The Forgotten Ones

By Timothy Gorski

Hurricane Katrina barreled through Louisiana three weeks ago. I drove up shortly after to work with the Red Cross. But now the search and rescues are search and recovers as few who road out the flood remain alive at this point, well… except for pets, pets left behind, pets who cannot turn doorknobs, who cannot open water bottles, cannot dial 911, yet pets who manage to survive on instinct alone.
 
It's hot, humid, smelly, and the volunteers are overworked, underfed, and underbathed. The nights are dark and eerie in the city that now resembles an apocalyptic ghost town. Dogs and cats that come into the Winn Dixie Animal Triage at a rate of 400 a day, are bathed, treated, tagged, and shipped out to HSUS in Lamar Dixon for processing with petfinder.com. They’re all emaciated after 3 weeks without food or good water; skeletons wrapped in furry skin.
 
Many are covered in layers of black sludge from the city’s sewer system and almost blind from eye infections. Some become wild and guard their homes with tenacity though their human companions evacuated weeks ago leaving them to the laws of club and fang (as Jack London would say). It’s the only world they know and it’s been turned upside down, literally. Former household pets (FiFi, Butch, Ginger, Sadie, etc.) get harsh lessons in survival as they now roam the streets in packs searching for that next meal while bored Louisiana cops use them for target practice from the bridge, “Yeehaw, got another one Jimbo!”.
 
Chris and I work rescue in the 9th Ward (one of the hardest hit areas). The neighborhood borders the levee where it was breached and has been declared a total loss. Under 12 feet of water just days before, the region has since dried out significantly and is now buried under a 6 inch layer of slippery black slime. A quick pan across the landscape and you would swear you were in Baghdad. Nothing lives here, I thought.
 
Military patrol the streets in jeeps and HumVs. FEMA combed the neighborhood once already, marking the houses with their spray painted "Xs" and codes. Many of the homes here are marked with an "NE" for “no-entry” and these are the homes we target. Chris and I break into house after house looking and listening for signs of life.
 
They all look the same, furniture tossed around and piled against doorways, everything covered in thick mud. Some have a distinct smell, the smell of rotting meat. These are no longer homes but mausoleums.
I hear a faint growl and a shadow shoots across the room, under the debris, and up the stairs. I follow. I turn the corner at the top of the stairs carefully. The growl grows louder. “He’s in the bathroom,” I say. His eyes reflect the light from my torch. He’s in the bathtub and not inclined to leave. This dog knows he needs a bath, I thought.

“Damn,” said Chris, “he’s big.”

A Rottweiler.
 
After a 10 minute struggle we manage to snare him. I put him on a leash and suddenly he’s my best friend trotting out to the truck and hopping onto the tailgate as if he knows we’re going on a road trip. My phone rings. It’s Nancy. She’s spotted a dog in an attic down the street. We have little trouble finding the house as there’s a station wagon in front with, Dog in Attic, sprayed on it in orange paint. So somebody was here already and they left it, “Who does this?” I say, pointing to the message. “Who just leaves a dog in the attic like this? FOR THREE WEEKS! The fire department? FEMA? National Guard? They have equipment for this.”
 
I kick in the door, enter the house and maneuver my way over soggy muddy furniture to the trapdoor in the kitchen ceiling. I climb onto the counter and microwave to get a peak. There she is, bone thin. I call out to her and she doesn’t even acknowledge me, just keeps barking. Chris breaks the attic window from the outside but neither of us can climb in from our locations. The wood is rotted and weak.
 
Nancy shouts, “There’s a hole in the roof.” I stumble out the back door, climb up and make my way to the front of the house. There’s a breach in the roof large enough for a human to squeeze through. It becomes apparent to me that this animal was left behind by her family and rescue workers. She’s scrawny, her eyes are completely caked shut and oozing white puss, yet she still has strength enough to fight me while I pull her free. She thrashes and snaps at my arm but I manage to get her out onto the roof. I glance down at Nancy who gives me the “thumbs up” but I don’t respond. My eyes are locked on the rotten carcasses sprawled on the ground behind her, one dog and one human.
 
The dog on the roof attacks the food I lay in front of her with the zest of ten-thousand vultures. She calms down. A quick scan of the attic and I notice five or six gallon jugs of water, unopened. Jesus! If she only knew she could bite through the plastic and have all the water she needs. I hand her down to Chris who carries her to our truck and cleans up her face.
 
I don’t understand how people could leave these loyal companions behind, many of whom protect their masters’ homes still, weeks after being abandoned. They stand their ground doggedly and attack us when we approach. If the humans who lived here only knew what extent their animal companions will go to to protect their home from intruders. Devoted and steadfast, they simply do their duty until the family returns. But in most cases they never will. This neighborhood is already being bulldozed.
 
I don’t understand a government agency that is supposed to be trained and prepared for disaster rescue and relief that has no plan for the millions of non-human companions. Every other house in New Orleans has a pet living in it and no government agency will save them aside from the fish and wildlife commission. Not even the fire departments.
 
PJ of Miami Dade Fire Rescue asked me to transport a dog for her that she rescued. When asked why she couldn’t take it she told me her supervisor had a fit because she rescued the animal. Isn’t this part of a firefighter’s job description? What happened to rescuing cats from trees?
 
Separating children and elderly from their companion animals by forcing them to leave these animals behind creates enormous stress on families who have already lost everything else. And it creates a colossal job for animal rescue volunteers like me. Now there’s a massive surplus of abandoned pets in the shelters and the overwhelming job of reuniting them with families. Many will never be reunited. Of all the animals I rescued myself not a single one was wearing a name tag.
 
My phone rings again. “Please go to my house and rescue my cats. PLEASE! Break in, I don’t care.”
 
“Why were they left behind?” I ask… time and again.
 
I get a plethora of excuses like: “We were out of town and couldn’t get back” – “He escaped while we were evacuating.” – “Jumped out of the boat” – etc. Many are legit but most are pathetic excuses for irresponsibility and self-interest. These people have serious explaining to do before I return any animal to them, like whoever left that cute little boxer tied to a top shelf in the closet or whoever belongs to the two basset hounds we found living off the remains of a dead child locked in her bedroom in a second floor apartment. Who are you people? I want to know.
 
Now my muddy Honda Element is covered in scratches and paw prints of various shapes and sizes. There’s pet food splashed and smeared everywhere. Bandages are tangled in the wire cages. I can’t count how many animals we pulled out that were near death.
 
I have two beautiful dogs living in my camp now. One has whipworms. She’s PJs (the firefighter) foster; the other has heartworms and is supposed to be adopted out through the Wildlife Care Center if she can be treated. This one, a beautiful young German Shepherd will NOT be returned to her family even if they are located. She was obviously neglected long before the storm and probably wouldn’t have lived through the week according to the vet.
 
Yet this Shepherd jumps into my vehicle like it’s her own. She barks at anyone who even comes near it while I sleep on the air mattress in the Winn Dixie parking lot. And she licks my face at 6:30 am to let me know it’s time for another long, hot, wet, and smelly day saving her forgotten furred and feathered brothers and sisters.
 
~tim gorski
Sept 21, 2005
 Please visit http://www.kinshipcircle.org/katrina/shelters.html to foster one of these beauties.

 

Camp Winn Dixie, Louisa Rd. New Orleans



Me and Noodles. We adopted each other the moment
I set eyes on her. She has a massive case of heartworms.



This pup walks on the ground for the first time in weeks.



Found 2 basset hounds here eating a decomposing child.



Left to die alone in an attic