to bring their small dogs in for playtime.

“It’s a way to get the community in rescue involved without beating them over the head,” Jennifer said. “I bought dogs 15 years ago. I didn’t know that there was another way. People come in here and say, ’I didn’t know I could get a Maltese or a Pug through shelters!’”

Steve Gruber from Animal Alliance, who had initially invited us to Animal Haven, and Carrie Hyman of Silver PR had also come down to meet Loren. Both sat on the floor and loved on Loren as we talked rescue.

 
"Rescue people rule!"

We shared a cab ride back.

 
"Does the paparazzi never stop?"

Looks like we’ve made new friends in New York. I guess it’s not all bad here.

  
"You're still my best GF, Aunt Michelle!"

 (P.S. Awesome news - Loren has an adoption application pending in Santa Clarita, close to The Brittany Foundation, where she lives. Nancy, the founder, emailed all of us volunteers today. The home seems to be a good one - retired lady, previous pit owner. She knows Loren is on our journey and can’t wait to meet her when we get back! Yeah!J )