The ball and chain

Check out the 60-pound weight attached to the groom's ankle. That's the full weight of commitment.


Just because I mean well doesn't mean my efforts are always appreciated.

Last night I was blogging from a restaurant bar when in rolled a party of 15. The young men were celebrating. One of them was getting married, and this was his bachelor party.

I asked permission to take photos of the joyous event, and started snapping away. When the pop of my flashbulb finally died down and I returned to my booth to start writing, I figured that was the end of the story.

But that's when she attacked.

The battleax landed at my table like a bat out of hell. She's married to one of the men, and she was raging angry, demanding to know where my photos--which were tame, by the way--were going to end up.

When I didn't back down, her mouth started spewing bitter venom.

"Do you even have a husband of your own?" she mocked, just before asking if I wanted to fight.

There are those who will criticize me for not defusing the situation and backing down. But in my experience, there's only one way to tame a bully. Stand up to her.

I ordered her to step off. I told her the men had consented to the photographs being taken. And then I called her a "mean mommy" trying to control everybody.

That did it.

She stormed off, and peace was restored.

Holy matrimony.

Dogma rules

Photo taken by Steven Kennedy.


Unexpected meetings with kind souls. That's the food that feeds my soul. Tonight I met Jen Larson, a 23-year-old who is tender and sweet. She already knows she wants a family, but more importantly to me, she wants a rescue dog.

"It completes the whole family picture," Jen said. "When no one else is around, you have the dog."






Jen Larson already sees family dogs in her future.

Veg out

Erica Epperson's art show opened today in Bellingham, Wash. at award-winning Boundary Bay Brewery.


One of the best parts of my job is mixing business with pleasure. Scouting scintillating stories for you to read draws me to people I like mingling with, even when I'm tempted to seclude from society. Check out the earthy stylings from my friend Erica Epperson. She makes a simple vegetable into a masterpiece. Here's the story I helped write for her bio. It reveals the source of her inspiration.

* * * * *

The relationship between human beings and their Earth is one of sustenance and dependence.

My acrylic and oil paintings are created to honor this connection. I see beauty in the so-called ordinary around me, particularly food items. Food that appears simple and uneventful at first blush. My work usually portrays food I have grown and eaten myself.

Each piece of an artist’s work has its own spirit. That makes it an object of power, providing inspiration, healing and meaning to people who are receptive to its beauty.

That power has led the artwork of others to influence my own style. My most profound influences are the art deco painters of the 1930s and 40s, and the Works Progress Administration murals created in the 1930s during the Great Depression. These paintings funded by the New Deal are tangible testaments to the hearty dreams of the American people. Aspirations that couldn’t be stolen, not even in the face of large-scale economic disaster.

During the Great Depression, communities gained strength by nurturing hope and working together. With our modern society facing its own struggles, the WPA paintings are a historical and inspirational example of triumph.

From my early years as a kid growing up in rural Northern California, I knew I was meant to paint, and taught myself. Art stayed a consistent and vibrant theme in my daily life. When I moved to Santa Cruz, then San Jose Bay, I operated businesses doing sign-making, mural painting, even a tattoo studio. I’ve since settled in Bellingham with my family, in this region that provides me with deep and rich fodder for my work.



A nod to the papoose

You say tomaaaaato I say tomooooto...


Hot little persimmon

Fruit of the loam

This is the most beautiful and complex artichoke I've ever seen.


I admit it, I'm uncouth. I didn't grow up visiting museums. Never taken an art history class. I'm mildly embarrassed to admit it took the popular culture book Da Vinci Code for me to comprehend how art relates to the world.

Now that I'm finally starting to get it, I'm growing addicted to something I don't understand.

The fodder that's feeding my addiction this week is coming from Erica Epperson. The self-trained art deco-inspired artist opened her show at one of my favorite spots, the Boundary Bay Brewery in Bellingham, Wash.

I'm enamored with her work, probably because she shows fruits and vegetables in such gorgeous light.


Erica Epperson brings sunshine wherever she goes.


There's something magical about rhubarb. On the Prairies, rhubarb grows wild all over the place. Little kids pull it out, pour sugar on it and suck on the sour stalks. Rhubarb and strawberry pies are pure heaven. Perfect blend of sour and sweet.

