One of our best clients, Mrs Granas, made the initial phone call to the animal hospital to tell us of this white dog who had run into her yard and was now hiding in the far corner. She couldn't get near it. She asked me if I could send someone to pick it up so it could be brought to the hospital, scanned for a microchip, and its owners called so they could retrieve their pet. Yes, Mrs Granas, no problem, because things are always that easy.
So I saddled one of the techs with the task to somehow get this dog into their car and back to the hospital. Joe pulled the short straw and returned an hour later looking like he'd been to the rodeo and accidentally fell in the bullpen. I peaked through his rear window and that's when I first saw her.
White as a ghost and acting like she'd seen one. Her pink nose was dripping blood and practically scraped off. She was trying so hard not to look at me and at the same time tracking every movement I made. I opened Joe's rear door and slowly reached my leash pole towards her head and lassoed it over her. I gave a gentle tug. She buried her head in the seat. Another gentle tug. She froze completely. Yet another tug....
She lept from the car and hit the ground hard. She was an alligator rolling violently on the pebbled dirt of the employee parking lot. The leash pole quickly began to tighten, unable to keep up with her frantic spinning. I grabbed the heavy blanket from Joe's backseat and desperately tossed it in her direction. To my complete astonishment, she stopped at once. I could see the blanket rising and falling with her frightened breaths.
"You're OK. You're OK. You're a good girl."
Over and over.
I reached my hands down around her and lifted her surprisingly light 40 lbs into my arms and carried her into the treatment room. I held her while the doctor examined her. She might as well have been a statue. Not a muscle was moved. Not a growl nor a snarl. She seemed healthy enough. We set up a cage for her in our isolation ward. She scurried into it and placed herself at the back of the cage and hid her head in the corner. Her bowls were filled and a ID card was attached to her cage. It read "Penny."
Two full days passed. But each time we checked on her, the bowls were untouched, she was unmoved, and her blankets were unsoiled. She would not leave the cage on her own accord. Every time I approached her head with a leash, her eyes would glaze, she would begin panting, and her gums turned pale white. Ultimately, we found that the only way we could get her to urinate was to lift her from her cage, place her on the treatment table, and pass a urinary catheter to empty her bladder.
When I try to explain to people how fearful Penny was when I first met her, I fall short. And it's always met with "Oh yes, my dog was very scared, too." Penny's fear was absolute and unmatched. But Penny's fear also possessed a profound kindness. It was hers and hers alone. She never let it translate into aggression towards anyone ever. Not even in her first and most terrified moments with me. Never once did she even bare her beautiful fangs in my direction.
Penny continued to leave her food bowl full. But she didn't appear to be getting skinny. In truth, she actually appeared to be getting big...ger. Hmm.
The X-ray revealed at least four little spines.
On the morning of January 2, 2009, Penny gave birth to 5 healthy puppies in Run 13 of Beverly Hills Small Animal Hospital. They were all tiny versions of her which led us to believe that the father must have also been the same kind of dog as Penny. I later learned Penny was a Jindo.
SIDE NOTE: The Jindo is the natural (feral) dog of Jindo Island in South Korea. I read that they are fiercely loyal and brave by nature. I found this to be one of the most bona fide facts I have ever known. What I never did find out was where she spent the first four years of her life. Her unfamiliarity with any civilised artifact and her seemingly novel approach to just about everything, led me to believe that she was part of a feral contingency of white Jindos that have been rumoured to wander the hills above Hollywood. As far fetched as this always sounded, it was quite simply the only explanation that ever made any sense.
I brought Penny and her brood home with me that same night, and from then on, Penny never left me. The months spent whelping and raising her puppies solidified a bond between Penny and me that only hardened with more resolve as our time together passed. She was a slave to them and begrudgingly had to rely on me for her own care. I held bowls of carefully curated meals up to her mouth for her to meekly enjoy. Still unwilling to be leashed or even move freely in the house, she allowed me to carry her to the yard multiple times a day so she could pee. After which I would carry her back into the house. Her fear of me was still very real, but I took every chance I could to touch her impossibly soft coat and tell her the only truth I could. That I would take care of her for as long as she needed me to.
The babes grew famously fast and flew off the shelves once made available for adoption. They were tiny polar bear babies with the sweetest dispositions. What Penny lacked in social skills, they made up for ten-fold. At this point, Penny was up for adoption, too. But it's rather hard to adopt a dog out who runs in the opposite direction if you dare even glance at her.
After 6 months, I realized she would be mine always. At this point she began going outside on her own, as long as no one was standing anywhere near the path she wished to take out of the house. She became a lovely ghost living in our home, going about her business and staying out of sight. Friends knew of her existence only through faith, having never seen her in the flesh. She finally allowed me to place a collar on her with a big red heart tag signaling her belonging. She very naturally came to love my dogs, Scout and Marshmallow, and they reciprocated easily. Scout finally had the big dog companion she wanted, and Marshie had the partner in crime that Scout was always to well-behaved to be. It literally took a year before she felt safe enough with me to walk on a leash, and another six months before we could walk happily together in crowded places. Throughout her life there were only ever a handful of people that she would allow to walk her. It was an honor not easily earned and rarely achieved.
