10/02/2005

Trauma Survivors With Guns & Badges

They survived a hurricane, abandonment and starvation

They survived a broken levy, swimming and climbing

but

They could not survive man’s inhumanity toward anything he can catch

Despite Their Will To Live

by

Debra Dixon

© copyright Debra Dixon 2005

This story is important NOW because of Rita and the on-going nature of this catastrophe. This, and the other stories rescuers and other service providers will tell, are important because we have to reassess our response to animals after a catastrophe. After having millions of dollars gifted to them by the American public to rescue the animal survivors of Katrina those entrusted with that money and task chose to utilize a liberal kill policy and throw the beneficiaries of those funds into dumpsters.

This story is important NOW because at the same time people are being lured back into N.O. law enforcement has turned into trauma survivors with guns. When one of them melts down and shoots a person it will not be because they were inherently bad, but because too much was expected of them.

I’m not much on religion. In fact, I deplore organized religion and judgmental bible thumpers. But I looked to my God and listened carefully to every gut feeling I had, from the moment the hurricane struck. That quiet listening led me to the Gulf and I had no idea why. As a victimologist who has spent the last twenty five years working with human and animal trauma survivors, I had prepared my mind for the trauma caused by a category four hurricane and a broken levy. I had not prepared myself for the reality of man’s persistent inhumanity toward anything he can catch, despite the fact that my work keeps it real for me.

I carefully watched my gut, my instincts, as everything fell into place with a synchronicity I had never seen before. The community gave without hesitation to get their victimologist down there. People stepped forward to take care of the traumatized animals we house at our private park. They slept in our house to manage the import store that is our only funding source. They filled my truck with dog food and my wallet with the coupons they could find.

I realized that this was a step in their recovery. They sat helplessly and watched from their living rooms as humans and animals alike struggled for life. They needed to do something, anything to mitigate the powerlessness that they felt. I was honored that sending me became their gift to the Gulf Region and took that stewardship seriously.

I require the trauma survivors I work with to do some type of community service when they are able because it helps us get up and out of ourselves. I watched as our community rallied to use me for that purpose. Unfortunately we had been given everything we needed but a vehicle. We were given a vehicle by a rental agency but it was only for 3 days and I couldn’t do that. I looked at the twenty year old, black truck that blocked both parking spots in our drive. I looked up to the sky and said, "Well, this will be the true test of whether this is really your will," and then I loaded it.

Somewhere in Mississippi I had to get a room. The doors on the old truck wouldn’t lock and I was concerned that the pet crates in back and all the food the community had gathered might be stolen. It didn’t take long for me to realize just how safe that truck, and I, were. The hotel was filled with Katrina survivors. They called people I was to check in with and filled what little space was left in the truck with their own food. I was naively touched, believing this was the type of behavior I would find in the disaster zone.

A childhood friend had offered me a bed in Baton Rouge so that I would have a place to sleep at night and to conduct the businesses that I was now so far from. I missed one of my exits and found myself in bumper to bumper traffic in Baton Rouge as I tried to make it to her home. The air in the truck didn’t work, and neither did the windows. I wiped the dripping sweat from my face, seriously concerned that I might die in that closed up vehicle. The wing vents had provided plenty of air as long as I was moving. This was a serious problem.

A woman pulled up next to me and told me that my gas cap was open. As I yelled through the windows that it wouldn’t close she interrupted me, "Debbie, it’s me, Susan," she said in a long, drawn out southern accent. She was the only one on earth that still called me Debbie. I motioned for her to get in front of me and marveled at the synchronicity even 800 miles from home. I followed her all the way into her drive, thanking higher powers every mile of the way.

I parked my truck and climbed into her clean, cool van and off we went to Gonzales, which is where the staging area for the U.S.H.S., V-MAT and the ASPCA is. There was no rest. The trust that the community placed in me with their resources was an honor I took seriously. My work was a step in their recovery from the images they were bombarded with daily and so powerless to impact.

Observations in Gonzales

We arrived at LaMaur – Dixon in Gonzales to a dumpster full of stinking carcasses. It was at that point that I realized the U.S.H.S. must be in charge of this facility. The dumpster was parked right at the walk – in entrance where people registered on arrival so it wasn’t as if these carcasses were being hidden and at this point I figured these were the terribly injured animals.

As we toured the facility the reality of what was happening slowly fell together in my brain. There were a few hundred animals when, numerically there should have been tens of thousands. We registered, for the second time, to bring animals back but were told there were far more foster families and rescuers than there were animals and besides, they weren’t allowing any animals to leave the state.

As we walked LaMaur-Dixon we saw few, if any, animals with injuries more than scrapes and scratches. The animals were in better shape than the rescuers who were stressed, crying and fist fighting in the aisles. We hunted down everyone that we were told was running the effort and let them know we were there to work with traumatized rescuers. We were told our services were not needed because, "We have a first-aid tent."

