The Oregon Trail Part II: The Aftermath of Beginnings

My least favorite part about transports isn't the good-bye at the crossroads, oddly enough; it's the long ride home alone, with no passenger beside me.  The mission is accomplished, and my purpose has been fulfilled.

But with this transport, I didn't have a solitary few hours on the open road.  Instead, once the last of our passengers deplaned, it was clean-up time.  The land was beautiful, the air was crisp and fresh, and the inside of the van smelled like a hundred puppies had simultaneously pissed, shit, and vomited and then rolled in it.  There was no way were driving back to Los Angeles with our chariot in such condition.

At Safe Haven, we made as valiant an attempt two women who haven't slept in close to thirty hours could, to hose down the crates and get as much of the foul debris of our journey out of the van.  After only half an hour, we decided perhaps sleep and food were a better option for us at the moment and we would tackle this task shortly after that.

"Breakfast or hotel?" Missy asked me.

I preferred to eat first, that way I could get into the hotel and simply collapse on the bed and go off to dreamland.  However, I did have a brief hesitation.

"Well.... that depends.  Is there still shit in my hair?" I replied.  "Cause I don't know if Denny's serves people will dog poop in their hair."

Missy agreed perhaps a shower first was a better idea, at least given my poor condition.  Somewhere in the five mile drive to the hotel though, I stopped giving a shit about shit, and decided I wanted food in my tummy before showering.

"It's not that bad, is it?" I asked Missy before we entered the door to the local diner.

"No, I don't see any--" she started, and then pointed at my pant leg, "--actually you got a little..."

(Sigh.)  Sure enough, giant streak of dog poo on my jeans.  Yay.  Luckily I was at that point of exhaustion between not caring and finding the entire situation uproariously funny. 

"Guess I can't move to this town now," I pointed out.

Missy and I barely stayed awake long enough to consume our meals, although Missy had fun relaying the tales of dog excrement to our Los Angeles coordinators, and I enjoyed hearing the stories from an outsider's perspective.

Before entering the hotel, I decided to transfer one of the store-bought bottled waters into my own plastic water bottle so I'd have something to drink inside the hotel toom.  As I stepped out of the van, I looked down and realized that perhaps refilling the bottle on my lap was not the best of ideas.  Walking into a hotel with a streak of poop on my knee, dried pee on my pantleg, possible shit in my hair, and now a brand new water stain on my crotch, I was one classy travellin' lady.

A longer than usual shower cleaned up the effects of my messy adventures of dog rescue, and I happily passed out on the hotel bed around 4:00 p.m.  Missy and I had no real plan of when we were to get up, but I had really wanted to stop by Luv-a-Bull, the sanctuary that had taken in many of Missy's dogs.  I had been hearing what a beautiful property it was, and that Liesl, the owner, takes the dogs out running each and every morning on the 55 acre property.  I had to see this little slice of heaven.

Missy woke me up at 9:30 p.m., which is unfortunate because Missy didn't know that no one should attempt communication with me until at least an hour after my coffee.  So, Missy got Crankypants, not Stephanie, to discuss our plans for the next day and for that moment.  Two hours later, in order to accommodate everything we wanted and needed to do, the plan was set:  4:30 a.m., meet outside room, take the van to carwash and really clean crates and van (estimate an hour to do so), forty-five minute breakfast, then hit the road by 6:30 or 7:00 a.m.  I wanted to go to Luv-a-Bull, and Missy needed to pick up some furniture in Eugene, so we should still be able to get back to LA before 10:00 p.m.

We were new people when we stepped outside our hotel rooms at 4:30 in the morning.  Clean, fresh clothes, washed hair, and without the stink of puppy poo on us, we were ready to start our day.  Moments later, we opened up the doors to the van, and the stale smell of dog piss made us wonder just how bad we smelled the day before.  With windows rolled all the way down, we headed straight for the car wash.