An animal by any other name is just a human

I'm sure this pup wouldn't appreciate being associated with the neighborhood playboy when he's labeled a "dog".


When a man leers at a girl, he gets called a pig. If he’s stepping out on his woman, he’s a dog. Someone who finks out his friends is a rat. A shifty character might be labeled a snake in the grass. If he’s gutless, he’s a chicken.

As for someone being called an animal in general, that could be used to describe rapists, murderers, pretty much any person lacking moral fiber and good character.

Why are animals getting all the blame for our unsavory human characteristics?

I’m not taking a writerly sanctimonious stand against society here. I’m guilty of it too. I catch myself pinning ugly human traits on unsuspecting animals, although much less lately since I decided enough was enough. Now I make an out-loud correction to try to reprogram my mental descriptive go-to phrase, and possibly the listener’s too.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we stopped bagging on the animals for our shortcomings. That would be the humane—and human—thing to do.

Baying at the new moon

We took pages and pages of notes on relationships.

Tonight I heard a cry for help.

It came from a pizza parlor 20 minutes away.

I had snuggled in for the night with my cats and my laptop, fully resolved to increase my daily word count.

And then a friend called with a problem.

Actually it wasn’t really his problem. He was counseling his best friend, whose wife had just confessed she had strayed with another man.

I knew his advice would be solid. But there’s no substitute for a woman’s touch.

I hit the road, and once I got there, it wasn’t long before the elephant in the room was on the table. The friend shared the details. We communed. We talked about the past. The mistakes, the regrets. Miniscule and significant. The range of events that led to this catastrophic confession.

He talked and I took notes, drew pictures, made charts that mapped out the breakdown of a love affair. This event was the crash, but the derailment and communication breakdown had happened long ago.

In the end, friendship superseded heartbreak, and good times were had by all.

Now that’s true romance.

A Ray of sunshine

Barely a day goes by that I don't feel compelled to write.

It balances my mood, resets my counter, and puts the world back in order.

So when I read this passage by Ray Bradbury, I couldn't help but feel kinship with a writer I've never known. A writer who has achieved success beyond my wildest wordsmith dreams. I feel humble and filled with gratitude for what his words have done for me today.

* * *

To sum it all up, if you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling.

You must write every single day of your life.

You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next.

You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads.

I wish for you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime.

I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you.

May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories—science fiction or otherwise.

Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.

- Ray Bradbury, one of the greatest authors America has ever known

Compassion is on the menu

I'm not the only restaurant patron who's inquired about cat sisters Kentucky and West Virginia. They preen themselves while on display, right in front of the bar's windows that look onto the alley.


Just like the mining states they are named after, Kentucky and West Virginia know what it’s like to hit the mother lode.

Rather than finding an ore vein, these cats have struck gold of another sort: a steady food source. Four years ago, the cat sisters were born underneath a Greek restaurant in downtown Bellingham.

“I thought they’re kind of like coal miners, living underground most of the time,” said Café Akroteri’s prep cook Jim Clift, the cats’ primary caregiver. “You have to respect coal miners. It’s one of the toughest jobs.”

People patronize restaurants because they’re famished. Hungry cats are no different. It’s common to find stray cats eking out an existence behind restaurant and hotel kitchens, scrounging for discarded food scraps that go out the back door as garbage.

But what’s not nearly so common is finding restaurant staffers willing to take responsibility for these feral cats. Many are too wild to be petted and cuddled. Yet they aren't wild enough to survive without human kindness.

Jim, who has worked at Café Akroteri for 16 years, couldn’t turn away from these creatures in need. He took the lead and started feeding the cats first, but his example has been followed by other Akroteri staff, a resident living upstairs, even the restaurant’s patrons, who bring food for the cats.

“They're pretty spoiled,” said 38-year-old Jim. “They’ve got a lot of fans.”

Jim knows the cats don’t lead an ideal existence. But he also realizes feral cats don’t have many options. Because they are closer to wild animals than domesticated pets, shelters usually have no option but to euthanize them.