The back of my shirt identified me as Victim Services and some of the animal caretakers were seeking us out. They ask us to go to this aisle and that aisle because so and so couldn’t take anymore. The U.S.H.S. woman who was "in charge" shrugged at our offer of assistance and V-MAT wanted to know my approach and strategies for trauma survivors. While I didn’t have time to teach them all I knew I certainly could assure V-MAT that my approach didn’t include extermination as a solution. That wouldn’t have mattered though because it was all one big power struggle and even though I filled a gap in services, they saw me as another threat to their power.

The LaMaur – Dixon staging area was busting with resources, relatively healthy animals, traumatized humans and unchecked chaos. Resources were stacked to the ceiling everywhere and there was no shortage. Americans had done their part to keep these pets alive for their heart broken families.

Yet pets were being kept from families based on their condition upon arrival. People were accused of abusing their pets and denied the family member they had come to claim. This was the same hard-ball, power trip that the H.S. has pulled for years. They were judging families who had left their pets and making determinations as to whether they were fit or not.

While I am tempted to do the same thing, I know better. It is not our place to judge people fleeing a natural disaster and death. It was our place, based on the graciousness of pet loving Americans to do all we could to save these pets.

Conclusion of an Ex U.S.H.S. Shelter Manager based on the Observations at Gonzales

While well intended citizens donated their hard earned money to save the lives of these pets, the USHS (and all others in power) applied their liberal kill standards in triaging and treating these animals. Animals that find themselves unlucky enough to be captured and taken to one of the USHS kill shelters, while despicable enough, is one thing.

That was not the case with these animals. It appeared to many of us that these animals were, at times, abandoned by force applied by state and federal government. Our society, witnessing this on television sent a clear message that they wanted these animals saved. There is no excuse for the traditional kill policies of these organizations to be applied here and I believe they are guilty of fraud, to start the list. I imagine we will hear that they didn’t have the resources, that these animals were too injured, that there was no place to house them etc… All lies. This is pure and simple fraud.

Observations on Independent Rescuers

While experienced rescuer after rescuer was turned away from Gonzales I decided to go out into the field on my own the next day. But how would I get in? Hoping for the same synchronicity that had led me to this point, the next morning I jumped in my truck and headed for New Orleans. Baton Rouge to New Orleans was a string of emergency vehicles and I watched for one that I could pull in behind and say I was with when I got to the checkpoints. Finally I saw a truck marked LA SPCA on the front and back. I got in behind her and when the bumper to bumper traffic stopped again I threw the truck in park and ran up to her window. She was okay with the plan and I followed her through one check point after another.

She led me through the back streets of New Orleans and I tried to make note of the landmarks where I heard dogs desperately barking. She pulled over and ran back to my truck, shoe polish in hand.

"I’m not really with the SPCA. I’m trying to get my pets. Write something on your windshield," she said handing me the shoe polish.

I wrote ANIMAL RESCUE I.U. and we continued down the streets. Every mile or so we stopped at the military check points and they gave her some type of directions, around the flooding I presumed.

After what truly seemed like an hour and a half of check points, weaving through back streets, dodging debris and downed trees we turned left onto a street of humble homes. There was a USHS van parked in front of a home and the woman gunned it. I was still moving when she jumped out of her car and ran toward the van.

Inside the dog catcher type truck were two beautiful, but frightened Dobermans. On the ground next to the truck sat a cage filled with little parakeets.

"My dogs! Thank you. You got my dogs," she cried.

As she reached to open one of the caged doors one of the stern faced little girls in charge said, "You’re going to have to go to Gonzalles to get them." The pet owner cried at this heartless, twenty-something bully.

Now, I am a disabled, well educated, 47 year old woman who has seen more than I could tell in six lives. As empathic, kind and gentle as I can be with my victims/survivors I can also be an ugly, ill-tempered and tired bitch. I feel my life experiences entitle me to respect and my age should only assure that. I don’t feel people have to "earn respect" and I initially address everyone as maam and sir. I believe respect is a given until we prove different.

As if our minds were tuned to the same station, I stepped in front of the little HS bully and said, "Why don’t we just give the woman her dogs and not cause her or them anymore suffering than they’ve already endured."

As I reasoned with this little power monger, blocking her reach to the caged door, the pet owner opened it and pulled one Doberman out. I knew we wouldn’t pull that off again for the second door.

"Please let me take my dogs," the woman cried.

"I will only let you take these dogs if you can prove to me you have a home to take them to," said the U.S.H.S. representative.

"They do, I promise. They’ll sleep in the car with me."

Hearing those words broke my heart and again I stepped in front of the little girl who seemed to be relishing the control she had over this poor, distraught woman, only this time my intention was not words. Although I am only 5’4’’ I seemed to tower over this child and I was willing to spank her ass if need be. I crossed my arms and stood there in front of Jen while the pet owner pulled her other dog out of the cage, loaded them up and ran off leaving the parakeets.

