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By Lori Fusaro

The first time I saw him he was pressed against the back of a cage. He looked tiny. It wasn’t a very big cage and he’s a big dog. But somehow he just looked so … small. And sad. I didn’t really know what to expect but it wasn’t this. I knew he was a hurricane Katrina survivor. I was also aware that he was likely a baiting dog, which is used to get the other dogs riled up before a dog fight.

The first thing I read about him was on the Karma Rescue website:

“Although Jazz’s photo may not be the easiest to look at, when you meet him in person you see beyond the scars. Jazz came from Louisiana after hurricane Katrina … He deserves the best after what he’s had to endure in life so far.”

I’m not sure why I decided to walk him. I had only heard the terrible things about bully breeds, especially the pit bull. I was apprehensive to say the least. Would he try to bite me? Would he be aggressive with the other dogs we met on our walk? Could I handle him? I wasn’t sure, but I was already at the vet’s office and couldn’t turn back now.

The receptionist led me to the back doorway and through a long corridor reminiscent of a hospital. It was dark and scary. There were doctors everywhere. The elevator was small.

We exited on the third floor, where surgeries were performed. It smelled like medicine and urine. It was also where they housed the injured and the quarantined. The last thing the receptionist said to me was, “Make sure you wash your hands after you touch him.” That comment scared me. He’s contagious? What does he have? Can I catch it? Can I give it to my cats? I almost turned around and went home. But something made me stay.

He looked so lost and forlorn; a small black ball, curled up tight; all alone in his little corner of the world, except for a pair of dogs in the neighboring kennel. They barked non-stop.

I peeked in, “Hi Jazz. You wanna go for a walk?” I was scared to open the cage. Surely he’s friendly? I don’t think the doctor would let me take him out alone if he wasn’t. I opened the latch … all of a sudden he sprang to life. Fifty pounds of solid muscle, covered in scars and angry red skin. Bald patches made him look like a cancer patient. He smiled and jumped up on me, licked my face; tail wagging furiously. My first thought was, Oh No! Now I have to remember to wash my hands and my face. I put on his collar and leash. We were off. Or so I thought.

Every few feet Jazz stopped to scratch. Or bite. Or shake. It took 10 minutes to get to the elevator. By the end of the ride down I was itchy all over.

Our walk was uneventful. I didn’t want to touch him or love him. I did try but it was unconvincing; a timid pat on his head. I’m sure I hurt his feelings terribly. I took him on a 45-minute walk. He loved it even though his feet were swollen and he had a bad limp. I’m not even sure which foot was hurting him most … I think they all did. But he was just so excited to be outside. I think he’d have walked for miles if he could have, no matter how much it hurt.

After our walk I took him back to the kennel. Such a good boy, he just walked right in without a fuss and lied down. He gave me a look with those puppy dog eyes and my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Then I went and washed my hands and face.

On my way home I made a call to my vet, Dr. Gebroe from Culver City Animal Hospital. I asked him if a dog could give a cat any disease. He said only a few. One was rabies, one was mange. I can’t remember the other. I described Jazz to him. To my horror, Dr. Gebroe said, “That sounds like mange.”

I got home and immediately put all my clothes in the wash and jumped in the shower.

It was a month before I went back to see Jazz. In that month only one person had walked him — twice; two trips outside his cage. I felt horrible. Not only was he sick and been through who-knows-what, but he was alone and no one wanted to get close to him because he was ugly and mangy.

This time I knew where to go. No one stopped me or asked who I was. I just went straight up to the third floor. The sign on the door read, “Keep door closed.” I slowly opened it. The two dogs were no longer next to him. He was alone in that room. What I saw broke my heart. No, more than that — it shattered it. Every fiber in my body ached with a sadness I didn’t think was possible. There he was … Jazz; the same tiny ball in the corner of a cage. This time he barely looked up. He met my stare only to put his head back down, as if to say, she can’t possibly be here for me. No one ever comes in here. She must be lost. He closed his eyes again. My eyes welled up with tears. In fact, as I write this the tears are streaming down my face again. I can still picture that sweet face; the hopeless boy whom everyone forgot; curled up in a tight ball. Alone.

Through my tears I called his name. “Jazz, it’s me. I walked you before. Come on, we’re going outside.”

He got up not really believing it. But once I opened the gate, the happiness invaded his body and he was all kisses and love. I struggled to put his leash on. I hugged him. He was no longer contagious and I was going to make up for lost time. I smothered him in kisses. And tears.

The walk to the elevator was really fast this time. He was rushing to get outside. I was rushing so no one would see me crying.

I cried for the first 15 minutes of our walk. I cried and I talked to Jazz. I told him I wasn’t going to let him sit in that kennel all day long with no visits. I promised him I would be there every day no matter what. No matter what. I told him I was going to find him the best home ever. I told him he would never hurt again. I cried and promised; snot running out of my nose (gross!) I didn’t care. I cried as I picked up his stinky poop (really gross!) Several people crossed to the other side of the street. I don’t know which was the scarier sight … the pit bull or the hysterical woman talking to herself as she walked him.

I walked that boy for an hour and 20 minutes. We loved every minute.

When it was over he went to his corner and curled up. It was just so … sad. I couldn’t stand it. I got in the cage with him. The door closed behind me. His loneliness washed over me; his sadness. But also his strength. No hurricane was going to break his spirit; no cage; no isolation; nothing. I got down right next to him and looked into his eyes.

“Jazz,” I whispered, “I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s hard to believe that was five years ago. Since then, I’ve walked hundreds of dogs; helped find them homes; raised money for them; even adopted one. But Jazz will always hold a special place in my heart. He now lives the life of a king in Huntington Beach with three doggie brothers and a mama who spoils him rotten. And he deserves it.

Lori Fusaro has been voted the best portrait photographer by FoxTV two years in a row. She lives in Culver City with her husband, four cats and dog. Contact: Lori@FusaroPhotography.com or www.FusaroPhotography.com.

 

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