Little Boy Blue

  Copyright © 2012 by Kim Kavin.

  Foreword copyright © 2012 by Jim Gorant.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  All Inquiries should be addressed to:

  Barron’s Educational Series, Inc.

  250 Wireless Boulevard

  Hauppauge, NY 11788

  www.barronseduc.com

  Some names have been changed in this book to protect the privacy of the individual/organization involved.

  ISBN: 978-0-7641-6526-9

  eISBN: 978-1-4380-8350-6

  First eBook Publication: September 2012

  Library of Congress Catalog Card No: 2012012685

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

  Kavin, Kim.

  Little boy Blue : a puppy’s rescue from death row and his owner’s journey for truth / by Kim Kavin; forward by Jim Gorant.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7641-6526-9

  1. Dog rescue—United States. 2. Animal shelters—United States. 3. Euthanasia of animals—United States. I. Title.

  HV4746.K38 2012

  636.08'32—dc23 2012012685

  For the ones who can still be saved.

  “Our values are defined by what we will tolerate when it is done to others.”

  —William Greider

  “Nothing is inevitable unless our inaction makes it so.”

  —Ronald Regan

  Contents

  Foreword

  The First Bread Crumbs

  Quarantine and Questions

  A Journey Awaits

  The Reality of a Childhood Dream

  Truth in Numbers

  Incoming Fire

  Behind Closed Doors

  As Many, and as Fast as They Can

  Something Eerie in the Dark

  A Cool Breeze in Hell

  More Lucky Pups

  Loving, and Letting Go

  Persistence and Hope

  The War Across America

  From Humble Beginnings

  A Tough Call to Make

  Safe Haven

  Turning Off the Faucet

  A Better Life

  A Puppy’s Potential

  The Days to Come

  Epilogue

  What You Can Do

  Acknowledgments

  Photos

  Foreword

  The first time I walked in on my wife I think we were both a little embarrassed. I had arrived home early from work and stepped into the kitchen without making much of an entrance. When she finally heard me, she turned quickly, a shocked look in her eyes and a forced smile on her face. She used her body to shield the computer screen from view, and I had the creepy feeling that I’d just walked in on someone surreptitiously surfing for porn.

  I had, although there was a twist. This was doggy porn. The URL on the browswer was that of Petfinder.com and on the screen was a full-body shot of a coquettish little Labradoodle who looked back over her shoulder with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Isn’t she cute?” Karin said, and I nodded in a way that signaled assent without commitment. “Wait,” she said. “Look at this one,” and began navigating across the site with an ease that made it clear she’d been at this for a while and it wasn’t her first time. At that moment one thing became abundantly clear: We were getting a dog.

  The possibility didn’t exactly come as a surprise. It had been a topic of conversation around our house—sometimes relentlessly so—for going on two years. Upon turning nine, our daughter had embarked upon an all-out campaign to bring a little furry enthusiasm to our family. The program consisted of continual asking, alternating promises of both doggy upkeep and household diligence, bartering, pleading, stomping, and the occasional moment of used-car-lot dissonance when she would look across the table and say, “Okay, what’s it gonna take to make this happen?”

  When we had recovered from the image of our little girl some day hawking Gremlins and Pacers in a gravel lot next to a strip mall, Karin and I could empathize. We loved dogs. We’d each had them growing up, and part of us wanted to get one now. Part of us didn’t.

  We both have busy jobs, we live in an old house that requires a lot of attention, and our two children have active lives that demand our participation. It’s a great life (no complaints here), but it’s a pretty fast-spinning carousel of train schedules, car pools, pickups, dropoffs, laundry, dinner, practices, games, Home Depot runs, doctor, dentist and orthodontist appointments, book reports, and so on.

  As much as we liked the idea of a dog, we knew the reality of it would only add to the insanity. The kids insisted that they would take care of everything, walking and feeding and cleaning up the poop in the yard. Friends of ours suggested that it would teach them responsibility. We weren’t buying that. For starters, we’d both been on the other side of that exchange. We’d made those promises as kids and the dogs that our parents had bought us suffered at our lack of follow-through. We knew that if we got a dog, we were taking the responsibility. If the kids helped out great, but we weren’t going to count on it.

  Our conversations on the topic always led to a place where we agreed it would be nice but probably not smart. “If you really wanted to, I would do it,” Karin would say. To which I would say the same thing. And there the issue sat.

  Except for one thing. At the end of 2008 I wrote a story for Sports Illustrated, the magazine for which I work, about the dogs rescued from Michael Vick’s fighting operation. The story wound up on the cover, and I was soon approached about turning it into a book. I finished the manuscript in January 2010 and let Karin read it before turning it in. The book, The Lost Dogs: Michael Vick’s Dogs and Their Tale of Rescue and Redemption, exposed the brutality of dog fighting but was largely an account of resilience and compassion that highlighted the connection between dogs and people.

  It was shortly after Karin read the rough draft that I started to catch her looking at dog listings online. Our daughter’s campaign hadn’t abated, and sometimes I’d come home and find the two of them sitting in front of the computer together looking through the listings. “Have I shown you the pictures of Fluffy— or Lucky or Baby or Stumpy?”—became a regular question around our house. Somehow, though, our debates about the topic led to the same conclusion.

