In the Pearl
District of downtown Portland, Oregon, on Glisan Street, just west of
Interstate 405, there is a kennel called Jordan’s Pets. Not all the animals
inside have someone who claims them—well, somebody besides Abbi Jordan, I mean.
If there was one
thing that could be said about Abbi Jordan, it was that she loved animals. Even
through high school, she made it her personal mission to become as close to a
veterinary doctor as she could manage, and she made it through the medical
program at the community college in record time. She called Jordan’s Pets her
“practice,” even though it was just a building Dad bought across the street so
she wouldn’t keep bringing strays into the house. The neighbors didn’t mind
having a “pet library” at their disposal, either.
It was ingenious the way Abbi
figured it out: customers wanting a pet could “rent” it if they didn’t want to
keep it forever, and bring it back whenever they didn’t want it any more. If
they chose, they could purchase the pet outright, and Abbi had a “physic
package” in addition to the price of the animal, where she would perform all
the necessary checkups and medical inoculations, and the critter would be ready
to go. Either way, she was earning money, and enjoying what she loved most:
finding good homes for strays.
It didn’t matter
if they were missing a limb or a tail—she even took in a mangy tabby that had
lost its eye in a fight—she would bring it in, clean it up, nurse it back to
health, and let it stay till somebody came along and decided they wanted it.
Very often, the strays were so mangled that no one did, so they became
permanent residents of Jordan’s Pets. There were about fifty such residents as
of June, 2005.
I know what
you’re thinking: she’s crazy, right? How can one 24-year-old take care of not
only other people’s animals, but the strays off the streets, too? The answer is
simple: she’s got an assistant on speed dial. Whenever she needs help, all she
needs to do is hit a button on her cell phone, and I come running.
That’s right;
I’m her assistant. I’m also her little brother, David. That’s why I run.
At sporadic
times during the day, I’d get a call, something like, “David! I’m swamped over
here! Could you lend a hand?” and I’d go down and help her, like, de-worm a
cat, or help a whelping bitch (that’s really what it’s called!) or feed the
varying animal population in the kennel. My daily job is walking the six dogs
she had.
There was Mash,
a skinny, brown boxer with no tail and plenty of energy. He was usually
regarded as the Alpha of the six. Three dogs had all been found in the same
block, on the same weekend: a chocolate Lab with so many battle-wounds and
scars that his ears stuck out funny, a fluffy charcoal-colored poodle with a
broken leg, and a tiny Chihuahua somebody had tried to tie up in a garbage bag,
but who had managed to at least get his body out by scratching the plastic with
his paws till it gave way. Abbi found him in the alley behind the pub on 17th
Street with the bag on his head, too scared to move. When she took it off, he
immediately started licking her as if he thought she was the most wonderful
human in the world. He followed the other two with his own little doggie
version of blind, stupid devotion. Abbi named them Larry (the Lab), Curly (the
poodle), and Moe (the Chihuahua), and the kennel officially had its own Three
Stooges. The other two dogs belonged to residents on our block: the shaggy
Golden Retriever named Jade belonged to Mrs. O’Malley, who lived in the pink
house facing Hoyt Street. Last of all was a beat-up old Rottweiler named Razor.
He was Sulley’s dog, back when they called him Big Sulley, instead of Mad
Sulley.
Abbi fed them
while they stayed at the kennel, but every day after four hours of online
school (some academy my dad signed us all up for to get us through grade
school; he said it worked better, but I suspect it was because he didn’t want
to have to deal with the public school system in our area), I’d go down to the
kennel and pick up the dogs, taking them down Hoyt Street all the way to Couch
Park, where I’d let them loose and pull stuff out of the backpack of dog toys I
always brought with me. Jade loved to catch the Frisbee; she had this odd habit
of continually running ahead of the Frisbee, just so she could turn around and
nip it at the last second, and look beautiful doing it.
