The Lost Dogs (21 page)

Two weeks had passed since Rebecca Huss had been appointed guardian and already sixteen of the dogs were in or on their way to foster homes while another eleven had been moved to one of the cushiest and most attentive shelters in the country. The application for rescue groups, including all the government’s terms and conditions, had been posted online and completed forms were beginning to come in. Evaluations were being updated and the dogs constantly reassessed. Still, Huss felt as though she needed to do something about the other twenty-one dogs. They couldn’t simply be left to linger in county shelters until the court ruled on a final disposition.

NICOLE RATTAY WAS CRYING.
This was not terribly surprising. Every night for the last two weeks, she’d found herself in tears as she drove home. But tonight felt different.

After her long drive back to Oakland, Rattay received another call. Rebecca Huss was looking for someone to go to southern Virginia and spend the four weeks leading up to Vick’s sentencing caring for the dogs that remained in the shelters.

Rattay consulted her husband. It would be a large burden on him. As the operations manager for a small hotel and restaurant company, he had a busy job, and with his wife away he’d have to come home and take care of five dogs—the couple’s three and the two Vick dogs they were fostering. It was a lot to ask, especially from someone who wasn’t really a “dog person,” but he agreed to do it.

So on November 6, Nicole had flown across country, rented a shabby one-bedroom apartment centrally located between the two shelters where the dogs remained—Chesapeake and Virginia Beach—and begun her assignment. The job required her to spend time with the dogs every day, if possible, and provide them with some attention and enrichment. What that meant varied from dog to dog.

For some of the more shut-down dogs it might be very simple—sitting with them in their pens, petting them, letting them relax. She might give them a blanket and let them snuggle and feel comfortable. The idea was to let them know that, contrary to what their pasts had taught them, the world was not out to do them harm.

For more active dogs, enrichment might mean running around outside to help them blow off steam and get exercise, or playing with toys to help keep them engaged mentally and break up their boredom. As she did this, she was amazed to find that none of them knew what to do with the toys. The dogs would ignore them, fling them in the air, and hide them in the corners of their kennels. But slowly they caught on. Rattay also introduced the Kong, a small rubber toy in the shape of a barrel that’s open at either end. A treat is pressed into the middle of the barrel and the dog has to chew and claw at the hard rubber to try to get the treat. As simple as it sounds, it can keep dogs engaged for long periods, giving them something to focus on and work at, along with a reward for their efforts. With some of the more advanced dogs, Rattay even began basic training—teaching commands like sit, stay, etc.

For the most part Rattay loved the assignment. She felt as though she’d gone to doggie heaven. Even when she was crammed into a small kennel, sitting on the cold wet concrete floor and playing with a dog, she was happy. The appreciation of dogs that inspired her sprung from her childhood in Southern California. Her family had taken in a long list of dogs, all of them rescued from shelters. One of them, Max, was defined by the kennel as a “terrier mix,” and it wasn’t until years later that Nicole realized Max had been a pit bull.

Her husband, Steve, had been a cat person, but shortly after they were married she told him she needed to get a dog; she really missed having one. He capitulated, but when Nicole made it clear she wanted to rescue a pit bull, he had second thoughts. As fate would have it, a few days after that conversation, the couple came across a stray pit bull at the apartment complex in Las Vegas where they were living. Nicole took it in, and though they found the dog’s owner a few weeks later, Steve had seen enough. He was a pit bull convert.

But before they could find a dog to adopt, the couple moved to the Bay Area. Once Nicole settled in, she found BAD RAP. She adopted a dog through Donna and Tim and became a volunteer for the group. Even after she and Steve moved to San Diego, where they still lived, Nicole continued to foster dogs for BAD RAP. She’d never been a certified dog trainer—she was a culinary school grad—but she’d spent so much time around dogs that she was very comfortable with them and quite accomplished at working with them.

It was no surprise that she had bonded quickly with many of the dogs, getting to know them, what they liked and disliked, and what they were capable of. Every night she would summarize her experiences and e-mail them to Donna Reynolds and Rebecca Huss. Huss came to rely on the updates, not only because they helped her get a sense of each dog and what would be best for it, but because they helped her stay connected to the dogs. In the fury of paperwork and legal proceedings that filled Huss’s day, it was easy to forget the reason for all the effort, and Rattay’s reports undercut all of that.

But Rattay was quickly growing attached to the dogs and this caused her distress. They made her cry. Every night as she drove home thinking about all she’d done that day, all she’d seen and felt, about how resilient and loving the dogs were, she was overcome with sadness. How many of them would make it? Would any? There was still no way to know.

Rose, a friendly and fun-loving white dog with a large tumor protruding from her abdomen, was the perfect example. One of Rattay’s first missions upon arriving was to spend time with Rose and assess her condition. How badly was she suffering? Was she in any shape for surgery?