By this time all three of the young girls on this team were around the truck. They were pulling carriers out of my vehicle to put cats in. We introduced ourselves and I told them of a dog barking, hoarsely up the road.

"We can’t help him. He’s out of our quadrant," Jen snarled, obviously perturbed at my pulling rank.

As badly as they wanted me to get lost, quite literally I’m sure, they had to let me follow them because they were now using my carriers and water. I followed them to a large parking lot they were calling a "drop point".

At this drop point I was told these animals would be going to Gonzales and I knew that I could not work with them. I have a soul to manage and refused to be party to the slaughter of these animals for human convenience. I was sitting in their tent seeking momentary shelter from the sun while they tried to empty my carriers.

Safe at home I have a little Maltese, or mix of that nature, that was rescued from a puppy mill. A dog was brought in that looked like a much older version of Annie Bella. This little thing didn’t have any serious injuries but her lower lip quivered from fear. I had never seen this in a dog and knew that her age, the mats in her coat and her long toe nails would probably result in a death sentence for her.

Another team came in, Derrick and Georgia. They used a box shaped like one that would hold a card table, dropped down inside a shopping cart to move a dog in. Georgia made it clear that this dog needed to euthanized. I started ripping at the sides of the box knowing that there couldn’t possibly be any air circulation in the bottom. The vet pronounced that they were not given any euthanasia solution in the field and got a sedative. When I got to the bottom of the box the animals recent struggle for life and his determination to live were apparent.

In a heap in the bottom of that box, limp, lay a pit-bull. As I tore the box further it appeared that his throat had been slit, ear-to-ear. Inside of the slit maggots moved around. Georgia stayed back and Derrick nervously flitted from one menial task to another. I had an idea what the rescuers were feeling.

This dog had been left tied, probably with a choke chain. He fought against that chain to survive and in the process slit his own throat. The vet gave the limp animal a sedative and I was sickened by the fact that he would have to lay in the bottom of a shopping cart all day because the vet had no euthanasia solution and yet the little white, frightened healthy dog probably had only hours left to her viable life.

The rescuers complained that Derrick would not mind them. Knowing they were part of the largest kill team on earth I wondered if that might make Derrick and I well suited. They ask me to take him with me and after finding out he was from New Orleans and knew the streets I gladly obliged. I wondered how this trauma of the pit-bull would effect him as rescuer after rescuer warned me that no one knew him.

He took me to Johnnie White’s, the bar that didn’t close, and introduced me around. I traded bladder bags of water for gas and we were swamped with military, firefighters and citizens. They needed cat food, frontline and told tales of horror about law enforcements disposition of the pets that were left.

A firefighter approached me and said that there were no rescuers working in his area and it was desperately needed. He gave me directions as best he could but I really had no intention of going.

After Bourbon Street for gas Derrick took me to another place for supplies. This was a ground floor apartment filled with animals and probably 20 people moving in and about, all with apparent purpose. Derrick told me these were independent rescuers who were not killing the animals but were actually trying to keep the SPCA and HSUS from getting as many as they could. It was apparent these people were overwhelmed. It was also apparent they were successfully saving animals from the death camp in Gonzales.

After loading up on supplies Derrick and I took off for an area that had obviously been a poor neighborhood before the disaster. As we moved from dog to dog and street to street laying out food and water Derrick began mumbling unintelligibly to himself. The hand that held his water began to shake and suddenly he threw open the door on the slow moving truck, jumped out and ran through the sludge caked neighborhood screaming. I followed him trying to make out what he was saying. I knew he was finally responding to the horrors he had seen, including the slit throat of the pit bull he had just brought in. I followed him, at a distance until he started running toward the truck screaming, "Fuck you, bitch. Stop following me." My gut told me I needed to oblige him.

I tried to find the house of rescuers and couldn’t. I went back to Johnnie Whites Bar and told them what had happened. The owner told me that not only was the trauma an issue but that he had hurt his foot and now had gangrene. The owner of the bar ask me how to help him deal with the trauma and then told me to stay away from him, that he feared the gangrene may be effecting his mind. Dusk was now approaching and, because of the marshal law, it was time for me to go.

As I drove out that evening I seriously questioned why I was there. How could there be so much rhythm with out rhyme or reason? Had could following my gut have been so far off? How could all of the apparent synchronicity have led me to being a transporter to a death camp. Nothing was making sense but again, I decided to follow my gut and the firefighter’s directions to what turned out to be St. Bernard Parish.

From the beginning citizens were pulling me aside and telling me to go to this school. I believe it was my own denial that kept me from going immediately. Also preventing me was the words ANIMAL RESCUE written on my truck. I couldn’t take two steps without concerned firefighters and military telling me of animals I needed to pick up. I was literally swamped. They were giving me addresses and being from Indiana I needed a local in the truck with me.

