Barkaritaville

August 29, 2005, Katrina hit the Gulf Coast of the United States. No one had any idea of the devastation that was occuring as the storm raged through Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana and further inland.

FEMA and the Red Cross took care of the people. But who was there for the animals? The voiceless ones, those that loyally waited behind for their owners to return; they trusted their people, were used to a routine, used to fresh food and clean water; where had those things gone and where were their humans? For those animals left behind, the story had just begun and little did I know what an impact the storm was to have upon myself and my family.

The Canadian rescue team came and spent the night with their rescued, four footed crew and went home, taking all of the dogs with them. I had lined up over 20 foster homes that were now sitting dog less. All of the shelters in the south had either been destroyed or were overflowing with animals with nowhere to go and there were tens of thousands of dogs still trapped in homes or roaming terrified on the streets of Mississippi and Louisiana. I felt anxious, helpless and couldn’t bring myself to watch the horror that these animals were enduring on television. On the evening of September 15th,

^{the telephone rang. Someone wanted to bring me a load of dogs, as many as I could take. I frantically called, emailed and networked lining up drivers to go to Memphis the following afternoon to bring back our SUVs loaded with the scared, lonely and crusty, starving animals; oh, and each of us taking one of my 5 year old quadruplets in the captain’s chair of their vehicle. I’d take Eirinn, the 2 year old with me. The phone rang again late into the evening of the 15th. Could we possibly drive just south of Memphis? Everyone was still in but we weren’t telling our spouses quite exactly where we were going. What they didn’t know at this point would be a pinky shake between some crazy and determined dog loving women. And our marriages would thus survive.}

I awoke the next morning, got the quads off to school (this full day kindergarten thing is great). The telephone rang. I had a funny feeling. Could we drive into Mississippi (I’m talking INTO Mississippi) so that the rescue team could return to Raceland, LA to get a second load before they headed back home themselves. At this point, what did it matter. Sure, I’ll do it. I knew that I would be flying solo on this one. No one else could go, or their spouse said that they couldn’t because there was no way we could fudge this one. I loaded up the car, packed in as many dog crates as I could, arranged the kids’ car seats, blankets, coolers, water, paper towels, toilet paper, Pull-Ups, snacks, etc. that I could possibly fit. I stopped at the doctor’s office and got vaccinated "just in case". The nurses stuffed what pocket cash that they had at the time into my hands for extra gas money and said that they would take dogs upon my return if I needed them to.

We made it to Memphis in record time. I turned and headed south. The next few hours were a blurry trip into darkness that melted together with a growing pain in my abdomen that was starting to scare me. About 135 miles from the Mississippi coast I started to notice a stench. I accused my kids of pooping in their pants and taking their shoes off. I couldn’t describe the smell. Even with the air conditioning on there was no escape. However, it was a clear night and the bayous were beautiful under the crisp moon. Friends were calling my cell phone to ask where I was in the journey and to constantly remind me exactly how insane they thought I was for doing this.

I’m going to omit times, mileage and exactly to where I drove, other than to say, somewhere along Route 10 in Mississippi, at a rest area, under the cover of darkness, I stopped our Suburban, got the kids out to potty and met up with the rescue team. They had six dogs. We could only fit five in the car no matter how we tried. I had to decide which dog got to return to the hellish nightmare of the disaster area. Suddenly I felt like a pudgier Meryl Streep in "Sophie’s Choice". I chose the female that was growling at the other dogs. I rationalized that I couldn’t possibly have a growly dog with the kids. I also forgot a cat carrier so the cat was returned also. I felt sick. I had horrible pains in my abdomen. I couldn’t stand, sit, or walk. I couldn’t go to a hospital in the middle of nowhere, leaving my kids with who knows who and I knew that the dogs would certainly be sent to animal control. I found a pull off with several trucks parked nearby and tried to sleep. One of the dogs that we had received was a small Daschund that Ethan, my shotgun riding quad and I had named Stormy. Stormy was terrified, had just been pulled out of the flood in the 9th Ward of New Orleans hours earlier. He curled up on my chest and we spent a few hours comforting each other drifting in and out of sleep before we got back on the road and headed home to Tennessee.

The plan was that we would get back to our home in Ashland City, outside of Nashville, in the wee hours of the morning, get some sleep and the dogs’ foster families were to meet at my house at noon to be briefed, fill out paperwork and get matched with their dog. Reality: I arrived home shortly after noon, palefaced with stinky terrified dogs. Things worked out perfectly (funny how that sometimes happens). Only three foster families showed up. Everyone got matched with a dog, and I must say, they were all appropriate matches. Two of the dogs stayed with me. Of course, Stormy the Daschund, and Clifford, the big, red Rhodesian Ridgeback-Yellow Labrador mix. The phone rang. It was the rescuers. They knew how upset I was about leaving one dog behind, could I drive to Memphis (really this time) and meet them on their way back to Wisconsin so that they could give me the growly dog and besides, the paperwork was already done and she was in my name. I was ecstatic. Of course! Reality set in. I had been on the road for about 24 hours drive time without real sleep and they needed to meet me that night. This wasn’t going to work. Thinking cap. I found an angel of a rescuer who met them on the highway in Mississippi, south of Memphis and intercepted the dog, overnighted her for me and met me an hour from my house the next morning. All was good!