“I’m kind of prepared for something to happen to them. I know they live a hard life. People go racing down this alley sometimes.”

Letting the cats stay isn’t just a humane decision. It’s a smart one, too. They ensure mice and rats stay away. And removing these ones from the premises just leaves space for more to come in. There’s an abundance of stray cats trying to survive life on the streets, so where there’s food, there will be cats.

The cats got their names because Jim respects miners risking their lives. But he cares for the cats because he respects life.

And that makes it a kindness all around. I’m sure Kentucky and West Virginia would agree.

* * *

Stay with me on the kitty trail, because this story isn’t over…
Jim’s been a responsible guardian. A rescue group helped him trap and spay Kentucky and West Virginia. Now that a third cat’s joined the group, he wants to fix that one too. The other rescue group isn’t operating anymore, so I’ve agreed to help. Early tomorrow, I’ll bring my traps to Akroteri and attempt to snag the orange tabby. Then I’ll drive him to Ferndale to be fixed on the WeSnip van. I’ve been wanting to cover the important work being done on WeSnip by Patricia Maas and her crew for ages now, so this will be the perfect opportunity to do that. Story to follow.


Jim Clift has both two-legged and four-legged clientele showing up for his meals.


Fresh water is always on the menu at the Akroteri Kitty Cafe.



Alley cats need a hand from humans to survive life on the streets.

Follow animal instincts to vet a vet

Dr. Kimberly Barron works on this Labrador's ears.


When people ask me how to choose a vet, I always tell them the same thing.

If the veterinary team in question is committed to assisting the animal rescue mission, then you’ve found a keeper.

It’s true, I admit it—I’m biased. But after two decades as an animal rescuer, this litmus test has served me well. Veterinarians and their assistants who support animal welfare are almost always knowledgeable and compassionate. And they have the animals’ best interests at heart. Plus they care about the well-being of all creatures in their community, not just the clinic’s bottom line.

When I moved to Bellingham, Washington in 2001, one of my first stops was a visit to Dr. Kimberly Barron, owner of Northshore Veterinary Hospital.

Kim has served on the Whatcom Humane Society board of directors. She’s donated her time and medical skills to rescue groups and supported initiatives such as spay-neuter days at her clinic. She understands the issues.

Eight years later, I’m proud to call Kim a friend.

When my cat Opus fell sick recently, the knowledge that I had Kim in the pocket was a source of great comfort. If the worst happened, Kim would be there to help me take Opus’ life as humanely and painlessly as possible.

Kim’s competence alone would have been enough to endear her to me. And her personality complements her skills. Kind but not gushy, matter-of-fact but nowhere near cold, Kim has a friendly, good-humored demeanor that inspires serenity and soothes grief.

But that doesn’t mean she isn’t affected by her work.

Those in veterinary medicine who truly care about their charges face the same risks of compassion fatigue and burnout that test shelter workers and other rescuers.

But there’s a difference. At a shelter or rescue group, the human guardian most often walks away, leaving the animal behind as the only creature in need.

In a vet clinic, a human being is the first patient to present in need, characterized by sorrow, heartbreak, or other personal problems such as divorce, illness, and job loss, even a need to give up an animal because of an unexpected move or other change in circumstances.

At Kim’s clinic on Electric Avenue, any one of her clients might be losing a member of the family on any day. Or every day.

That means Kim and the rest in her veterinary ranks minister to the people just as much as they help the animals.

It takes its toll on her to support her clients’ emotions.

“Sometimes it comes out as being really irritable or depressed, and I don’t really know where it’s coming from,” Kim said. “And then I realize I’ve been doing a ton of euthanasias. Even if it’s for the good of the animals, it’s still really hard to do it.”

Before I arrived with Opus on her final day, Kim had decided she was going to take a break from euthanizing until the following week. She had already taken the lives of two cats and a dog in the previous 24 hours.

When the bodies start to pile up, Kim doesn’t sleep well.

“It’s not guilt or remorse,” she said. “I know it needs to be done. But it takes its toll.”

Another veterinarian at her clinic had offered to take over for a bit while Kim recuperated.

But in the end, Kim decided to perform the procedure. To follow the case through to its final conclusion.

