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Chapter 31. "Don't Come Back With That Dog!" -- Frisco, The Dog of Irony.
As we slowly muddled our way through the Maspeth mess and most of the cats were being successfully placed, I began to turn my attentions once again, to some of the stray cats still living around 108 and 109th Streets in East Harlem.
I had become aware of these cats a couple of years earlier when visiting the new ASPCA animal control shelter located on 110th Streets.
On 108th Street there was an abandoned building which was slated for renovation. A hole at the bottom of the building led to basements where at least a half dozen cats still remained and sought "shelter" from the elements. I had rescued and placed mostly female cats and kittens a year before, but the situation was still dire for the few remaining cats.
On 109th Street there was a junk lot where other cats scavenged for scraps and rats. While I had previously picked up friendly cats and kittens, the site still had to be monitored as it was a favorite site for people to abandon pets. On one visit the year before, somebody had abandoned a mother cat and kittens in a cardboard box. They had been left under an old, broken down abandoned car. Because the cats were friendly and social, they were easily placed, once vetted, neutered and cleaned up.
During this time I also took up dog-walking and cat-sitting jobs during the day as a way of bringing in income. I had soon discovered that doing animal rescue work was not a way of making a living. Bills had to be paid.
While I could not rescue cats everyday, I faithfully left food for the animals each night in order to gain their trust and gain knowledge on exactly which cats were there and their condition. I was a familiar sight to the neighborhood residents.
One early summer night in 1994, while returning from feeding the cats on 108 and 109th Streets, I saw a young boy about ten-years-old standing outside a bodega on 103rd Street with a smallish Pit Bull mix dog in front of him. The boy was asking passersby to "buy" his dog.
I stopped to talk to the boy and determine the situation. "His name is Frisco. He's a really sweet and fun dog!" the boy enthusiastically told me, a bright smile on his face. "He loves to play and loves people." "Why are you trying to sell him?" I asked while petting the very friendly, reddish brown dog. "My mom told me not to come home with him," the boy answered suddenly seriously, his face crestfallen. "Why doesn't your mom want the dog? He seems very nice," I asked further. "She just don't like him."
Whatever the real reason mom didn't want the dog, I decided that this scenario was not going to have a happy outcome unless I offered to help. "Do you know if Frisco is OK with other dogs and cats?" I asked the boy. "Oh yes!" He is fine with other animals! Frisco loves everything! He ain't never hurt or bitten nobody! You can get him for ten dollars. He is a great dog." The boy was pleading with me now. "I only have five dollars on me. Can that be enough?" Within a few seconds, I handed the boy the five bucks and I then had the leash and dog in hand. "Thank you, Ma'am! Please take good care of him?" "Don't worry, I will," I said as the boy walked away leaving me with the dog.
I looked down to see a quite homely face staring up at me. Frisco looked like a small Shepherd/Pit mix. He had the broad head of a pit, with black on the face and high pointy ears. Man, you are one ugly dog, I thought as we started to walk towards my apartment on 95th Street. A dog beauty contest winner, Frisco wasn't.
"What am I going to do with you?"
Tara was home for the summer and I expected some stern looks when I walked into the apartment with Frisco. But, instead, Tara seemed to like the funny looking mutt. "Oh my, he's so ugly, he's cute!" Tara said while bending down and petting the frisky pup. Frisco enthusiastically, licked her face.
As the boy had assured me, Frisco was very loving with people and other pets. There was no problem between Frisco and Coby, my other dog. Indeed, the two got along very well. Though Coby with his old legs, couldn't play with Frisco, the two dogs seemed to understand and have great affinity for one another. Fisco was gentle and wonderful with the cats as well. He was also a quiet dog who rarely barked. I was very grateful for all these things. However, Frisco was far from the "perfect" dog. And I would soon learn why the mother of the boy had ordered him that fateful night to not come back with the animal.