Growly dog, who I named Grizabella, after the tattered, diva cat in CATS, was growly for a reason. She had a gaping hole in her rear leg. She had been shot it seemed. God bless her old (we also guessed her to be about 15 years old) heart. She went to the vet, got a grooming, a leg repair and was one of the most loving, giving, appreciative animals that I will ever know.

The phone rang. The voice on the other end told me to not get too attached to the little Daschund because his family had been found! I immediately began weeping uncontrollably. They told me that his name was Stanley, to call his name, that he had been alone in the house for almost three weeks and he needed to hear his name, so we did. They said that they would be in touch with the owner information. The kids who are old rescue cronies were bubbling with excitement that an owner had found their dog! The phone rang again. His name isn’t Stanley they said, it’s Stormy! This was fate, God certainly had a hand in this! Could they give my contact information to Stormy’s owners, of course! I spoke to Lori, Stormy’s mom daily and sometimes several times a day. Stormy’s family had become an extended part of the Moore household, and when Rita threatened the Gulf Coast, Lori didn’t hesitate to ask, and I didn’t hesitate with my answer, we would keep Stormy until they were sure that he would be arriving home to a safe environment.

Now, this Clifford dog had a strange growth on his penis, about the size of a baseball. I’m not kidding. Part of our job as fosters for Katrina pets was that we would post them on Petfinder.com and make an effort to locate their owners. Lo and behold I found a "Left" report of a dog that was a Red Lab mix with a tumor on his penis- we had found Clifford’s family! They were evacuated to Houston and were not living in housing that accepted pets so could their dog, who’s name is Duke, remain with us until they relocated- of course. I’d even take him to the vet and get his "lumpectomy" done for them. Duke’s family, Trenese and Glen and I spoke often and still do.

The phone rang. It was now September 30th. Another owner had tracked down their dog, could they pass on my contact information. Of course! This time it was Grizabella, or Moxy, as her musician furfather told us. He flew into Nashville from Los Angeles, two weeks later to reunite with his dogter, which event was featured on our 10 o’clock news with me, once again, this time publicly, weeping happy tears. I knew that it was time to start planning for the bittersweet return of the rest of our Katrina furbabies to their rightful owners in the ravaged South.

On a Thursday, the third week of October, the quads plus one and I, with Stormy and Duke, traveled through Alabama, into Mississippi and then Louisiana. It was daylight this time on the approach. I hadn’t realized exactly how widespread the path of the storm had been. I knew, but couldn’t mentally process what I was seeing. My kids were amazed and were now putting together the bits and pieces of what they had seen of the two hurricanes on television and the reality of the devastation before them. The dogs were reunited in Morgan City, Louisiana, with their families at the Holiday Inn. My kids got to meet their phone friends from the South. They shared stories of their experiences before and after the storms. We all shed tears, held each other openly weeping and swore to always remain family.

Upon our return home, I was served with a Cease and Desist Order for my home based rescue efforts. Little did the community know, I had returned the dogs to their owners already. I was once again devastated. I had done such a wonderful thing and someone was trying to make it seem dirty and unlawful. The kids and I didn’t understand and still don’t to this day. We did something so wonderful out of our willingness to help others in a time of disaster, only to have our rescue taken away from us. I chose not to fight this "Order" in hopes of bringing peace once again in the community, and since the dogs had been returned to their homes. My kids don’t understand why the community has taken away something so dear to us as our ability to help others in the way we choose, but we accept it. I will say however, that I’d do it all over again.

Moose has returned to us from his foster home and is a permanent fixture in our home now. He has survived the worst case of Heartworms that our vet has ever seen, gained about 15 pounds and has a bounce in his step. He sleeps on my bed each night, cuddled up to me as if to say "thank you". I doubt that anyone will ever claim him. He’s just a black dog from the South.

Biloxi remains with his foster family who has now adopted him with the condition that if he is ever claimed, that he will be returned.

Bizzy, our other rescue who went to live in foster has since passed on to Rainbow Bridge. She died as a result of old age combined with her severe Heartworm status. She will always be remembered. Upon Bizzy’s passing, her foster parents found out that they were expecting their first child.

Our family has returned to "normal" now and we will always cherish the furry and not so furry people that have become a priceless part of our lives as a result of the worst natural disaster to happen on American soil.

This is the Pasado Barn in Raceland, Louisiana where all of my Katrina babies began their new lives. I think that everyone involved in this rescue in anyway has a little bit of their soul left behind in this barn, whether it be sweat and blood, tears shed for those who didn't make it out of the barn, or tears of joy for those who did. God Bless ALL of you!

I can't believe how darn vicious these dogs are! Be careful there..... she might kiss your face off!!!

www.pasadosafehaven.org