Beginnings, especially of life, are messy affairs.  It ain't pretty at all.  So it's really no surprise that this new beginning for the dogs was just as messy.  The white van had puddles of yellow slowly drying, and the crates were caked with solids, liquids, and stenches one could not even imagine.  The blankets and towels were unsalvageable; we were not riding 800 miles with those in the back, even in trashbags.

Our early morning rise and clean-up was well-rewarded.  The stench in the van was hardly noticeable, and our drive back down to Eugene was a pleasant ride where we could take in the sights, now that our focus wasn't on the 51 canine passengers.

Liesl had said she usually returned from running with the dogs at 10:00 a.m.  However, we were a bit early, and she was fine to meet up with us.  Following her instructions to her place, I was in awe of the landscape.  The deep caverns and mountains were dramatic.  The land was stunning. 

It was as if someone had taken my little New England town and pushed the mountains up higher and valleys down lower and made the greens greener, and the country more rustic.  I was in love.

We drove down the dirt drive to Liesl's place, and as we came to a stop in the roundabout driveway, my eyes filled with tears.

I felt like I was a visitor in an alternate universe version of my life.  A cottage was off to the right, which Liesl rents out for income. 

Her house sat in the back, overlooking the gorgeous mountains. 

The dogs had their own cottages and kennels, envisioned, designed, and built by her.  The dogs had rooms, not cages. 

They had couches and chairs, and windows to which to look out.  Even Simon was at home in his new digs, looking out the window at us.

The dogs had a deck out back and a staircase that led to a second floor loft for indoor romping and playing.

 And of course, there was the fifty-five acres for romping and playing as well.

After Liesl showed us around, we got to check in on those pups whose new life began now.  Our passengers, Missy's fosters, were in their own room together in one of the cottages.  They came out and ran around the fenced in yard area. 

How close these little ones had come to losing their lives, and now there's nothing but a bright future that lay ahead for them.

We only stayed a brief time, as Liesl had her own brand new day to begin.  It was just her and the dogs, and hopefully a few volunteers were on their way.  Along the tree-lined roads, I spotted a real estate sign at the edge of a drive.  I asked Missy to stop, and I hopped out to grab a brochure.  It didn't list a price, but it did list a few other properties in the area.

As we drove south on I-5, back down past the Rogue River, and the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, Oregon, I was content in my travels. 

All these years I had been trying to learn how to allow the universe to guide me.  I occasionally falter, but I'd like to think that for the most part, I am driven by that little voice called gut instinct, which might very well come from out in the ether, not from within.

Many people in dog rescue will tell you that they're not saving dogs; the dogs are saving them, over and over again.  I believe it’s a bit of both; for saving their lives, they save ours.  For me, as I drive along the highways and byways of America, it's not me driving these dogs home; it's the dogs leading me on new adventures, and showing me how much fun it is to let the universe by my guide.

Oregon: the place I had longed to see for half my life.  Maybe I will live there one day.  Will I have my own rescue? Probably not.  Luv-a-Bull is my alternate life.  The life I lead now is not one of a sanctuary in the mountains; it is a life led by homeless canines, who wish to show me how much life has to offer in every second chance on the open road.

I wish those 51 dogs a beautiful new life in this gorgeous state of mountains and valleys.  I thank them for leading me here finally, to catch a glimpse of a life that could have been, and a life that might possibly still be.  The future is the open road for me; there might be traffic jams, there might be clear sailing, but there will always be beautiful vistas to behold, and strangers who become friends, and crossroads to which goodbyes must be spoken and hello's are welcomed.

To the dogs who led me up the Oregon Trail, I thank you.  I will be back again, although I'm not sure when and for how long.  One thing is for certain though: I may at times ignore the signs of the universe to guide me, but I will never deny a hitchhiking canine.  Which seems to work out well for me, for just like the universe, the dogs have never led me astray.

The Oregon Trail Part I: Brand New Day

Ever since my late teens, I had this notion that perhaps Oregon is where I would truly find Home.  I had never been there and knew little about it, but that little gut instinct of mine kept prodding me to go.  But first I needed to have my Los Angeles life, so I could hold off on really exploring.  I had hoped that the film industry would take me there on a gig, paying my expenses and allowing me months on end to discover the Cascade Mountains.  But in almost a decade, that hasn't happened.  And every time I had a vacation planned, something like work shut down any prospects.