We had Frisco about three weeks when I began to become aware of the 8-month old puppy's propensity to "chew." A few times when I had returned to the apartment, I found chewed up slippers, cat toys and other small articles. Additionally, Frisco was not housebroken and I spent a lot of time mopping up from his "accidents." I read in a dog training book that it was best to "crate train" puppies (i.e. cage them) to aid in these typical puppy training issues. But, I just couldn't bear to put Frisco in a cage. Such seemed "cruel" to me!
One day when I returned to the apartment from doing laundry, I found that Frisco has gone through and chewed up most of the books on my book shelf. The one he totally demolished was the book on dog training. Was Frisco laughing at me? Or trying to tell me something? Once again, I busied myself with cleaning up the debris. Wow, I really have to put stuff away! I annoyingly thought to myself.
But, the worst was yet to come.
A few nights later I returned from feeding the Harlem cats to find.......well, what seemed like an earthquake had struck my apartment.
I couldn't believe what hit my eyes the moment I turned the key in the door and walked in!
The $800.00 couch I had bought only a couple of years before was in a million pieces all over the living room. Foam rubber, chewed up wood and ripped up material was strewn all about. Indeed, I could not find one visible space of wood flooring, so covered was everything with the remains of my sofa. I stood in the middle of all the debris and chaos and cried.
Frisco, knowing he had somehow done "wrong," retreated to a corner of the living room with head down seemingly waiting for me to hit him.
"Oh God," I simply said.
No, I wasn't about to hit the dog, but at that moment it became crystal clear to me why mom told the boy, "Don't come back with that dog!"
The next day I set up one of the large cages we used to show cats at Pet Stop in my living room for Frisco. I could not afford any more destruction. I barely had any furniture as it was!
"We have to do this," I told Tara firmly. Although Tara also wasn't in favor of the idea of "crating," she reluctantly agreed. We had no choice.
Much to our surprise, however, Frisco liked his crate. In fact, many times in the evening when we were there and the cage was open, Frisco would willingly go in it by himself. It was like his private little "den."
The cage also aided in getting Frisco totally housebroken. I no longer needed to walk around with a mop and pale. Slowly, it was becoming a pleasure to have the endearing little Pit mix around. Having been neutered several weeks before, It was time to try and find a home for Frisco. He was finally "adoptable."
But, despite adoption ads in newspapers and pictured posters, I had no calls to adopt Frisco. He was not the most beautiful dog in the world and any dog with "Pit Bull" was automatically, a tough adoption. The public perception of these fine dogs was extremely negative and inaccurate.
Tara and I had Frisco for the entire summer of '94. Despite the fact we both loved swimming and beaches, we didn't get to Coney Island once during Tara's summer vacation. I felt I couldn't leave Frisco penned up in a cage for the number of hours it would take us to go to the beach for the day and return.
Despite all forfeiting of normal summer fun, Tara complained little about the sacrifices for Frisco, family and the other animals. I was lucky that Tara truly loved Frisco. We did manage to spend many pleasant hours in Carl Shurtz Park with Frisco and Coby. Other times we took walks to Central Park with my mother's dog, Fawn. Despite all the animal work and family duty, there were nice moments to be found.
It was the fall of '94 when Frisco finally found his forever home. A friend of mine put me in touch with relatives in Maine who came one day to see Frisco and immediately fell in love with and adopted him.
A year later I received a long and lovely letter and pictures from Frisco's adopters.
The thing that really struck me however, was the picture of Frisco sitting atop the diving board of the family swimming pool, along with the words, "Frisco loves to swim!"
SWIM? I thought.
It occurred to me that the dog I had given up an entire summer of swimming for now had his own private pool!
So ugly, he was cute. So destructive, but we loved him anyway. And finally, so lucky that he had his own pool, while his rescuers, Tara and me missed an entire summer of swimming, Frisco was indeed the dog of irony. But, one who forever would live in our hearts and memories. Tara still talks of Frisco, many years later as the rescued dog she most loved.
"Don't come back with that dog?" Frisco found something a lot, lot better.