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Chapter 22. Destiny’s Destiny
One day, while putting out food for some of the stray cats in the 109th street junk lot, one of the neighborhood residents came up to me to tell me about a dog tied up and abandoned near the FDR drive. “Do you help dogs, too?” the skinny, black man who appeared to be in his late 30’s asked me. “Well, we try to do what we can,” I answered. I can’t take every stray though. Did you tell the ASPCA about this dog?” “Ah, they will kill the dog if they take it,” he answered with finality. The man seemed genuinely distressed about the situation. “Well, why don’t you show me where the dog is and we can try and figure something out?”
Early spring buds were appearing on the trees, as we entered a small park area off the FDR drive around 103rd Street. There is a pedestrian walk that runs near the East River, surrounded by trees, grass and the drive with streams of constantly zooming cars. The dog was tied up to one of the trees, a long red leash, the only thing preventing a disaster with one of the speeding cars only a few feet away. The dog did not look happy.
As I tried to slowly approach the skinny, terrified, brown and white female hound mix, she arched her back like an angry cat and snarled an ominous warning. Her teeth were bared and a low growl emanated from her throat. This was not going to be easy.
“Stand back,” I said to the black man who took me to the dog. “And don’t stare at her. The staring will make her feel threatened. We have a real problem here. We cannot just walk up and take her.” “What are we going to do?” the man asked truly concerned.
I didn’t have any equipment for this kind of rescue. No humane trap. No “ catch pole.” And no food incentive. “Well, the first thing we should try to do, is get some food.” I answered my newfound assistant. You know a place around here you can get some chicken?”
Eager to do something to help the animal, the man enthusiastically promised me he would get chicken from a neighborhood bodega. He quickly left to accomplish his mission. Meanwhile, I squatted down on my knees to try and get on eye level with the dog who still glared at me with nothing but distrust. As I attempted to inch forward, she lunged forward, barking hysterically. I retreated back and waited for the black man to return.
Some time later, the man returned with a brown bag of warm chicken parts. The aroma was enticing even to me who, for almost ten years was a confirmed vegetarian. “Good job,” I said to him. “This should make our task a lot easier.” He smiled with pride. “I hope you’re right.” I removed a chicken breast from the bag and held it openly in my hand. “Hey girl, are you hungry? Look what we have for you!”
The dog’s nose obviously caught the aroma of the chicken and for the first time, her wary eyes left mine to gaze longingly at the food in my hand. Once again, I tried to inch forward on my knees, but once again, the dog threateningly barked and lunged when she caught any movement from me. I tore small pieces from the chicken breast in my hand and tossed them near enough for the dog to scoop up. She grabbed the chicken from the grass and ate voraciously.
The black man and I were in this standoff with the dog for more than an hour. We exchanged small bits of conversation between us during this time and intermittently cooed and offered chicken treats to the petrified, wary, hound mix. It was important to present a relaxed and non-threatening picture to the animal. Ever-so slowly, the dog’s stiff body posture began to relax and she finally sat down.
Fast running out of the chicken now, I had to conserve the few pieces I had. I kept the remaining chicken in my hand and once again, tried to approach the dog on bended knees. This time it worked! I finally g
ot close enough to the dog to be able to untie the leash from the tree. “Praise the lord!” the black man said. The dog, though still very guarded and nervous, relaxed enough for me to walk her. I did not try to pet or handle her, but I did give her the rest of the chicken. “What are you gonna do with her?” the man asked me. “I am going to walk her to my vet on 118th Street. She will be spayed and taken care of. I will probably have to leave her there a few days until I can find someone to foster or take her. Do you want to come to the vet?” “I wish I could,” the man answered. “But, I got a job to get to and I am already late.” “Well, thanks very much for you caring and assistance,” I told him very sincerely. “Without your help – and especially that chicken – we never would have been able to get her!” He smiled and we parted ways once outside the park.