The first order of business would be to find a no kill shelter to take the animals to. According to locals that didn’t yet exist there. I refused to rescue animals and hand them over to V-MAT, the HSUS and ASPCA. At least on the streets they had a chance, pitiful and bleak as it was. Sent to Gonzales, as a ex-shelter manager for USHS, I knew the probable disposition of those animals.

Firefighters and military had been good to me and the animals, and when trying to figure out what to do with animals I picked up, I went to the local fire chief. He told me there was nothing yet, that I would have to start from the ground up. He also told me that in that parish it was unlikely that I would have any support from local officials or law enforcement.

I began driving around looking for an appropriate building to commandeer for a shelter. For the last 10 years I have run a no kill, 90 animal facility and while many tasks may have been out of my range of experience, setting up a shelter was not. I came upon a sign pointing me to an animal rescue facility and followed the arrows. The building was nothing but a shelter house, only a roof. They had no supplies, a few animals and at least four vets trying to get it started.

The next order of business was to clarify their extermination policy. Dr. Sara assured me that this would be an independent, no-kill shelter. She went into how she believed exterminating animals to make room or for human convenience was counterproductive and assured me that the animals I brought to them would only be killed to end suffering when the animal had a bad prognosis. This was consistent with the policies of Elysian Gardens, and my heart.

I informed Dr. Sara, who appeared to be the vet in charge, that I was a victimologist who worked with traumatized humans and animals through Indiana University, that I had a great deal of shelter management experience and specifically studied the human and animal response to traumas like this. I made it clear that I would do anything I could to help. All she had to do was ask. I could lead or follow as long as the task was worthy.

I continued bringing in the dogs that I could and leaving food and water out for those who, in hindsight, had the good sense to run. Locals continued to pull me aside, begging me to go to the School House. Constantly covered in sludge and inundated with requests to rescue animals I pushed the school issue to the back of my mind and continued to rescue animals on the street.

The vets continued to work on putting together a shelter. I made it clear that they could "just boss me" and that I would be happy to follow. The vets struggled terribly and at no time did they sit down and inventory the human resources they had available to them and then delegate. Whether it’s a new employee, a volunteer or someone doing community service the first thing I do is find out what they like to do and what they think they do well. This offers greater opportunity for success.

After having told them to "boss me" I realized every one there was a chief, and struggled hard to keep up with the long list of chores I was being given all at once by every one. While they struggled with issues of running a shelter, those of us with shelter management experience were left to clean kennels and walk dogs.

And while this is fine and necessary, it ran the shelter into the ground. The failure of these vets to assess the skills of the volunteers and then delegate left the shelter in terrible disarray. The shelter managers available did not go back, practice veterinary medicine and run it into the ground, we watched as the vets acted as if no one was competent or capable but them. They had obviously never worked with volunteers and had no problem mistreating them. Unfortunately they were behaving as Gods, like human doctors tend to do. They were abusive and demeaning toward those that had come in to help.

One afternoon a vet named Bea commented on the fact that I didn’t wear a bra. I didn’t stop what I was doing and explain to her that my chest was covered with scar tissue and bras really seemed to aggravate the keloids. I simply made some joke about if I have to wear a bra then I want breasts. Apparently this didn’t satisfy her.

The next day in front of about 30 firefighters and military personnel she threw a container of ice water on the front of my tee shirt. As I gasped in shock I watched the men politely drop there eyes. I covered my chest with my hands as one gentleman, who was still looking away, assured me that they had seen wet tee shirt contests. I spent the next couple of hours walking around in the long sleeved shirt I had brought for evenings because, once it gets wet in New Orleans, it tends to stay wet and my tee shirt was no different. Small and scarred as my breasts are I am not the wet tee shirt type of woman.

I had watched Bea mistreat and bully the volunteers at her disposal for days and the human ugliness was becoming unbearable. It is not true that disaster brings out the best in most and the worst in a few. I found that people’s behavior toward each other was generally despicable. And I say generally because there were people who behaved kindly and with sensitivity to those around them. But they were certainly the exception.

As I worked to either pick up or feed the animals, the community continued asking me to go to this school. I gave my digital camera to a photojournalist and told him where it was. While my denial may have been subsiding I believed it was important that I focus on those animals that were still alive.

On a number of occasions, out in the field, I had ask military to help me load animals into the truck or crates. While most obliged I was often reminded that they were given orders not to touch the animals. Inside the shelter I watched as the vets made military and firefighters, who were violating orders when they brought animals in, take care of the animals they brought.

When they brought an animal in they were required to wait, answer obvious questions like, "What color is the dog?" and then crate it and hunt down food and water bowls. These people were spending an hour or so every time they brought an animal in. I tried to explain that this would force them to stop because they had to answer to superiors and that we needed to be doing that for them. The practice continued with these compassionate public servants standing in lines that often ran out the door.

