9/12/05

Brief Update

We finally arrived back to civilization late last night, a troop of worn out, totally exhausted volunteers with far too many scenes of death and destruction floating through our heads. I don’t think I will ever be able to describe the horror, or the many, many small moments of joy that we each experienced. I am so forever thankful that I finally slept in a bed with real sheets, even though the sleep was sporadic and filled with nightmares, but at the same time, I know it isn’t over.

This computer was fired up around 11 last night. It’s still downloading emails, with the counter at around 3,000. It will take some time to look through them, so hang with me here if you sent something that needs a personal reply.

I’m fully aware of the problems that we as an organization are facing at the moment, although I have not sought out the cause of those problems. I am also very aware of the tremendous efforts of all those who are supporting the relief efforts. You are far more than angels, for you are saving lives and that one factor, in the end, is what this effort is all about.

Let me share two scenes with you, small glimpses into what has become a blur of memories, unidentified by the days or those involved.

Far past dark we drove through the deserted remains of a forgotten neighborhood in a rural area south of New Orleans. Occasionally we would pass a squad of soldiers, all fully armed with M-16s. There were no lights, of course, for all had been deserted. At one time quickly rising waters had flooded everything, but had receded within a few hours. Every vehicle, every home was destroyed, coated in a brown covering of filth.

On the end of one small street stood what was once a stables, so typical of those found in rural areas – a small pasture, wood stalls, boards that had been broken and renailed a hundred times, and in that pasture stood eight horses, all starving for food. One member of the local police department knew the owner and has joined us to check on them. Knowing that he would be around to feed them, we dropped off around 40 bales of hay and twenty bags of feed, enough to last for a few days.

It was there that we discovered a small colt with a broken leg, his mother standing close by. We helped the vet euthanize the colt and after the mare spent a few moments with the baby, we moved the body away from the corral area. We found another horse in a stall, virtually insane, and loaded him on the trailer along with three others that had various cuts and injuries. Another stall housed four goats, which we loaded in the back part of the trailer with one of the horses. A broken water pipe had kept the horses watered, but none of the animals had seen a drop of food since the hurricane. As we drove off, those remaining were hungrily munching the hay we had scattered along the fence line.

Turning the trailer around on a small side street, with overturned cars and piles of debris everywhere took a little time, but our crew finally headed out, past more armed military as they searched for looters. Just that afternoon we heard about an exchange of gunfire between them and a roving gang very close to where we were, so the return trip kept us fully aware of our surroundings.

In St. Bernard Parish, the story was different. Here the tidal wave swept though the area, leaving almost complete destruction. In a small two block area, it took no time to find 50 dogs and cats, many trapped in homes that had been flooded. The military was not allowed to enter houses at that time. The houses that they had inspected for survivors had been marked with an “X”, usually showing the word “DOGS” on the front. Right now, I won’t even begin to tell you the stories, except for one involving a medium dog.

We saw the “DOG” sign, waded through the muck, climbed over cars and washing machines to get to the back door. Some of the doors caused problems, but this one took nothing more than a swift kick to give way to a kitchen with an overturned refrigerator and table. We heard the dog barking at us and finally found him high on top of a bookcase, the highest place in the living room and his only point of safety from the rising waters. No doubt he swam there when the floodwaters swept through the house. When the water receded he was trapped without food or water, left alone during eight days of totally dark in a house where mud covered the floor, the tossed around furniture scattered below him and no humans in sight.

He was scared beyond belief, ready to bite, ready to kill. I tripped the bookcase over and talked him into letting me put a leash on him. It took one step outside to turn a raving killer into a peaceful dog, perhaps the way he had been before. In the trailer, he was watered and crated and all signs of aggression disappeared. He was safe, and he knew it.

Once a few dogs were in the trailer, they started barking, and that drew out the other dogs, many who would come running after us, wanting, begging, for us to take them. The small dogs hid under houses, inside cars, wherever they could because the big dogs were killing and eating them. Their escape was through us. They knew, and we loaded them as fast as we could.

We’re not done. There is a massive amount of work before us, lives that still need to be saved. For thousands of pets, life is fading rapidly. For a few, hope came in the form of a convoy of trailers and a mess of people ready to help bring them to safety. Sometimes we could only make a single run. Other days, the trailers made two trips and didn’t arrive back to the safety of the Expo Center until well past midnight.

The mental strain on those who have gone “into the zone” has pushed the limits of sanity. I don’t want to tell you of the scenes where we were far too late to help, scenes where the people, the horses, the dogs and cats didn’t have a chance. We are thankful to have the opportunity to save those we could, but the memories of those we couldn’t save are forever burned into our nightmares.

We are not finished. Today I am working on other areas in which we could or need to be involved, but that is all in the planning stage. Nothing is solid, nothing is firm, and when something finally becomes firm, it might change within hours.

I am not condemning the efforts of the federal, state and local officials who are involved in this project. What they do is beyond my imagination, the problems they face far greater than those of this organization, but we all need to recognize how fluid the decisions are, even to this day. Announcements mad at noon are changed by the afternoon. Decisions that change three times during a day are changed again by nightfall, and as a direct result, it seems that no one has an understanding of who is doing what. Saturday night, after a full day of collecting dogs and cats in the worst of conditions, as we were finally on the way in, after passing through an area where we could use the cell phones, we were informed that the Expo Center would not tale them and that we would be turned away at gunpoint – not a pleasant thing to face when we had animals taking their last, dying breath and we were there as volunteers trying to help those who blocked the gates. At last we were allowed to take them to another intake facility 30 miles further down the road.

One moment we needed hay, the next we didn’t need hay, but we needed people for the barn area. Suddenly 20 people would show up to help in the barn and a deep cry was issued for dog crates. It stayed like that all through the week, constantly changing, constantly a battle for power and position.

We are not there to wave our flag, and it is that one feature that made us stand out above all others. When they gave us a mission, we went, we didn’t complain, we didn’t bitch and moan, we simply went and did it, then stood down as we waited for the next mission. Because of that, we succeeded in being recognized as the group that “we want to work with.” In times like this, the selfish complaints seemed far too petty to think about. In trying to save as many as we could, the words, “I’m tired,” don’t matter. Once they understood that I was joking, the military guards at one checkpoint laughed when I asked where the nearest Starbucks was located. A cell phone contact is rare, a clean restroom unheard of and life is fading fast from those few that have survived. “I’m busy,” doesn’t mean anything to those who haven’t slept more than a few hours in the last two weeks.

Let no one pretend that we are the only rescue group in there. Dozens, if not hundreds of them, are giving their very best. God bless them all, for they are saving lives.

Jerry

Courtesy of Jerry Finch, Habitat for Horses, Abilene, TX.
http://www.habitatforhorses.org/