I walked the hound mix to Dr. Peterson’s office and explained the situation to his wife and assistant, Sabina. “Be careful with her,” I advised. “She is very scared and I honestly don’t know what her temperament’s like.” “ Don’t worry, Patty,” Sabina reassured in her heavy German accent. “We’re used to handling all kinds of animals.” “I might have to leave her here a few days until I can find something…..” “Whatever you have to do, Patty, it’s OK,” Sabina smiled. “We have an empty cage here now. She will be fine.” By the time I got home, it was well after 6PM. I would not have time to see my mom in the nursing home today. I had a thousand things to do, not the least of which was making phone calls to see if I could find something for the dog I had just picked up from near the river.
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Carol McCain was a woman who had called me looking for a female, medium sized dog to adopt. She had recently lost her Shepherd mix of 14 years to cancer. At the time she called, I didn’t have a dog that fit what she was seeking, but offered to go with her to the ASPCA to find one. But, something in this sensitive woman seemed to prevent her from making the trip. Perhaps it was the knowledge that so many dogs at the “A” were destroyed. For people who deeply loved animals, going to a place that routinely has to kill animals can be too much to bear emotionally. I had a sense it was that way with Carol.
It was now two days since I brought the abandoned hound mix I temporarily named, “Keka” to Dr. Peterson for spaying and shots. Sabina informed me that Keka was healthy, about 1-year-old and surprisingly sweet, though still somewhat scared. “She’s a nice dog, Patty,” Sabina reassured. “She needs someone patient and understanding. Someone who can give her a sense of love and security.” I had made many calls trying to find something for the hound but had come up empty. But, considering what Sabina was telling me about Keka, I immediately thought about giving Carol a call. “Carol, this is Patty from New Yorkers for Companion Animals. Are you still looking for a dog?”
“Ah, well yes,” the uncertain voice said. It was obvious Carol was still grieving over the loss of her previous dog and was actually conflicted over the adoption of a new one. “Well, if I could have a minute or two to tell you about a dog we just rescued. Would you consider the idea of fostering a dog for us?”
I explained to Carol everything I knew about Keka (including her difficult rescue) and she listened intently. The idea of fostering a dog who was so ruthlessly and cruelly thrown out seemed to hold special appeal to her. “You’re under no obligation to keep Keka,” I told Carol. “I will actively look for an adoptive home. If you have any problems and can’t foster her, let me know. We will figure something else out. But, for now, it would help us greatly if you can temporarily foster her. She’s been through a lot and needs a sense of security.”
Carol kindly agreed to the foster. I made arrangements to bring the dog to her apartment on East 80th Street later that evening. Carol lived alone in a modest basement apartment in a prewar building. Everything about her place was simple and unpretentious. Carol appeared to be in her late 40’s. She was a plain woman with short brown hair, no makeup and jeans and tee shirt clothing. Something about her gave the impression of a woman who had not had an easy life.
Like the dog I was bringing her, Carol appeared a little uncertain and not quite at ease with her place in world. Perhaps, like Keka, she was still searching to find it. Over the next few weeks, Carol called me many times to update me on the timid, insecure, but very needy dog she had taken in. Although Carol was doing everything right, she needed constant reassurance and guidance. During one of the calls, Carol asked for permission to change the dog’s name to Destiny. “Of course you can change her name, Carol!” I answered lightly. “Destiny seems like a very appropriate name under the circumstances.”
The early days were not easy between Destiny and Carol. Although the dog was very devoted to Carol and followed her everywhere in the house, Destiny did not like men. Carol had to be careful with Destiny out on the street for the dog did not like men to approach them. Once she even snapped at a man. But, it was clear that Destiny and Carol were in fact, a good match. Carol loved the dog and though she took time to garner up the confidence to indicate she wanted to keep Destiny, it was once again one of those matches made by fate.
Last year I met Carol and Destiny while walking home from a swim at John J Pool on East 77th Street. Destiny was then 11-years-old and a plump, happy dog. Carol too, seemed content and far more optimistic and cheerful then I previously remembered. We enjoyed some light conversation and even a few jokes. “I am so happy you brought Destiny to me,” Carol finally said to me seriously. “She has been such a joy to me over the years.” The meeting was one of those that makes one feel really, really good. I smiled to myself for the rest of the walk home.
Both woman and dog, had finally found their peaceful, harmonious destinies.