  Until they didn’t.

  Finally, in early spring Karin admitted what had already become increasingly clear to me: She wanted a dog. After the book I had written there was no doubt we would get a rescue. But if my research and talks with so many in the animal-rescue community taught me anything, it was that most adoptions go wrong at the start, because people either set their heart on a breed that isn’t right for them or they devote one day to the job and come home with the first dog that touches their heart.

  For us, the process wasn’t about finding a dog, but about finding the dog—which meant the one that was the best fit for our family. We made up a list of ideal attributes: adult, housebroken, low- to medium-energy level, and ideally a non- or low-shedding breed. And while we didn’t want a big dog, we didn’t want one of those bedroom slippers with legs, either. I felt a bit like the Goldilocks of dog rescue, but I figured that was better than being Little Red Riding Hood.

  We started looking in earnest. We attended adoption days at pet stores within a thirty-mile radius. We visited shelters. We continued to comb Petfinder, filling out applications and sending e-mails about dogs that seemed like they might be right for us. We came close a few times, but for one reason or another we couldn’t make a connection. With our daughter heading off to camp and a family vacation to follow, we suspended our search for the summer.

  In September, my book came
out and became a New York Times best seller. The flurry of interviews that came along with the success inevitably included the question: “So what type of dog do you have?” An awkward pause followed while I explained that we didn’t have a dog, but we were working on it.

  About a month later we identified a spunky-looking Schnauzer mix at a rescue called For the Love of Dogs about an hour away in Westchester County, New York. He had a lot of the qualities we were looking for, although at six he was a little old. Karin and I filled out the online forms, and after we’d been approved we drove up to visit.

  His name was Chester, and he was gray and black, about twenty-five pounds and one of his bottom teeth stuck out, so that even when he closed his mouth the fang poked out between his lips. The snaggletooth made him look like a rough-and-tumble street urchin, and that seemed to go with his personality. On his walk he charged ahead, pulling on the leash, huffing and grunting at the restraint. He rolled on the ground as if he were John Belushi doing the Gator in Animal House. He pawed at the earth like an angry bull. We liked his spirit but wondered if he was a bit too much.

  We went home. We thought about it. We loaded the kids in the car and went back a second time. They loved him, and watching him with them I could see that he was friendly and energetic, but also responsive and patient. After one more visit, we adopted him.

  In the year since we’ve brought him home he’s been wonderful. He’s fun and sweet and he’d clearly lived in a house before because he has great manners. There are a million stories, but I’ll leave it at this: Since we got him, two of our neighbors and Karin’s brother have been so charmed by him that they have started looking to adopt—Chester is the kind of dog who makes people want a dog.

  When we stopped to think about these things we couldn’t help but wonder where he came from and how he ended up with us. We knew only the basics. His previous owner had turned him in to a high-kill shelter in South Carolina. He was on the short list to be put down; dogs who are turned in are often put down sooner than others because the shelter knows that no one is going to show up to make a claim, so they don’t have to wait. The rescue group in Westchester, For the Love of Dogs, found him online and claimed him and eight others. No one knows exactly when, but within a few days it would have been all over for him.

  Instead, he spent two weeks in a boarding facility to make sure he didn’t have any infections, and then he was crated, loaded into the back of a van, and hauled from South Carolina to New York overnight by a courier hired specifically for the task. There’s a photo taken of him upon his arrival that still shocks. He looks like a different dog—a different species, actually—smaller and scared, his hair matted and wet and dirty. If I didn’t know otherwise I’d guess that he’d just emerged after crawling through a mile-long sewer pipe. The only recognizable feature of the dog I know today are his bright eyes.

  Sometimes when I see him running in the yard or lying on his bed chewing on his favorite toy—a stuffed penguin that makes an infernal high-pitched squeak—I want to know more. I want to know who turned him in and why and how such a great dog could be given almost no chance to find another home. At other moments, I don’t want to know any more than I already do. It’s too mind-bending and sad to consider.

  But at the end of the day I know that knowledge is better. Shortly after The Lost Dogs came out I attended a book signing not far from where I live. It was a beautiful fall day, so not many people showed up, but Kim Kavin did. I was happy to see her. I had met Kim about ten years earlier, when we were both working at magazines that catered to boaters and were members of an organization called Boating Writers International. About eight of us had gathered to discuss an update to the rules and bylaws and standards of professional conduct.

  What became clear very quickly was that Kim was among the sharpest people in the room, and I don’t think anyone who was there that day would disagree, the best pure journalist. I moved on from the boating gig shortly thereafter, but I stayed in touch with Kim over the years and continued to enjoy her work. When she told me the tale of her boy Blue and what she’d uncovered about his history I was reminded of her talents all over again. Even more so than Chester, he’d been on the verge of a needless death and only through the efforts of a selfless multitude did he somehow defy the odds and survive.