Looking at the twists and turns the universe throws my way in my life, it should come as no surprise that the only way I was getting to Oregon was to let the dogs lead me.  And so they did.

Candace, from the Heigl Foundation, contacted me about transporting last week.  But it wasn't my usual kind of transport of one dog in the passenger seat.  This was 51 dogs, a co-driver, and a rather large van.  No overnights, just a couple of pitstops along the way to feed and water the dogs, and drive through the night 800 miles to Eugene, Oregon.

I always try to make the journey of anything I do just as important as the destination and goal.  If it's no fun getting there, what's the point?  For these 51 dogs (many of which were pups still being weaned by their momma in the crates), they couldn't enjoy the journey.  It was a 14 hour ride from Death's Door to a new Life awaiting them in another state.  They wouldn't be sprawled out on my passenger seat, or even cuddled up on my lap.  They would be crates, hopefully holding their pee as long as possible, and trying not to get sick.

When Missy, my co-captain, called me from the road on her way to pick up me and a few other momma sand pups, she said she could hear the dogs vomiting in the back.  And so the journey began.

I arrived at Home Depot, our rendezvous spot to learn that one momma dog scheduled to be on our transport would not be coming along, as she was going into labor at that very moment... in a crate, in a car, in a Home Depot parking lot.  This ride was going to suck for those dogs who get motion sickness, and for not being able to get out and walk around for a long night, but popping out puppies was just a whole other variable I would hate to see added to the mix.

My main worry was the dogs' safety.  This is a transport that is done every month or so.  Dogs pulled from LA shelters, and sent to various rescues up in rural Oregon.  These folks were experts on how to get them all there safely, so I had to submit to their expertise.  I was worried about air flow.  This wasn't a disaster response team animal transport van; it was an Econoline van stacked with crates three rows deep.  So I worried about the ones on the bottom.  They were in wires crates, not airlines, so I hoped that gave them more air.

After much jockeying around of crates inside the van like playing a giant game of Tetris, we were packed and ready to go.  We were to pick up six more dogs from Kern County on our way north.  Missy took the captain's chair, and I rode where so many of my canine companions had with me: the passenger seat.  While the dogs who ride shotgun with me lead me on adventure simply by being there, I was navigating for Missy who couldn't see the passenger side mirror--or me for that matter--due to the large crate filled with six puppies between us.

Getting out of LA at 5:00pm on a Friday afternoon has its challenges, but we made it to the Kern pick-up spot on time.

We did some moving around of crates, and hoped the dogs coming in could bunk together. 

With all our passengers loaded and secure, Missy and I literally drove off into the sunset with 51 homeless dogs, who only yesterday were standing at Death's Door.

Aside from Simon, a big smiling lug a of bull in his own crate in the back, we had "littles."  Many had their own tiny airline crates, but some had to share space.  I commend these canines for their patience and willingness to not fight--us, or each other.  Fourteen of the dogs were Missy's own fosters that she had pulled from the shelters in the past month, so she knew who got along with who.  But for the new kids joining, we knew very little about them.  The only one I had any history on was a Chihuahua momma named Missy whose foster mom had brought her and said that, "Missy's going to annoy you the whole ride."

To which I responded with a laugh saying, "Well that's rude; she's right there," before realizing she meant Missy the dog, not Missy the driver.

Indeed Missy the dog was a bit annoying.  We even put a towel over her crate and to no avail.  Even when everyone else was asleep on the transport, she was barking away.  Missy was like that one baby screaming her head off during a red-eye flight while everyone else is trying to sleep. 

When Candace called about two hours in to see how it was going, I replied, "It's going great, now that Missy finally shut up."  (pause. silence.)  "Oh, God, I mean Missy the dog, not Missy the driver."