It wasn’t an easy euthanasia. Opus doesn’t react well to leaving her home environment. Just like when she’s receiving a simple vaccination, Opus fought the injection that would shut her system down for good.

It’s the third cat Kim has euthanized for me in four years.

I know there will be more goodbyes in my future. But I’m comforted to think that Kim will be there, and not just for my animals.

For me, too.


To read the full story of Opus, go to "And then there were eight".

If you are interested in hearing more about Dr. Kim Barron and her animal rescue experiences, check out this story I wrote about animal hoarding. Kim's story is the lede.


Janet Erchinger-Davis rescued this pug from Craigslist to be a friend for her other four-year-old pug St. Coco. This one got an even loftier name: Basil the Great.


This woman brought a bird in for her daughter Korren, who has three rescued birds including one saved from a rodeo clown. This one, a sulfur-crested Cockatoo named Daphne, came by for a check-up.



The clinic had a record-setting day for number of teeth pulled: 42. Nine came from the mouth of eight-year-old Chunky B, a rescued Chihuahua who had been fed people food his whole life. He's been fixed up good as new, except for a new feature that's oddly endearing: his tongue has a tendency to stick out.


Licensed veterinary technician Rose Eastman does the Kennel Card Shuffle.

Not born in the USA

We all received tiny flags to wave on our special day.

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
"

- Excerpt from a sonnet called The New Colossus. It was written by Emma Lazarus in 1883 and mounted on a plaque inside the Statue of Liberty. The poem embraces the millions of immigrants who have made the United States their adopted homeland.

* * *

I swore yesterday.

Except this time, everyone approved.

I was taking an oath.

A promise to be a good and loyal citizen to my adopted homeland, the United States. I moved here 12 years ago. Me and three cats in a U-Haul driving across the Canadian border near Vancouver, on my way to Southern California.

But until yesterday, I didn’t feel like I really belonged. Just like felons, I couldn’t even vote, a particularly sore spot for me in last year’s historical election of the first African American president.


Yesterday that all changed.

In Seattle, 111 people including me from 46 countries were claimed by the United States in a ceremony that occurs at the Department of Homeland Security offices about three times a week. It moved me to tears.

Besides receiving our naturalization certificate and congratulations from government officials who were on hand, a couple of short videos were screened. President Barack Obama spoke to us with a personal, heartfelt message.

“This is a historical day, and you’ll never pass this way again. Citizens such as yourself have enriched this country socially, culturally and economically. Use your freedoms and your talents to contribute to the good of the nation and the world.”

I don’t feel like I’ve given up my love for the place that birthed me. But because I’ve made America my homeland, I want to feel like I’ve got rights in this nation, too.

And now I belong to both.

I’ve been accepted by not just one, but two of the greatest countries on planet Earth.

And that’s just dandy—or shall we say, Yankee Doodle Dandy—with me.



I have the privilege of keeping dual citizenship, so now I'm a proud member of both Canada and the U.S.


Nearly one-quarter of the world's countries were represented in this single ceremony.

Here is the oath that all new citizens of the United States must swear to uphold:

I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God.

While being in the United States means we have the right to bear arms, that doesn't mean weapons are welcomed at the swearing in ceremony. This location also had an immigration detention center, so anything even vaguely threatening was confiscated. The guards had set up this display case of confiscated items. One guard told me that this many items are confiscated every two weeks.

It was truly a flag-waving moment outside after we had all completed this process. Here I'm posed with Judy Mikel from the Philippines and Daniela Alexakis from Romania. They both live in Vancouver, Washington.

Addicted to love

Krista Wiendat shares a bonding moment with baby John.


My interest in photographing human beings used to be lackluster at best. But I have to admit that’s changing. As my hope swells in the power of people to better the world, humans have started catching my shutter’s eye.

Here’s one from the mouths of babes.

I spotted Justin Vance and Krista Wiendat standing outside a restaurant cradling their baby boy John. The baby had his mom’s eyes, but his dad said he sees his son’s striking resemblance to himself at that age.

“He looks just like I do in my baby pictures,” Justin said proudly.

John is three months and five days old. His parents are young, just 22.