One afternoon, out in the field, fire fighters handed me a dog and told me that they had taken his buddy out of the house the day before. They described the little Westie to me and I was excited to be able to reunite the friends and living companions. When I arrived at the shelter I wanted to put them in a pen together but Bea said no, that it would excite them too much. I then ask if I could just show them to each other to help reduce their stress. Again, "no." This was a power trip for this woman and despite my begging the animals were not allowed to know that their buddy was safe.

I went in one morning with a load of dogs and was told the shelter would not take anymore animals. By this time I was running into young girls on the street who were decked out in moon suits, doing rescue for the USHS. Their attitude was the same demeaning, degrading behavior that they had demonstrated in every other area. When the little girls told me not to pick up anymore animals I informed these young ladies that, unlike the poor pet owners that they were bullying, I would not be intimidated by them. I also made it clear that they were to call me maam. They huffed off, refusing to give me any containers for water for the animals.

Anyway, the shelter I had helped to start was refusing animals and there had been rumors of another shelter opening up down the road. I set out to find it and when I pulled up I was shocked to see the resources. It looked just like Gonzales, busting at the seams with food, crates, water and rescuers. My heart jumped and the hopelessness I was feeling began to fade, and then I saw George.

We had met at Gonzales and I knew that this was a USHS shelter. I ask him about the extermination standards and policies in Gonzales. He calmly pointed out to me that he preferred the term "putting them to sleep". I pointed out to him that he preferred that term because it made his job easier because he was lying to himself. He didn’t have to look at what he was really doing.

I explained minimizing and language. I explained how my batterers persuade themselves that they "lost control" or that their victims provoked them. I explained how my sex offenders use language to persuade themselves that the four year old actually wanted it and how kill shelters ease their minds by persuading themselves that the animals are sleeping and that it is in the animal’s best interest. He wasn’t impressed, but just like the the victims and offenders I work with he can’t unhear what I said.

I now had a terrible problem. I had dogs in the truck in crates and the Louisiana heat was taking it’s toll on all of us. Kill shelter or not, I had to get this load of animals off before they died in the crates. George called someone, I believe he said her name was Catherine and she refused to take the dogs. She also added that I was not to pick up any more animals. That was it. I told George he could kiss my old, wrinkly, fed-up ass and that the day I took orders from the USHS again would be the day I gave up trying to maintain a soul.

You see, the shelter that I managed for the USHS was a kill shelter, as most are. We used a terribly cruel drug known as T-64 (or 67, I can’t remember) because it was not a controlled substance. I watched in horror as the animals screamed and bounced off the walls in pain after an intramuscular injection of this solution. They used their front legs to pull themselves through the area wimpering and screaming in pain. It was absolute torture for the animals and I have no right to mention what it did to me to watch.

I began researching extermination procedures and those being employed by the USHS. I watched as a woman gased a screaming puppy in a Bedford shelter. She swore he was screaming because he wanted his mother. I watched at the Indianapolis shelter as animals were handed over the counter and within minutes lay dead in the cooler. At that time they were exterminating anything they believed to be younger than 12 weeks or older than a certain age.

I continued my research and authored a 20 page paper on the bowels of the USHS and extermination parading as euthanasia. No one wanted to hear it, including the media. It was my first lesson in politics, censorship and the media. I participated one time in that crime. When I took my research to our board of directors they refused to switch to sodiumpentabarbitol because it was a controlled substance. I resigned and have worked to make restitution every day of my life since.

If the public knew the truth I believe that not only would they not give a bloody dime to these orgs but they would put them out of business forever. There was (and probably still is) nothing humane about what the humane society was (is) doing and like the rest of society I bought into the spin they put on the mass murder of animals. I was totally unaware of the secrets they harbored and hid like an incestuous, alcoholic family. And the media was not going to help me tell the community about the filthy torture being carried out in the name of compassion.

Like other citizens and supporters of the humane society I had believed that it was euthanasia to kill an animal as opposed to condemning him to a caged life. Like George, I had persuaded myself that this was the most humane option.

Then in my late twenties I became very ill. I was revived a number of times, spent a couple of years in a wheel chair and about a year bed-ridden. I suffered a severe brain injury that they said I would not survive and if I did I would never walk or talk again. And like most people who have never actually been there, I had always said," I don’t want to live like that. I would rather die than live a handicapped life."

But like most people who say that and then actually find themselves in the situation, I wanted to live. Trapped in a wheel chair, trapped in a bed stacked with books I was determined to learn to read again, did not make my life unwanted. Quite the contrary, like others who survive life threatening and disabling trauma, I wanted to live more than ever.