Missy the driver and I did get along rather well.  We couldn't see each other, but we could talk and get to know each other.  She had done a transport up to Mt. Shasta before, but had never been further north.  So this would be a great exploration for both of us.

People had warned us about how awful this transport was.  We would be up for over 24 hours straight.  Luckily, Missy is a bit of an insomniac, usually needing only 4-5 hours of sleep a night.  I was well rested, having been unemployed since December.  And of course, the journey I had wanted to take for some many years was underway.  I certainly didn't want to sleep through any of it.

But it wasn't hard.  None of it was.  Even with Missy barking away behind the driver's seat, a Lhasa Aspo mix behind my seat eternally digging at the bottom of the crate, and the occasional break-out fight in the back, all was well.  I truly felt like I was chaperoning a school field trip.  Missy was the bus driver, and I was in charge of getting the kids to sit the fuck down, or we were turning this bus around right now.

Only one slightly anxious moment (aside from the occasional bickering between dogs, which always sounds worse than it really is), involved a Pug.  She was stuck in a crate a bit too small for her, but we had no other crate.  The short-nosed dogs always have to be careful, as breathing in normal conditions is difficult.  Breathing while under stress, in a van full of dogs, that gets even worse.  Granted driving through the night made it cooler, I was worried for her safety.  Initially she was going to sit on my lap, but we decided she could ride in the crate and I'd just check on her.  At some point in the night, "Digger," in the crate behind me, had a few words for the Pug who was in a crate behind and above him.  The Pug, who I never did name, was scratching at the corner of the door, and being crappy plastic, the crate disassembled itself and the door began to pop off.  We were about to have loose Pug in the van, as I had no way of reaching it from my seat.

We pulled over in a gas station as we needed to get the dogs some more water anyway, and we tried to find some way of securing the Pug's door.  We tried to reassemble it, and although it had walls, a ceiling, and a door, I didn't trust it.  I said we would put the crate on top of the puppies' crate up front with us, so I could watch it and make sure she didn't pull a Houdini.

Around 3:00am, Missy finally needed to call it quits.  And so, just as I wished it to be, I took the driver's seat south of Mt. Shasta in Northern California, and just as dawn broke, I captained our vessel of 51 homeless dogs over the Oregon border and into the promise of a new life.

This brand new day was filled with nothing but good things for the canines who had slumbered peacefully for the most part on this journey, but now that day was breaking, those who were housetrained notified us that they had to relieve themselves.  There was nothing we could do.  I tried to explain that it was okay if they went where they were.  We only a few hours to go, and although sitting in your piss and feces isn't a pleasant way to start the morning, this journey would all be over soon.

Oregon is indeed mountainous.  I had not slept yet, as I had been awake for navigational purposes throughout the night, so after letting Missy nap for a short hour or two, by 8:30am, I said I should probably hand the reigns over.  The steep mountains and winding roads was taking a toll on my eyesight.  The rising sun had awakened me, but my eyes didn't feel like functioning anymore.

Missy grabbed a coffee from inside the gas station mart, and then we traded places.  I buckled myself in, the kids began to quiet down, and Missy put the van in drive.  As she turned every so slightly to get back onto the road, I heard her say, "Oh, no, the Pug's tipping over," just in time for me to see the Pug on the puppy crate start to topple toward me.

I quickly put my hand up to stop the poor kid from crashing down, but the little holes in the crate offered nothing in the line of reward for stopping her fall.  I saw, then immediately felt, a cascade of liquid run out of the door and holes of the side of the crate.  I flipped her right-side up quickly, but not before I first thought, "Oh, that's just her water dish," and quickly re-assessing, "Nope, that's yellow!" all over my pants, the seat, and a little on my jacket.

I told Missy to pull over and I stepped out to survey just how much liquid had come out of the Pug, and out of the crate.  Astounding, really.  I was about to meet transporters in an hour and a half, and my entire left pant leg was covered in urine.  Good morning, folks, nice to meet you!

I got back in, secured the high maintenance smooshed-faced dog back onto the crate, and we carried on through the stunning landscape.