“We aren’t a couple,” Justin informed me.

Justin and Krista might not be together as a couple, but because of John’s arrival, he makes them family just the same.


While Krista and Justin cuddled young John, a gospel revival amped up into full swing across the street at the farmer's market.

A road-worthy friendship

It didn't take any provocation for Adam Wayne to display his body art.


There are times when I wear my work in animal rescue like a hairshirt: it inspires reactions that are uncomfortably itchy.

Last week, I was relaxing in a local pub when my hairshirt caused someone else to show me his.

The man in the photo—who would only identify himself by his first and middle names, Adam Wayne—partially disrobed when he found out what I do.

Granted, it wasn’t me who inspired his undress.

He was driven by love for his pit bull mix, Charlie. To show me the tattoo he got as a tribute to his beloved dog. It’s an exact tracing of Charlie’s paw print, complete with nails.

Charlie had a hairshirt of his own to wear and bear just before he met Adam. He was the only survivor of a cruel act.

One of Adam's friends had been driving on the 5 freeway in Whatcom County, Washington when he saw the terrible sight.

Someone had treated a litter of a half-dozen puppies just like litter, offering them no more kindness than an ashtray loaded with cigarette butts tossed from a vehicle’s window. By the time Adam’s friend stopped to help, the puppies were nothing more than lifeless lumps in the road.

Then, as he drove on, a miracle.

Little Charlie, just a few weeks old, was sitting right underneath the sign for a rest stop.

Waiting for someone to stop and rescue him.

That night, Adam went by his friend’s place to visit the sole survivor. Love was instant and ardent.

“I knew when I looked at him that he was mine. I begged my friend to give him to me, and he did.”

Thirty-one-year old Charlie and nine-year-old Adam have been together ever since. The 80-pound dog is a mix of a pit bull breed, Labrador and Greyhound.

“He’s my kid for sure. He loves me unconditionally. Anything I do wrong, he doesn’t care. He does a prance when he sees me.”

Life for Charlie didn’t start out as a freeway of love. But he’s certainly found himself in a partnership that’s been road tested.



Notice Adam even included the dog's nails as part of the tattoo.

A vow to be there

A Jewel of a girl shares a laugh with Mokie, a gem of a cat.

In sickness and in health.

That’s a promise human beings make to each other. That we will be there no matter what. Through thick and thin. In good times, and in bad.

But it’s a promise that’s broken often.

Except by the animals. They don’t know any other way to be.

This morning, I stopped in to visit my dear friend Julie Davis, whom I affectionately call Jewel. We met eight years ago, connecting instantly because of two twinned traits: an offbeat sense of humor, and our love of animals. We both support our local animal shelter—the Whatcom Humane Society—and sit on the board of the capital campaign committee together.

Julie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer on June 30. Just two weeks later, she faced major surgery at Swedish Medical Center in Seattle. Ninety-eight percent of the cancer was cut out of her. She’s undergoing chemotherapy until the end of the year to eradicate the rest.

Family and friends have rallied around Julie since she was diagnosed. But no one has been there for her as steadfastly and loyally as her two cats.

Eight-year-old Mokie and 12-year-old Ricky don’t leave Julie’s side for long.

Chemotherapy compromises the immune system, so it’s been suggested that Julie should consider placing her cats elsewhere until she’s all better.

But she won’t hear of it. She’s donning gloves and a face mask to clean their litterboxes. She’s always got a bottle of antibacterial gel standing by, just in case the cats squeeze in a comforting lick on her hands or face.

The cats keep Julie’s spirit supported when she’s feeling sad. They make her laugh and provide comfort. And when the magnitude of what she’s facing becomes almost too much to bear, they don’t mind if she cries into their fur.

Mokie and Ricky aren’t the only animals comforting ill people. Across the nation, nursing homes and hospital wards are now welcoming animals into their fold because they buoy patients’ spirits, assisting recovery while improving day-to-day quality of life.

Julie knows the next few months will bring good days, and bad days.

But that’s easier to bear with Ricky and Mokie at her side. Because they’ll be there with her, for better or for worse.