And that was another point in my life when I learned that it was not euthanasia to destroy viable animals for space or to justify it by saying their existence was too bleak. Just like me confined to a bed, unable to stop the waving of my arms or read the library filling the office next to my bed, these animals wanted to live. They wanted their lives and it is so precious and tentative that I now understood something most people have no insight into.

We live with and nurture the delusions we want to make our choices more palatable. We hold onto the justification and rationalizations that keep the cognative dissonance down. When actually this noise and guilt in our minds could help us make the changes we need to be a compassionate world.

Anyway, back to George and the current life-lessons now facing me. I took the animals back to the no kill shelter I had tried to help put together. When I arrived Dr. Sara came up to me and told me that HSUS and ASPCA had all the resources and she had made the decision to turn our shelter over to them. I cried, begged and bargained for an hour. Her mind was made up and I realized that all the animals I brought in, I had probably led to their death.

As the tears turned to sobbing and heaving I went to the staging area for the firefighters that had become a refuge for me. These fire fighters made me wash the sludge off and stocked me up with gloves the first time they saw me. They would throw, ice, water and pop into the back of my truck and when I had cows that had gone without water for 19 days they filled a canoe I had drug to them, with water, providing a make shift water trough.

They had been taking care of a number of animals, some I had already transported, and when the sobbing and heaving subsided they too realized the animals we had all protected were now in grave danger of the needle.

God bless them for their efforts to console me, but it wasn’t going to happen. All seven foot of Little Jim walked out and I saw the camera hanging from his neck. I looked at Brad and ask him if he would accompany me. He was on call so he could help me. Then I remembered having loaned my camera to Luke, the photojournalist. We got Little Jim’s camera and set out, not realizing that we would soon be forever changed.

I was well prepared for my trip to the Gulf. I had prepared myself for the bodies, the starving animals and any other form of distress I could imagine. In my work I have worked with combat veterans and POW’s. I have worked with battered women and the men who batter them. I listen to adolescent sex offenders tell of four year olds that wanted it so bad they seduced them and their victims tell of the coercion, threats and violence.

I am currently doing a victim offender amelioration in a case where the adolescent murdered his stepfather, stabbing him 5 times. I have had human brains on my bed and found a drowned child at the age of 12. I was no light weight going into this but I was about to see something I had not prepared for and my experience level was about to change drastically.

We found the school right where we were told it would be. It stood tall as if it had held it’s ground for many years. We nervously walked toward the back in an effort to avoid being seen and found multiple buildings. We checked the newer buildings and then found an open door into the older building.

I was told the bodies of the dogs were in the gymnasium and Brad and I, faces covered, checked every area we could find near the gymnasium. Moving a little to the right, the smell hit me. Coming from farm country the smell of dead is not foreign to me and anyone who has smelled it can tell you, you don’t forget it. I looked over and noticed the staircase.

As I walked up I encounter the first body, on a landing. I later realized that this must have been one of the last dogs murdered because he was shot, running for his life. I photographed the body as Brad walked up behind me and then took the lead. The smell of the sweat rag I was using to cover my face couldn’t overpower the smell left by a filthy murderous soul. We were not only overcome by the smell of dead but the smell left behind of someone who was truly evil. I have literally worked with hundreds of offenders. True evil is something I had only seen, felt and smelled a very few times in my career and, like dead, you don’t forget it.

Brad now lead and I noticed and photographed writing on the wall right outside of the door. An owner had described her sweet dog and included a plea that she not be shot. I thought she must be describing the body in the stairwell. I walked into the room that she had apparently been living in with her pets and was horrified to find a large mother dog with her leg draped over, holding her puppy who had curled up to her for safety. Neither one of them had heads. I took the picture and must have screamed.

Because of the gentleman that he is, Brad took the camera. As I read the walls outside of the doors he went behind the doors and photographed the slaughter, "Stay back. Just stay back," he kept repeating. And I did. Seeing the mother dog holding her pup, heads blown off was an image that, in twenty five years of work with trauma survivors, I hadn’t been prepared to keep from imprinting into my brain.

Brad finished the photography. We checked the building for more bodies and only found the evidence of the dog’s humans having lived there, with their animals. We left in shock. Brad unloaded the film, handed it to me and said, "Don’t let their suffering be in vain. Do what you do."

I ran back to Baton Rouge to get the pictures developed.

We took the photos to a one hour developer who could also put them on CD. I warned the photo techs about the pictures and when we returned in an hour I could see, from the looks on their faces, that the pictures had, in fact, turned out. I looked at the pictures dreading the images Brad had spared me.

There was a big black lab looking dog tied up in a room he had apparently shared with his human. Snuggled up next to him, seeking safety was a small yellow friend. Their heads were blown off and you could see where they had bled out.

In another room lay two dogs, one of which appeared to be a Malamute. He sported a nice halter. I imagine the owner thought this would, along with her pleas on the wall, identify him as a beloved pet.