If sitting in pee was the price I had to pay to be on this trip, then so be it.   When the dogs in the back continued their grumbling about sitting in pee, I pointed out to them that at least they were sitting in their own pee, whereas I had someone else's, so they should just kindly shut up and quit their bitching.

My pants were mildly dry by the time we reached our first rendezvous point just south of Eugene, Oregon.  The first ones off were the stinkiest--and cutest--of them all.  The puppies who were in the front with us were going to Save the Pets rescue.  Jenny, the woman who picked them up, was there to greet each one of them. 

And Missy, whose house these little tykes were born into on St. Patty's Day, said a heartfelt goodbye to each one of them and wished them well on their new life ahead.

Jenny was kind enough to stick around for Barb, who was transporting a bunch of Missy's fosters to Luv-a-Bull, a dog sanctuary in Eugene.  When I opened the back doors to start letting the dogs out, all of which were Missy's fosters, I realized just how great the kids in the back of the bus were.  Not only had they not made a peep the entire venture, but their crates were clean.  They had not defecated for nearly 18 hours.  I was so proud of them, and at the same time, felt bad for them.  I don't think I could hold it that long.

When Simon got out, he briskly walked to the nearest tiny tree and lifted his leg for a good minute and a half, perhaps longer.  Five minutes later, he didn’t wait any longer and standing in the parking lot, waiting to be transferred to the new vehicle, he let out another long stream.

We said good-bye and thank you, and wished them all a good and happy life to come.  These were Missy's dogs; they were the ones she chose to pull from the shelter.  She's the reason they're alive today.  She deserved whatever time she needed to say goodbye and pass on knowledge about each and every one of them.  And she knew them all, their names, their traits, everything about them.  Some she had had for over a month.  These were children and she was seeing them off into their new lives.

Our second and final stop was Safe Haven Humane Society in Albany, Oregon.  The rescue was taking some, mostly momma and pups, but two other rescues were meeting us there to take a few.

The six dogs from Kern, including "Digger," went on their way to Heartland Humane Society, and then the final van showed up to take the rest of our passengers to a rescue in Salem.

We transferred them one by one, helping them out of the crates and carrying them over to their new transporter, and placing them in those crates.  There was a miniature pinscher that I took a liking to, but I hadn't been able to interact with him throughout the drive.  He was one of the last boys on the van, so I decided I would transfer him.  I noticed he had spent much of the night pooping in his cage (it was a house crate, not an airline crate), and had stepped in it as well.  His front paw looked like he was standing on a cookie, it was all caked into between his toes and flattened against the pads of his feet.

"Aw, honey, let's get you cleaned up," I said.  "Just hang on a second."

I had him in my left arm, relatively away from me, given his crap-accessories, and bent over to reach to my right where the puppy training pads were so I could wipe off his paw.  As I turned my head back, I felt it: he reached his lanky leg up into the air, and planted his cow-patty-crusted paw into my hair.

"Oh, no, you did not just do that," I said as I felt him streak his paw down the side of my head.  I looked up to see Missy across the parking lot with a horrified look on her face.  Mouth open, she just shook her head, "Oh, yes, he did just do that."

She jogged back toward me and took the cute, but shit-covered dog out of my hands and I was left a little at a loss.  I had a baseball hat on, but I was pretty sure there was shit in my hair as well.

Later on, Missy described the moment from her side.  "Stephanie, I looked over and it was like in slow motion.  I saw you reach for the puppy pad, and I saw the MinPin eyes all glazed trying to make sure you didn't drop him so he flailed about and then his paw landed on your head and he dragged it down, leaving this streak like he had just wiped chocolate icing in your hair!"

If I haven't mentioned this before, dog rescue is not without it's crappy moments.  But what's a little piss on the pants and shit in the hair, when you help save over fifty dogs, giving 51 innocent lives a second chance and a brand new beginning?