Do you feel inspired to help Julie, or stay updated on her progress? You can follow her journey and offer support on her Caring Bridge website.



Julie and her mom Maxine shared a laugh on the La-Z-Boys she bought recently to aid her convalescence. Maxine cut her hair bristle-brush short to match her daughter's hairdo as a gesture of support. Mom wanted you to know that they were reclining because neither was feeling well. Maxine had a sore leg, while Julie felt sick from chemo. Still, there was great beauty in shared pain. Notice Mokie posing on the window ledge.

On the road again

Ed Kost and his cats Princess and Jasmine are living in transit now.


I was strolling through the glass doors as I exited my bank this week when a 1978 Ford Fairlane parked in the lot caught my attention.

I circled behind the faded orange car to take a better look. I think it piqued my interest because there was a time in my past when I’ve called a vehicle home. It taught me how to spot the signs of a rolling residence. Extra clothing, toiletries, all the tiny comforts squirreled away into the little pockets of a vehicle interior.

Or maybe it was the paws that gave me pause.

Two fluffy cats were perched on the car seats with their backs to me. I’ve seen lots of dogs in cars waiting for their guardians, but never a cat. And here were two of them intently watching the bank door, waiting for their master to return. I noticed they were wearing collars, implying someone loved and protected them.

I didn’t want to ambush an owner at close range who might be potentially defensive about a tough situation. To minimize the chance of face-to-face conflict, I crossed the lot and waited beside my vehicle for him to come back.

It took a little while, but 15 minutes later, he appeared. I walked up slowly and explained my purpose. I talked about how pretty his cats were, but didn’t wait long before I got around to gently asking my main question: was he living in the car?

It turns out he was glad I asked.

Ed Kost spent the next hour with me, talking about how a man who had pulled his life together more than once had everything taken from him yet again. And this time, it happened just as he was entering his golden years. Ed, who recently turned 65, lost his house of 28 years. That was just seven weeks ago.

But, “it doesn’t feel that recent when you’re doing this,” he told me.

He’s a recovered alcoholic, and had been working as a chemical addictions counselor at St. Joseph Hospital in Bellingham, Washington. Then a car struck him down while he was out for a jog, breaking his pelvis. Ed lost his job in an economy where work is scarce. And he couldn’t find a new one once he’d healed.

Before he knew it, Ed got behind on mortgage payments. The bank closed in.

He’d enjoyed a big property, a shop, and 17 cars to call his own. And now he was forced to live in one of them.

“The sheriff said load your car up and go.”

But Ed isn’t letting his latest run of bad luck take one of the last things he owns, that thing he’s worked the hardest to earn.

His sobriety.

The meetings are keeping him going, and he goes to several of them a day. It passes the time and provides social interaction. And there’s strength in that support.

“My ass is getting tired from sitting in meetings so much,” Ed said.

Ed’s story is sadly echoed at shelters across the country. They are reporting an influx of owners surrendering animals because they have lost their homes, another casualty of record foreclosure numbers.

But Ed’s not intending to give up the animals he’s committed himself to. Not if he can help it. He speaks fondly of one-year-old Jasmine and Princess, who are well cared for and obviously precious to him.

They started out their lives without a home, brought into his house when they were tiny by a mother cat in the neighborhood. The cat wasn’t allowed inside her family’s house. So when her babies were born, she carried all three kittens into Ed’s house one at a time, settling them into a back room. Ed was instantly taken with this street-smart mother and her helpless kittens.

‘The owners treated her like an outside cat. I treated her like an inside cat.”

The cat chose well. Because even though Ed doesn’t have a place to stay right now, home isn’t necessarily where the house is. It’s where the heart is.

And Ed has proven he has plenty of that.


Ed tethers Princess and Jasmine together when they go to the park so they can safely enjoy some fresh air without slipping away.


On the hot days this summer, Ed had a fan going for the cats, and misted them with cool water to keep them comfortable with him in the car.

At a loss for words

One year after the storm, most neighborhoods were still lifeless. Only the grass came back. Houses were tossed about like toys, landing on different streets than the ones they belonged to.