The Stooges were
all digging dogs, and they preferred sticks to balls or discs. They were always
bringing me branches to throw. Poor Moe never quite seemed to realize his size,
so the branches he went after were always too big for him. He’d be a light-gold
speck in the sea of green grass, trying his hardest to so much as drag a dead
branch easily four feet long and so thick he could barely get his jaws around
it. That made me laugh every time, and I’d run out there and “help” him by
letting him fetch smaller sticks.
Mash was a
chaser. He would chase little kids, balls, kites, squirrels, cats, other
dogs—anything that moved warranted his attention until he was so tired he
flopped down under a tree, panting heavily. Even then, he remained on the
alert, and the instant something else moved, Mash was up and running again.
About the only
dog that wouldn’t do anything was Razor. I guess he was Sulley’s intimidation
tactic. He had all these scars around his mouth and his shoulders, like a
fighting dog, but for Razor, it seemed, the fighting days were over. They’d
probably been over since Old Sam moved into the yellow house on the corner of
Glisan and 18th. (Greg says that Sulley was a ganglord before Old Sam came along, and he'd sic Razor on anyone who wouldn't do what he said; I don't know much about it, since I was really young when Big Sulley snapped, and no one really talks about it anymore.)
Anyway, nowadays he was the one who just sat next
to me, watching everything, but not moving a muscle. If we stayed at the park
long enough, and if the other dogs left him alone for long enough, I could
usually coax him to at least lay next to me as I sat against a tree, and once
he even put his head on my lap. Of course, when that happened, the moment lasted
only a few seconds before Curly ran up with a ball in his mouth. The other dogs
made Razor irritable; not mad—he wouldn’t attack them—he’d just sit there and
growl at them. It was enough, though; none of the other dogs wanted to risk
finding out if Razor would chase them. Well, everyone, that is, except Moe. Moe
never seemed to understand anything, much less the savage growls of an angry
old Rottweiler, and he had unquenchable faith in every dog’s willingness to
play with him. One bite and a snap from Razor, though, and Moe wouldn’t even
come at me from the front. I’d either have to move away from Razor, or I’d hear
feverish panting coming from behind me, as Moe was trying to be as stealthy as
possible.
Most of the
time, though, Razor would just sit. I’d try to get him to get up, walk around
with me, but he’d only come when I walked out of his sight. Then he’d stalk
over to where he last saw me, and sit again, his triangular ears stooped with
age, and his eyes keen as ever. I spent much of my afternoons this way, and I
loved every minute of it.
Usually after
I’d been at the park only a couple hours or so, my cell phone would ring again,
this time with a message from Johnny, Sulley’s son and my best friend.
“Come quick,”
Johnny would say, and I could hear Sulley screaming his head off in the
background, “he’s bad, and getting worse.”
“I’ll be right
over,” and with that I would round up all the dogs (I’d trained them to not
only come when I whistled, but bring their toys as well), and take them back to
the Kennel, and then it was off to Johnny’s house, the big green-grey-colored
mansion on the corner of 18th and Hoyt.
I’d always have
to come in the back door, because Sulley would be in the front room with a shot
gun, screaming out curses and threats to the demons in his head. Johnny would
point me to the music room and then disappear to the basement.
In the music
room was the key to maintaining Sulley’s sanity: the piano. I would thank God
for the piano lessons Dad made me take as a young kid, because now it was the
only thing that helped keep Sulley out of the sanitarium. I played music until
I heard his shouting stop, and then I’d hear his shuffling, creaking step
behind me. I tried not to look over my shoulder as I continued to play, because
I always saw the barrel of the shotgun first, before Sulley approached the
doorway. He’d stand there, watching me, fury etched on his wrinkled, sagging
face, then as I continued to play, he would slowly creep into the room, heading
for an armchair next to the piano. I played him into the armchair, and I would
keep on playing until I heard him snore. Once Sulley was asleep, I was free to
go home without fear of any more fits for at least the next eight hours. After
that it was anybody’s guess: three in the morning, five, eight—only once had he
ever had another fit as soon as he was conscious, and I think that was because
somebody’s car backfired at about one AM, so I got the call to come play again.
I spent much of
my evenings this way, and it scared me every time.
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