Up next... Beginnings, Especially of Life, are Messy Affairs

Muppets and Mia

Katya, queen of nomenclature, has expressed that she cannot go to adoption fairs.  She would rather visit the homeless canines within the confines of their jail, rather than see their sad faces out there in the park.  It doesn't make much sense to Christy or me.  I asked how is the adoption fair more depressing than animals behind bars?

"Because they're trying so hard.  You can see their desperation," she replied.

Perhaps the desperation is just easier to spot in the open peacefulness of the park, whereas in the steel and concrete kennels, the sadness just melds together into one big sad ocean.  For me, the adoption fair isn't depressing, but it is an interesting endeavor.

Christy had pulled a Shih Tzu mix named Marley a few weeks ago.  Marley was staying with a temp foster--someone much like me who contends that we don't foster indefinitely, but rather we let them sleepover until their ride comes through. She had to leave town for work, and it being Mother's Day, few people were available to take the little dog to the adoption fair.  I didn't mind spending an early afternoon in the park, so I said I would take her.

Marley's initial reaction to me was to bark incessantly.  Once in the car, she settled in for the short drive to the park. 

 
And at the park, she walked to the end of the leash and lay down, trying as hard as possible to not be seen with me. 

Evidently, I was an embarrassment.

Marley got plenty of compliments.  She is a cute little dog, reminding me of a Muppet (and I mean that in the sweetest way possible), but no one was interested in getting to know her beyond that.  Christy said that the main problem was her height.  Yes, all fifteen inches of her height.  Shih Tzu's are squat little things, low-riders.  But whatever Marley's other half of the parental equation was, it wasn't a short, squat animal, but a tall lanky one.  Even still, she weighed in at nineteen pounds, all of this seeming quite small to me, having had Tia at forty pounds feeling like sixty when she draped herself across my midsection.

As I sat on the ground, Marley the farthest she could get from me, while other people's foster dogs climbed up onto my lap, I began pondering adoption fairs from the animal's perspective.  We announce to people that we are holding a fair, and that humans should come here to adopt an animal.  But when I explain adoption to fairs to the dogs, I tell them we are here for them to find their human.  I tell them that they need to pick one out that they like, and that human will take them home.

I truly believe that a dog chooses you, not the other way around.  So as I sat watching the four-legged souls on leashes climb on laps and dive into buckets for water, I was saddened that they hadn't found their persons yet.  Katya's right: it is a little depressing.  Fate, circumstances, and luck are what left these canines without a companion, without someone to take care of.  It is the dogs who take care of us; they take care of us by allowing us to take care of them.  The lead us in our lives, reminding us that life is short (and it is for them), that we should begin every day with a walk around the neighborhood, and that sometimes lying the grass and soaking up the sun isn't doing nothing, but is whole lot of pleasurable something.  Dogs show us how to live life.  Any pet does.

Some may believe that the idea of animal spirit guides is just that: an idea, a mythology.  But for anyone who has had the pleasure, luck, and circumstances to co-habitate with another species will tell you that the spirit of an animal guiding you isn't that far-fetched.

Marley knew I wasn't her person.  Perhaps she suspected her foster mom was.  As for the humans who held the end of the leashes at this park, I wondered if they saw this event as I did: not homeless animals searching for homes, but petless people in search of their animal spirit guides.

Millions of spirit guides are put to death every year in America, having never found the person they were meant to lead.  Some find their person, and the person rejects them, abandons them, giving up on them.  But we humans, we need a lot help.  We need every advantage possible to get through this crazy thing called life.  You may not feel lost now; but the moment you find your animal spirit guide, you'll wonder how you made it all these years without them.

As for the spirit I christened Tia, I received an update from the crossroads yesterday. 

I guess I heard her wrong when she told me her name.  Tia has been renamed "Mia."  Mia is hanging out at work, being adored by canines and humans alike.  They spend every day with her, all day long at work.  At home, Mia follows her people around, perhaps still not quite secure if they'll keep her. 

Or, perhaps she's taken to her new humans quite nicely, knowing that they really won't experience any moment in life to the fullest without her right by their side to lead them.