Early last week, I promised to post Katrina coverage in chronology until I had the whole story outlined. I had intended for my stream-of-consciousness series to coincide with the four-year anniversary of the devastating storm.

It was about time I finally told this story right.

I’ve made many trips to New Orleans since the deadly flood in 2005 decimated the city. I couldn’t stay away. In fact, three out of the previous four years, I’ve been in the Big Easy at this time of year. Though "Easy" it wasn’t.

On all of the other anniversaries except the second, I was there to document the rescue and recovery mission.

But despite the volume of material I’ve gathered over the years—notes, photographs and stories from people willing to tell me how they survived it—so far, I haven’t told the story well. I’ve not been able to bring myself to sit down and write this epic from end-to-end.

Instead, I’ve been etching it out in bits and pieces.

Every time I went to write it, I’d sit there in front of my blinking computer cursor and freeze up. The tunnel of pain I had to crawl through in order to get to where I needed to go as a storyteller stopped me dead in my writer’s tracks. Even looking at photographs of the moldy houses we entered was enough to start me dry heaving as I remembered what we saw and smelled.

This year, I'd hoped it would be a healing exercise for me. I’d planned to start from the moment I stepped on a plane to rescue, and write through the mission following the progress as it continues now, so people would know what New Orleans is like today.

I put out the call to people who were there with me, and to those who are living there now. People I love and respect. We started to talk about it together. To share memories, stories, and photographs.

With four years passed, I had believed the pain wouldn’t be so fresh.

Was I wrong.

If you’ve been reading, you’ll know that I started to tell it.

Hope is born in a barn, Wednesday, September 2
Look into the light, Thursday, September 1
The silver lining after the storm, Monday, August 31

I had predicted I would be able to write six to 10 stories depending on my ability to achieve mental balance, and shut the story off when the writing was done.

Three stories in, and it’s already become too much. For me, and—I’d imagine—for some of you.

When I started writing it, I was right back there again. Reliving it in full color—the sights, the sounds, the smells. The nightmares.

Often it’s the same nightmare that plays repetitively, and I know others who have had it too. The animals are crying, and we are in the streets looking for them, crawling under rubble and searching. But we can’t find them. And when we do, we can’t catch them. They simply cry and die as we stand by helplessly.

Two years ago, this repetitive nightmare had me crawling off the opposite edge of the bed in the middle of the night. Just like when I had inched my belly along the ground under houses and mobile homes looking for animals who were lurking in the coolest hiding places they could find in the baking Louisiana heat.

I didn’t wake up until I crash-landed on the hardwood floor, breaking or cracking a couple of ribs. I’m not sure how many or how severe the damage, because I didn’t see a doctor. But I couldn’t walk for a week, and I was sore for a long while after.

Thousands of animal rescuers returned from New Orleans, but we didn’t really leave. I can’t even grasp how the locals feel. They tell me their stories and share their pain in gut-wrenching detail, but how can it be truly real to me when it wasn’t my life that was swept away?

This wasn’t our home, yet it became the place our hearts lived for a time.

And some hearts never returned. Umpteen marriages and relationships were destroyed when people who had been in the hot zone returned home changed, with altered definitions of what life meant to them.

Many refused to return home at all, preferring to erect new lives from the rubble. An animal sanctuary founder, a newly-minted animal control officer, a horse rescuer. They would all make New Orleans their new home.

Addictions took hold. Locally, and within our rescue community. The suicide rate in New Orleans tripled. Even some animal rescuers who witnessed the destruction succumbed, taking their own lives. People who had rescued beside us, who now couldn’t bear the pain of untreated post-traumatic stress disorder compounded by the tragedy that was already their troubled existence before Katrina annihilated what was left of their faith in humanity.

I noticed there was a common thread that strung all of us together. The ones who came on the scene to help, and those who called the city their home. People who stayed in New Orleans and abandoned their old lives. And the ones who deserted New Orleans to go on to new lives.

It was the guilt. That’s what claimed us all.

The feeling that we didn’t do enough to save the city, and its people, and the animals.

When in the end, we barely saved ourselves.


Trash piles were almost a relief because they signaled life was returning to the dead city.

