Jim Gorant - The Lost Dogs - Michael Vick's Dogs and Their Tale of Rescue and Redemption

Someone, somewhere along the line, had kicked Rose in the belly and her insides had been slowly spilling out ever since. It was possible that she had left Vick’s place that way-in the mayhem and confusion of the first days no one had done much to document the condition of the dogs-but it seemed just as likely the injury happened afterward. In effect, Rose was killed after she’d been saved.

Nicole Rattay had cried extra hard the night she heard about Rose, but that was more than a week ago. Tonight, she was sobbing in the car with particular fury for a different reason. Michael Vick had been in the news that day. Vick had turned himself in at the county jail so he could get a head start on his upcoming sentence. Later, the Atlanta-Journal Constitution would report that Vick had woken up that morning and bought a $99,000 Mercedes, cashed $24,900 in checks, gave away another $44,000, and paid $23,000 to a PR firm before showing up at the prison. Rattay did not yet know all that but she was still upset.

For starters, Vick had still not paid the $928,000 for the care of the dogs. So far Rattay had been paying her own way in southern Virginia-just as Donna Reynolds had maxed out her personal credit cards to rent the RV-in hope that she would someday be reimbursed. More than the money though, Vick’s actions were clearly a calculated look to the future. He was starting his sentence early so he could get out as soon as possible and start playing football again. The idea that Vick had a future, that Vick still had potential, cut against everything that Rattay felt was happening with the dogs. Their future was still uncertain. They could all end up like Rose. He had some prison time coming, but beyond that a life with expensive cars, pro athletics, and grateful friends and family awaited.

Nicole Rattay thought about that as she drove her little dark blue rental car across the tidelands and cried.

THE LITTLE BROWN DOG yawns in the early-morning light. She has more space, a soft bed, a blanket, some toys. She even has a name. She is no longer Sussex 2602. She is Sweet Jasmine, and when the people come around every day they whisper it to her.

The sound of the trickling water is far better than the echoic barking of the previous shelter, and the heat that emerges from the soft floor feels superior to the cold, wet concrete of days gone by. But still Sweet Jasmine struggles. She cowers in a corner of her kennel. She doesn’t play with the toys. She doesn’t want to be touched by the softly speaking people. When it is time to leave the kennel, she refuses to get up and walk. Someone has to carry her outside.

She likes it better outside. She can relax a little bit. If everyone backs away and leaves her alone, she can stand, crouched and twitchy, and work her way along the fence, sniffing the air, picking up the scents of the other dogs, watching the birds flit in the trees. She can relieve herself. The rash on her skin that had developed where she used to lie in her own urine is starting to clear up.

She also likes the man who carries her out every day. He moves slowly and has a deep, soothing voice. He spends time with her, sitting in her pen talking. He doesn’t try to pet her much, he doesn’t ask her to do things. He just sits, and he is so relaxed and comfortable that it makes her feel that way, too, at least a little. The words tumble from his mouth, deep and steady and slow, more reassuring than the trickling waterfall in the background.

She has been at this new place for several days, and although the life here is better, the adjustment, the move itself, has so unsettled Sweet Jasmine that she can’t even eat. Every day her bowl sits there untouched. This morning the man comes again, as he has every day, and sits in the opposite corner. Unmoving, steady, his voice rumbling with soft noise. Sweet Jasmine begins to relax.

He takes a small brown ball from a plastic bag. He reaches across slowly and holds it up to her nose. She inhales its sweet, meaty aroma. She wants to eat it but hesitates. She pulls back and looks at the man, her head cocked, her bent ear asking, eternally asking, Is this okay? He nods, he speaks again, the soft wind of his voice filling the space. Jasmine sniffs some more. She waits. Time ticks by. The man holds the object out, steady as the sunlight. She licks her snout. She stretches her neck. She opens her mouth and takes the meatball from his hand.

Jasmine was eating-a breakthrough. Her ability to continue on had come into question, and without some sign that she was improving, a discussion of her end may have soon followed. Now, there was something to build on.

Janet Rosen, the vet, had taken an interest in Jasmine, too. She realized that Jasmine simply could not deal with external stimulus. To ease the dog’s anxieties, she used a rope and a blanket to construct a small tent in Jasmine’s kennel, allowing the dog to hunker down underneath and block out the things that troubled her. This helped Jasmine even more.

In fact, things were improving up and down the row of kennels. The dogs and staff had fallen into a comfortable routine that brought stability and increased happiness for all. The attendants would arrive around 7:00 A.M. and begin by washing out the kennels. This took a little longer than normal because the dogs were so outrageously happy to see them-jumping up and down in their kennels and begging for attention-that moving them in and out inevitably led to a little playtime.

Afterward came quiet time, so the dogs could relax and digest before they received their enrichment visits. Similar to what Nicole Rattay was doing with the dogs left behind in the county shelters, volunteers and attendants went into each WARL kennel and spent time with each dog. What they did in there depended on the dog, and could range from cuddling to playing to some preliminary training.

Later in the morning each dog spent time outside. After the first week, this process became simpler and less frightening for all. For the most part, they were down to one person leading one dog out on one leash. Out in the little yard, the dogs were now allowed to run freely, and some of them even learned to play fetch with the assortment of chewed-up tennis balls that lay around the area. A light lunch was followed by an afternoon of medical visits and toys.

The staff was amazed at how far the dogs had come in just one week. The new charges had shaken off some of their kennel stress and already seemed much happier. The most surprising part was how much the dogs deviated from the staff’s expectations: Most of them absolutely loved being with people and couldn’t do enough to get attention and affection.

The staff thought about the typical life of a dog-sleeping, playing, running around outside, spending time with people. They realized that the eleven creatures in their care had never had any semblance of that life. Limited as it may have been, this was the first time these dogs were allowed to simply be dogs.

Nicole Rattay no longer cried every night. The weeks leading up to and through Thanksgiving had been more encouraging. The dogs were showing progress and so was the case. On November 20 the government had filed paperwork seeking to freeze Vick’s assets until he paid up. The Department of Justice received payment the following day. No money landed in Rattay’s pocket, but it at least gave hope that everyone would one day be reimbursed.

She had settled into a routine of her own, traveling each day to the two shelters and spending time with each dog. Afterward, she would drive back to the tiny apartment, nuke a frozen dinner, cook up some chicken livers and turkey meatballs as treats to bring the dogs, grab a few minutes on the phone with her husband, and then write up her notes. By the time all that was done, she was drifting off to sleep. Early the next morning she’d get up and do it all over again. It was dark when she left in the morning and dark when she got home at night.