I broke down sobbing in Susan’s arms and the customers, not even seeing the pictures cried with us. The hurt mixed with rage in that little photo area at that time could have fueled a small city. I knew from experience that we would be lucky to ameliorate this crime so well as to fuel a small city.

You see, part of my work with traumatized humans and animals is as an ameliorator. I work with the victims and offenders on how they can find the highest and best use for their experiences. People say things like, "Every cloud has a silver lining, God has his reasons" etc.., but that isn’t true. There is not inherent value in trauma. We must find the value. We must find the highest and best use for each experience. And one of my jobs is to help survivors do that.

For example, years ago I did a victim offender amelioration in a homicide and after two and a half years of working with the parties, bringing them together for clarification sessions and teaching them, the offender was released. At 13 he had picked up his father’s gun and shot his best friend in the head. After his release, at about 19, he went into schools and taught kids how real guns are and the long term consequences of their actions. The participants of the victims family were able to be heard, have their questions answered and move on. That is an amelioration. How I would ameliorate this was beyond me.

Never mind ameliorating, I had no idea where to even file this. My brain has categories for combat veterans, raped four year old and battered women. As the kid of a cop, nicknamed Piglet in the seventies, I knew where to file alcoholic, violent cops. But this? The image of the baby trying to find refuge next to it’s mother haunted me.

Had one of the adolescents I worked with done this he would be prosecuted. If trauma could be a defense every offender I have ever worked with would be excused. Not all victims become offenders but all offenders were victims. We have all survived something and I couldn’t imagine the defense an evil coward like this would present. How opportunistic and cowardly could a person be to shoot tied, tamed pets. This was a dangerous man.

My attempt to sleep that night went from midnight to about 4 a.m. when I gave up, loaded the truck and drove off hoping I could time my arrival with the sun and the curfew. I knew from experience that my life would never be the same and I knew that this day would be a measure of my new world, filled with sadness and information I didn’t want.

I knew that arriving before the sun could lead to arrest and rumor had it that they meant it this time. In the darkness I stopped to fill up my tanks, moving as slow as I could. All of the rhythm and synchronicity that had led me here now made sense. But like many times before I looked to the sky and said, "What am I supposed to do with this?" There was a State Police patrol car parked at the gas station.

I awkwardly hung outside the front door. He knew I needed something and I pulled out the pictures, unusually speechless. Words weren’t needed. The troopers already bloodshot eyes filled with tears as he slowly thumbed through the pictures.

"Maam, this is a crime scene and I am just a pee-on. I work the northern part of the state. You need to find a Trooper further south, closer to New Orleans."

I thanked the trooper with a nod and walked off.

"Maam, if they find out you have those pictures you’ll have a lot of problems," he softly yelled after me.

In an effort to let the sun get ahead of me I stopped again down the road and bought ice. People were constantly approaching me because of the words, "Animal Rescue I.U." written on the windows of the truck. I watched a large man approach and noticed the badge identifying him as Department of the Interior.

Whatever reason he had for approaching me fell by the wayside as I told him what I had photographed. I respected his wishes not to see the pictures and listened as he gave me directions to get to an Admiral Thad Allen, who he said would never tolerate something like this.

"Take these to the Admiral before you go to the media. I would think you would be more interested in getting it stopped," he said. He told me the admirals briefing was at 8 a.m. and that I needed to get there prior.

Before we parted he looked at me and said, "I fear this is just the beginning. Last night I dreamt they were shooting humans," holding up our flyer he continued, "I will give this to the admiral. I know he will be interested in what you have seen and your assessment." I moved as fast as I could knowing that finding the Iwo Jima was not going to be an easy task for an out-of-towner.

I walked right on to the ship and told an abbreviated version of my story to everyone that questioned me. Finally a man went up to ask if someone would speak to me. I was told to stand in a line with what appeared to be officers and while I did I showed them the pictures. The tears were predictable even as they struggled to hide them. The man returned and informed me that I would not be seen. This would be the first of many rude dismissals.

I left the ship and drove to downtown where the media was camped out. A part of me thought they would be interested in what was happening to the animals. Another part of me knows how the media dismisses "unpopular" victims. My fear was that these vulnerable animals, left by governmental force would not be popular victims like women who experience stranger rape or incest survivors. I feared these animals would fall into the unpopular category like date rape, battered women or the unwitting human guinea pigs used by the medical profession.

A producer with ABC chastised me for trying to sell the pictures. I explained to him that our mission was to get the story out. That I knew they paid for photos, we are a charity and they have butt loads of money. Paying us for our work was no different than paying a freelancer. He dismissed me with, "It doesn’t matter because they are too graphic. We can’t show those."

I went to National Geographic who had interviewed me days earlier. They explained that their piece would not air until October, 31 and that would do nothing to help stop the crimes being committed against the animals. He pointed me toward CNN.