Hope is born in a barn

Miracles happened amid destruction. These orphaned kittens were born during the storm. Here we are in the barn tending to them. The seats we're sitting on were pulled out of all of our vehicles to make more room for animals. They formed an impromptu sitting area for volunteers on a rare break.


I am accustomed to being treated like an oddball when I venture into the public domain. People’s negative reactions towards my viewpoints about animals might range from suspicion to outright ridicule.

A party, a shop, even a restaurant aren’t places where I can completely let my guard down and relax, because I never know where the hits will come from next. Even a task that appears as benign as getting a meal can turn hostile. One time, I tried to order vegetarian at a restaurant in San Antonio, Texas. The waiters were so outraged that you’d think I’d threatened to throw rotten eggs at the Alamo.

It’s happened so frequently over the past two decades that the hostility whirs like an operating system in the background of my social interactions. I’ve grown so used to it being there that I’m barely phased anymore, and don’t pay it much notice.

At least, I hadn’t noticed it. Not until it was gone. Four years ago, I rocked up to the borrowed barn operation being run by Pasado’s Safe Haven. With New Orleans without power, water, or sanitation thanks to Katrina’s merciless blow, shelters had popped up around the city’s perimeter. This makeshift shelter was 45 minutes south. It was a haven for the frightened, orphaned animals left behind.

But it was a safe spot for the people, too—like-minded volunteers who had gathered together in one place for a singular life-saving mission. People like me, who didn’t have to explain to each other why we were risking our health and safety to help the animals, and not the humans. Everybody on that 150-acre property felt just like I did.

Amidst the hell we would come to experience in the months to come, here was a tiny piece of heaven. The beauty of that unexpected effect juxtaposed against the ugliness we witnessed made the phenomenon all the more profound and awe-inspiring.

I stepped out of my minivan and immediately got to work with the other volunteers, scrubbing down carriers, walking dogs, and cleaning cat cages.

The condition of the animals was shocking. The rescuers who had infiltrated the city in the early weeks had faced greater numbers of pets roaming and locked up in houses than we saw, though there were still plenty of animals left requiring rescue. But those who came to rescue later in the mission found the animals when they were in terrible shape—emaciated, scared. Aggressive in some cases.

The appearance of the animals should have prepared us for what we would encounter when we got into the city. They were skinny, cut and bruised, and smelled like something I have never experienced before. A rank odor that I hope I don't ever smell again. Mold, toxic waste, garbage, and the dead carcasses of animals and people.

Katrina’s floodwaters rose and carried it all with her, turning the basin city into a soup of slime that coated everything when the waters finally receded. Including the animals. And us, when we waded in.


This puppy was rescued from a house with his sister. He died shortly after this photo was taken, and his black and white sister (next photo) died after I delivered her to a veterinary clinic near the airport. I named her Daisy Ray.

Daisy Ray survived a little longer than her mate before succumbing. No food and water for a month was too much for her tiny body to survive.


The animals were fed, watered, even washed when their demeanor was calm enough to allow it.


We found many black cats. This was one of the lucky ones. He almost seemed to know someone was on the way to get him. We labeled his carrier so he wouldn't get shipped out of state by mistake.

The cats were kept in stalls inside the front barn to keep them calm and away from the barking dogs.


Dogs were staged in cages in the back barn, waiting for transport out of the area.


Another photo of the back barn.

Donated supplies came rolling in. Animal lovers from around the country were following our progress on the Pasado's Safe Haven website. We even received a letter of support from Jane Goodall, the renowned primatologist! Donors sent food, leashes, brushes, toys, anything you can imagine...plus a few things that left us scratching our heads, such as several pairs of stiletto heels. In the end, they did make themselves useful by inspiring an impromptu chorus line. The ridiculous shoes made us laugh when we needed it most.


The barns were quieter during the day, because many volunteers headed into the city each morning. Others stayed behind to care for the survivors.


As night fell, curfews kicked in, and rescuers had to leave the city or risk tangling with the military. The barns turned into organized chaos as rescuers from all over the country descended there with animals they had found roaming the city or locked up in houses. Animals were logged in, triaged, and settled into kennels.


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As I head into the decaying city, I’ll describe what we encountered when we arrived.