  Here, I’d been using Petfinder for months, sending e-mails inquiring about dogs as far away as Kansas, but never did I ask the questions any good journalist should, including “How the hell will those dogs get here?” Kim had asked, and as a reward she had uncovered a secret world that few of us could even imagine existed. I knew immediately she was onto a great story—not only in the sense that it would be a fascinating one to read but also in that it would be an important one to tell.

  As with dog fighting, the best way to change the bad and encourage the good is to shine a light on each. The story of the cruelty and unfairness of high-kill shelters and the lifesaving relief of the Petfinder revolution, including the people who labor so hard behind the scenes to make it work, needs to be told. We’ll all be better off for having heard it. You, me, and the Chesters of the world.

  Lately another theory has arisen around our house: Wouldn’t it be nice if Chester had a playmate? When we talk about it honestly, we know that it’s not the smart thing to do. We also know that there are fantastic animals out there who need a chance. I imagine that one of these days I’m going to come home and find my wife and daughter huddled around the computer making those prolonged “awwwing” sounds. I listen for it every time I come through the door.

  Jim Gorant

  The First Bread Crumbs

  I’m the oldest child in my family, but I wasn’t the first to be cradled and loved. My parents’ black Scottish Terrier enjoyed hugs and kisses galore, had all the toys he wanted, and was as spoiled as any kid might be. It’s no surprise that my first word was not “Daddy” or “Mama,” but instead “Mac.” He was my first best friend. It was fated that I would grow up to love my dogs the way most other people love their children.

  Countless photos in our family album show Mac planted firmly by my side. There’s Mac sitting next to my crib, next to me in my baby carrier, next to me on a hand-crocheted, pink and white afghan atop the summer’s green grass. I’m sure a few of the portraits would embarrass Mac were he still around today— especially the one where he’s propped up against a 1970s swirl of orange and yellow, as if he were on some kind of disco-inspired acid trip—but I think he’d like the ones of us two just as much as I do, because we were practically treated like brother and sister. We both got presents under the Christmas tree. We both went for the same walks in the park. In the photo I like best, Mac and I are sitting side by side on the diving board at my grandfather’s lake house, and I’m giving him a huge hug. This isn’t your average embrace. It’s the kind where a child wraps her arms around the neck of somebody she adores and squeezes so tightly that you know she’ll never be able to let go, at least not in her own favorite memories. When I look at that photo today, I don’t just see the happiness of a girl and her first dog. I see the heart of a dog lover learning how it feels to overflow with joy.

  Even now, more than thirty years later, there are more photos of dogs on the walls of my parents’ home than there are photos of people. My mom’s favorite sweatshirt reads “Ask Me About My Granddog.” My father keeps a fuzzy orange gorilla, the favorite toy of another now-gone family dog, in the china cabinet where other folks might display a sports trophy or retirement plaque. I have precious few memories of our family home without a dog in it. After Mac came the Doberman named Tallen. After Tallen came the West Highland White Terriers Brandy and Corky (their official papers read Brandywine Mist and Kavin’s Colonel Corker III). When they died, we welcomed the Doberman Tanner. When he left us, his look-alike Quincy joined our pack, as did my sister’s black Labrador, Sadie May, whom I fondly call my niece. I’ve liked some of these dogs better than others over the years, but I’ve also adored every last one th
e way other little girls love their favorite dolls. The thought of going to sleep at night without a dog in the house is as foreign to me as the thought of letting a trained dog sleep anywhere but in the bed at my feet—and under the covers if it’s cold during the winter, of course.

  When I graduated from college, the first thing I did was get my own dog. It didn’t dawn on me that I might consider living without one. And though I’d always been raised alongside my parents’ purebreds, I was okay with having a mutt. I figured they needed good homes, too. My fiancé and I found the beagle mix by way of an advertisement in the newspaper’s classified section. This was circa 1994 in Cedar Rapids, Iowa—a heck of a long way from my New Jersey hometown, but the only city that offered us both jobs in the news business right out of college. The puppies were on a farm in Central City, less than an hour’s drive away. We arrived to find a beagle tending to her pups in the shadow of a ticked-off farmer. He desperately wanted the name of the neighborhood tramp who had knocked her up, because the mixed-breed puppies commanded a lower selling price than purebreds.

  “What will you do if there are some puppies you can’t sell?” I asked the farmer as I played with the floppy-eared pups in the grass.

  “I’ll drown them in that river over there,” he deadpanned, “in a bag full of rocks.”

  It might have been a sales pitch, it might have been reality, but whatever the case, I scooped up the puppy with the raccoon-mask face and cradled him in my arms like a refugee. Floyd would survive not only the farmer, but also my relationship with the fiancé (when we broke up, I kept the TV, the VCR, and the dog—my three most prized possessions). That dog would be my daily companion for nearly sixteen years to come. He would move with me back to the Northeast, adjusting without complaint to five different apartments, rented basements, and condos as I traded up to better and better jobs at newspapers and magazines in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. He would sit under my desk at the office, by my side at company softball games, and on my lap at night on the couch. He’d even make room on that couch for the man I would eventually marry— though only after a few grumbling go-arounds in which Floyd made it clear he was still the number one male in my life.