Rattay spent much of the first two days with Rose and the prospects were mixed at best. The dog wanted to run and play, but she could not do so for more than a minute or so. Huss decided that Rose would go to the Animal Farm Foundation, a sanctuary and rescue in Duchess County, New York, where she would be able to convalesce in very comfortable surroundings while getting almost around-the-clock care.

Animal Farm had taken one of the foster dogs that had already been released into temporary care, and now Bernice Clifford, the foundation’s head trainer, would drive down to get Rose. Rose’s injury had begun to ooze, so upon arrival she and Rattay went to a Walmart and bought a few blankets for her to lie on during the ride. Then they prepped Rose for the trip, giving her food and water and walking her in the small yard. As always, Rose was thrilled to get out, and she burst through the kennel door, tail wagging. She ran a bit, chased a tennis ball, then lay down, unable to continue. There were no complaints, though; she sat wagging, happy to be there.

Rattay and Clifford led her to the car, and Rose popped her front legs into the seat but couldn’t get her backside up, so the two women helped. At slightly after 3:00 P.M., in a light rain, Clifford pulled the car out of the lot and set off on the eight- to nine-hour ride up the coast.

As they drove, Rose seemed to want nothing: no food, no water, no stops. Clifford figured the best thing she could do was get Rose home as quickly as possible. At one point Clifford felt a stirring. Rose had raised herself up and was climbing into the front seat. With a little help, the dog pulled herself up and settled in next to Clifford. Her tail wagged and she nudged Clifford’s elbow and hand with her nose. All Rose wanted was to be closer and to get a little affection.

She was happier in the front seat and the spot had advantages beyond companionship. Clifford stopped at a drive-through Dunkin’ Donuts, bought a coffee, and put it in the drink holder between the seats. As she drove, Rose leaned over and drank from the cup, an impish look on her face.

They arrived around midnight and, despite the caffeine intake, both promptly went to sleep. In the morning the entire staff assembled to meet Rose, and they showered her with attention. She was being kept in a facility with a houselike setup that was warm and comfortable, its large windows looking out on the surrounding countryside. In the middle of the morning, the staff veterinarian gave her the most thorough checkup she’d had yet. Afterward Rose settled into a sunny spot that arched across the floor. She was wrapped in a soft blanket, and there she slept like she’d probably never slept before.

While she snoozed, the vet relayed her findings. She couldn’t say for sure what was causing the bulge in Rose’s abdomen, but it was clear that Rose’s condition had advanced to the point where it was no longer operable and, despite her disposition, Rose was suffering. The vet recommended that she be put down as soon as possible.

A call went out to Rebecca Huss. Huss processed the paperwork through the court, and by late that afternoon Animal Farm had received permission to end Rose’s misery. Clifford was devastated, but she took solace in one fact: Rose had spent her last day out of a kennel, without a lick of chain link in her line of sight, and surrounded by people who cared for her.

Afterward, the vet performed a necropsy on Rose. She discovered that the dog did not have a tumor but something more troubling. The muscles that formed a wall around her abdomen, the vet explained, had torn and her uterus had pushed into the parting and become lodged there. There was no way to know for certain what caused the tear, but if the vet had to guess she would say it was a human foot.

Someone, somewhere along the line, had kicked Rose in the belly and her insides had been slowly spilling out ever since. It was possible that she had left Vick’s place that way—in the mayhem and confusion of the first days no one had done much to document the condition of the dogs—but it seemed just as likely the injury happened afterward. In effect, Rose was killed after she’d been saved.

Nicole Rattay had cried extra hard the night she heard about Rose, but that was more than a week ago. Tonight, she was sobbing in the car with particular fury for a different reason. Michael Vick had been in the news that day. Vick had turned himself in at the county jail so he could get a head start on his upcoming sentence. Later, the
Atlanta-Journal Constitution
would report that Vick had woken up that morning and bought a $99,000 Mercedes, cashed $24,900 in checks, gave away another $44,000, and paid $23,000 to a PR firm before showing up at the prison. Rattay did not yet know all that but she was still upset.

For starters, Vick had still not paid the $928,000 for the care of the dogs. So far Rattay had been paying her own way in southern Virginia—just as Donna Reynolds had maxed out her personal credit cards to rent the RV—in hope that she would someday be reimbursed. More than the money though, Vick’s actions were clearly a calculated look to the future. He was starting his sentence early so he could get out as soon as possible and start playing football again. The idea that Vick had a future, that Vick still had potential, cut against everything that Rattay felt was happening with the dogs. Their future was still uncertain. They could all end up like Rose. He had some prison time coming, but beyond that a life with expensive cars, pro athletics, and grateful friends and family awaited.

Nicole Rattay thought about that as she drove her little dark blue rental car across the tidelands and cried.