My belief that she had been a feral dog in the LA mountains grew stronger as I came to discover her love of running free in the hills near our home. One day while in the park in the Hollywood Hills, without thinking I accidentally unhooked her leash, just like I had the to other dogs with me, and Penny took off. I assumed that was it. I called and called. Nothing. After an hour, she came bolting back into the park and stopped abruptly 10 feet away from me. I approached her at a painfully slow pace, repeating over and over again to stay and that everything was OK. I slowly clipped the leash back into place. I felt flush and was overcome with joy. My eyes welled up and I pet her and told he she was a good girl. And that became our routine, time permitting.
Every time I came home, my dogs would go wild. It was always, and still is, the most gratifying welcome. But Penny invariably stayed hunkered down under the table, watching the action. One day I came home after work, and after getting pounced on by Scout and Marshmallow, I turned to close the door behind me. That's when I felt it. Two paws placed themselves on my lower back. I turned my head and saw Penny standing there staring at me, like she was saying,
"I'm happy you're home. I'm not sure how to show you, but I think it goes something like this."
I knew if I moved, she'd dash away, so I stood there and let her learn to finally love me back.
Time flew by as it does in your late twenties. All the while Penny became the loyal Jindo she was born to be and I was the one she swore herself to. And as Penny's love for me grew, so did mine for her until it became an untouchable and fierce force. My appreciation for Penny's special way poured out into my family, friends, and coworkers as they began to take a special interest in her, as well. It became a goal for many to gain her trust. The only one who ever really got it was my sister, Mary, but she also blessed my fiance Michael, my brother Angelo, and my friend Jon with her timid love.
Another thing about Penny. When I first saw her, I thought she was kind of ugly. Her face was so clouded with terror and flight that it affected her physical appearance. But Penny truly became on of the most beautiful creatures I have ever known. People (specifically Koreans) would swoon when they saw her. I was even followed through Griffith Park once and offered cash for her.
Last April, I took Scout, Marshie, and Penny to Elysian Park for a hike. Penny had gotten very good about being off leash and staying close by. I was never worried about her running away anymore. She had found a home in me and had no plans of leaving it. Penny ran ahead on the trail and just out of sight. A woman saw her and got the lost-dog-vibe from her and attempted to approach her. Penny's fear, though subdued most of the time at this point, kicked right back into high gear and she ran off the trail. The woman began to chase her, thinking she was doing the right thing. Penny became so frightened, she ran out of Elysian Park. All of this happened within minutes and completely unbeknownst to me.
I did, however, realize that something was amiss when I called and she did not come. She always came when I called. I started to walk back towards the car, so that when she got back on the trail, I wouldn't miss her if she exited the park. I had no idea she had cut down the mountain and ran out of the park on the other side of the hill. I stood by my car for 15 minutes, waiting to see that bright white coat running down the trail towards me. But I never did.
My phone rang and I knew. I knew because no one could ever get close enough to Penny to read my number on her tag. Unless, she was unable to move.
"Your dog's been hit by a car. We're on Alvarado and Kent. She's still alive."
I sped out of Elysian Park and drove 2 miles to where they said she was. It hit me as I turned on Alvarado that she was running home. She was only two blocks away. There was a horrible traffic jam and people standing in the street. As I drove up the median I saw her lying in the middle of the road. I could see her chest rapidly rising and falling. I could see her body tense every time a woman there put per hand down pet her. I could see her fear just like I did the first time we met. I hated to see her in that state again. I hated that I had let her be scared. I jumped out of my car and screamed for them to stop touching her. I called out to her as I ran
"Penny I'm here! Penny I'm here."
She heard my voice and leapt to her feet. She tried to run towards me but collapsed. I knelt down and lifted her into my arms, kissing her and burying my face into her soft fur. I placed her in my hatchback and hugged her. I knew I was losing her. I didn't want her to see or hear how scared I was. I wanted her to know she was safe again. I wanted her to know I was there and I loved her. Scout laid next to her and nervously licked her muzzle. I pressed my face against hers. She sighed.
"You're OK. You're OK. You're a good girl. You are such a good girl."
I shake when I think about if I had arrived just a couple minutes later. I thank God that she died feeling safe and not on the street in a state of fear. All I ever had to offer Penny was this. A safe harbor and my love. And she did not need, nor want anything more.
Today we took the dogs for a hike at Debs Park. As we were getting out of the car, Michael told me he had seen a small white Jindo on his earlier walk the dogs. We always make a point to share when we've seen one. We walked the corner to the main trailhead and saw a big white Jindo stomping around in the fallen leaves. She came right up to Scout and Marshie to greet them. She was carefree and happy. Her mother stood just ahead proudly watching as her dog bounced around ours making fast friends. Michael and I both reached down to pet her, and she eagerly pushed her head into our hands and her body into our legs to ask for more.
"She's a Jindo, isn't she?"
"That's what people tell me."
"They're special dogs."
We talk a minute about their idiosyncrasies and beautiful flaws, as I continue to pet her and blur my eyes slightly, pretending just for a moment that Penny never left. She licks my hand as I ask what her name is.
"It's Penny."
Penny from melanie bellomo on Vimeo.
