The Rescue Dog: Dog Packs for Port Au Prince

It has not been an easy week for me, or certainly, most of us. Images of the devastation in Haiti have haunted me. I was a "Twin Towers" first responder and considered a trauma expert. The sad and most graphic images from Haiti leave me wondering if there is any such thing as a trauma "expert".

Almost five years ago I decided to adopt a rescue dog. My little West Highland Terrier had come from a dark and violent place wherein he had been subjected to horrors he has not yet spoken of and that his handlers felt best not to share with me.

I received an email stating that my dog would arrive at Bradley International Airport at 11:30 pm on one December 22, in 2005. I waited for six hours at the airport, all the while watching people who cared for one another and who embraced each other welcome for the holidays. There was not to be a dog that night.

I drove the 25 miles home only to receive another email alerting me that the rescuers had made a terrible mistake. My dog would be flying in on the 23rd. He would leave Kansas City and divert to Dallas for five hours and then arrive in Hartford by 11:30 pm. I drove to the airport and positioned myself at 9:30 pm. I well knew the crew. I had been in the eact same spot the night before and had talked to them while waiting for the little dog who did not arrive. They were wonderful people and concerned with my plight. I am sure they also thought I was a loopy dog loving idiot who liked sitting in airports night after night.

On the night of the 23rd, there did arrive a little dog. He showed up with casts on both hind legs and he was shivering. He was shivering with flight lag and cold and fear. The thoughtful freight crew at Bradley International Airport jumped him out of cargo hold quickly and placed his tiny little crate on the ground next to me. I did not have to go back to the office to claim him. They had my name and they had his name and they knew we were waiting for each other.

I tried to open the crate at the airport to say hello to this little dog, but he was having no part of my greeting or me. He had been flying all day. He did not like human beings so much and I am sure he was very very cold. I carted the crate out to my car and in the dark night opened the door of this tiny little box. I tried to coo in my best coo voice, but he was having none of this. I stuck one finger in the crate for an offering. The little dog backed up further into a corner feeling so trapped by my gesture.

I talked to the little dog all the way home. I told him of his new house. I extolled the virtues of a fenced in yard and neighbors who had big fine dogs with whom he might sniff and play. The little dog was not assured and he wanted no part of this plan.

We eventually arrived home and my attempts to lure him out of his travel crate were moot. I reached in far to pet him and he backed further away. When I went about my business he shoved wood curls out of his crate and then scrambled back to escape my notice. I put a small bowl of water in the crate and went to bed. The crate was three feet away.

I tried not to push the little dog. After all I am a trauma expert and even though I work with human trauma survivors I have some ideas about puppy trauma survivors. I woke up the next morning and refilled the water bowl and stuck some puppy chow in the crate. I told the dog, "Your name is Albee and you are named after the great American Playwright, Edward Albee. Dont worry about this, he had a rough childhood too". Albee looked at me and shuddered. I don't think it was because he was a Broadway critic at all although it is widely known that Albee is an opera critic of the highest order. A few hours later I went back to him and asked, "Would you feel better if I named you Jim Thorpe"?

He continued to shudder. I did my laundry, my housework and grocery shopping.

He had not moved out of the crate in two days. He sat in the back of his box and occasionally shoved wood chip curls at me. I was sitting right next to the crate and every time he made a move to shove the curls out, I thanked him graciously. "Thanks Albee, I like these wood curls so so much. Thanks Albee".

On Christmas morning I advised Albee that there would be breakfast and celebrations. I told him that even Edward Albee celebrated holidays. I knew this because I had once waited on the playwright on a Thanksgiving Day long ago while moonlighting as a waitress at a country club to support my day job as a therapist. Albee blinked at me five times. He looked back at his dwindling supply of wood curls and made the decision to leave the crate. He made sure I was in the kitchen frying up bacon before he made his exit, but he did it. He hobbled over to his blanket (later known as "blankey" or "girlfriend" whichever you like). He sat on the blankey/girlfriend and all six pounds of him waited for me.

I have never known such tension.

I walked to the living room couch and pretended I had not noticed he had left his crate. His sad casted legs were bizarrely tucked beneath him. He was on his best Westie behavior and had no idea how to sit or stand. I looked over and said, "Hey, nice to see ya". I did that in my best Luke Wilson voice so hoping he would "get" that I was not someone to fear. I said it as if, well "Hey Albee I am here to say hello and I hope you like things here but if not you can buy a cell phone from me".

Albee sat on this blanket for several hours and his head got too heavy to hold up. His little head clunked down on the wooden floor and he cried out when that happened because, as we all well know, wooden floors are so darn aggressive and they rise up and hit you in the head and smack the life outta you!

Its just such a sad situation about the floors. Deplorable, I thought, and told Albee just that.

Albee is four and a half right now. He thinks his small stuffed white dog toy is his baby.He is adament that no one touch his baby and he keeps her in a sacred place behind his toy box.

He loves his very flamboyant "daycare mom" Louis. He loves it that his daycare mom wears more make up and jewelry than Mommy. Louis wears flamboyant Hawaii shirts and boring Mommy wears sweater sets and works in an office talking to people who have had rough times too. Louis is better Mommy because he makes Albees' days important, filled with Spanish television soap operas, the "Three Tenors" and singing. I know how much he loves his Louis because every morning in the car on the way to daycare Albee yips when we are a block from our destination. I reply to him in the same exact way each day, "Yes we are going to see Louis and I understand you can listen to Aida today". Albee then sits back down in his dog seat and sighs contentedly.

He still walks kinda funny and his legs hobble. He falls over sometimes but thats okay. He looks back at you to see if you are watching when he hobbles. The important thing is to pretend you did not notice. Louis says you have to pretend you did not notice and sing. I dont sing, but I so like it that Louis does.

I told him today we might be moving to Haiti in a few months to help out there and that I had filed the paperwork to do just that. Of course, Albee did not say a thing about this. I told him that this is the work I am trained to do and he will just have to adjust. There will be no daycare Mommy Louis and our lives will be hard for a long while. There will be no makeup or very much singing and we will speak Creole instead of Spanish and we are going to have to make the very best of this. I told him it would be hard but that he would adapt. I am hoping we can go and that I am permitted to bring him with me.

Albee sat looking at me as if trying to absorb what I was saying. After an moment or so he went to his box and pulled out his baby and he dropped it in my lap.

I think he is going to do very well in Haiti.