As the reporter from CNN thumbed through the pictures a New Orleans P.D. complained that he couldn’t get around my truck. I got back in to move it but it wouldn’t turn over. As I struggled with the truck, he honked, screamed and hit his siren. Hanging my head out the window, I tried to tell him, over the blaring of his siren, that I was trying to start the truck. He didn’t seem to hear me and as I got out to explain, he jumped from his vehicle charging me as if he had mistaken me for his wife after a Saturday night binge at the FOP.

All five foot four inches of me shook as I threw my hands in the air.

"Please sir. I’m trying. It won’t start," I said.

The bright red of his face, the sweat and that tell-tale vein in his neck told me I was in for a beating right there in front of National Geographic and CNN. I knew his mind wasn’t working for him to do this in front of so much media, his inhibitions were gone. He got within a few feet of me before turning around and stomping back to his patrol car. I climbed back in, shaking and turned that key until it finally started. I thought of the dream the man had told me about earlier and drove off, determined to finish my business and go.

I thought of the young officer who had given me directions earlier, slumped so seriously that he resembled a caricature. I thought of the prediction of the man from the department of the interior and I remembered Ray Nagin’s pleas to the citizens to come back.

This was bad. Not one officer effected by Katrina should be on duty. As impractical as that may sound, how practical does it sound to take trauma survivors, insist they work nonstop, in dangerous conditions, without their families, oh yeah, and don’t forget to give these trauma survivors weapons.

As I write this, and feel my body run cold with fear I wonder which one caused me more problems, photographing the victims of this crime or the fear of trauma survivors with badges and guns who were obviously melting down and not getting the care they needed.

By the time I reached the first check point headed into Chalmett I was sobbing from the horror of the animals, the insults of media and the threats of law enforcement. It was all bringing up my own traumas, and like all trauma survivors I was as subject to being retraumatized as any other survivor.

The St. Bernard Sheriffs Dept. was manning this check point and I hadn’t seen this before. As the Lieutenant demanded to know why I was crying I scanned around for the military which had become a comfort. I saw none of those green trucks or the awkward looking rifles. It was just me and two Sheriffs Deputies, one a Lt. They made me pull up and off by myself away from the other emergency vehicles entering the area.

Every one in the "helping" profession has to be on guard for vicarious trauma (being traumatized from the exposure to the suffering of others) and, on top of that, I have found that animal rescuers in particular are extremely empathic, that is often why they do what they do. Add to that that we have all been traumatized in one way or another and that trauma is cumulative and old traumas can be "reignited", if you will.

As the deputies isolated me from the other vehicles and continued hammering me about the tears I became more frightened and couldn’t stop the sobbing. They persisted.

It seemed like an eternity but I finally got the question out, "Do you have a heart?"

The Lt. said, "It’s been broken, but I have one."

Between heaves I said, "The dogs…at the school house…"

The Lt. drew his hand back as if to back hand me and at the same time started moving backward.

The other officer yelled, "Just get out of here," with disgust as if I had shot the dogs.

He didn’t have to tell me twice and I now knew better than to shut that truck off.

I got the tears under control knowing that they would attract more attention. With dry but swollen eyes I figured I could move through the town, wrap up loose ends and be gone. Unless they had changed things, there were only two check points between me and my camera and I had just gotten through one. Them putting my arrival out over their radios hadn’t yet occurred to me.

I walked into the shelter and approached the first vet I saw.

"Did Luke, the photojournalist, leave a camera with you?" I ask.

"No. Why would he?" the vet ask

I loaned him my camera a couple of days ago and he said he’d bring it back. It’s time for me to go and I was just hoping he had returned it. I guess, given the big picture here that camera really doesn’t mean a thing. No biggie," I said shrugging my shoulders and turning to walk off.

"Well it matters to me," the vet yelled.

I turned around to see the furious face I had seen far too many times in the last few days. Another large, imposing man who appeared to have lost his inhibitions for abuse and violence, at least toward small women.

"First of all, you have no business yelling at me and what in the hell’s it to you?" I ask.

"I paid for that damn camera. What do you mean loaning it out," he added.

"I got that camera for Christmas and I’ll take the damn thing out and stomp it if I want to," I said.

As it started soaking into the vets obviously overwhelmed brain he began apologizing and explained he just bought a camera for the shelter. I walked toward the door and as I reached it Robert said, "I have your camera."

I broke down crying and sobbing all over again. He put his hand behind my head and pushed it into his already soaked shirt, where I just repeated, between sobs, "It’s time for me to go."

He followed me out to give me my camera, looked at the pictures and returned to the building shoulders slumped and defeated like the cop giving me directions.

Again, I got control of the sobbing. I had one more check point. My heart sank as they picked me out of the traffic and again isolated me to the side.

Last check point

Passing Convoy of Trucks carrying dead on I-10

Calls made by HSUS to pet owners

Trying to interest HSUS and media once home

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