The Lost Dogs: Michael Vick's Dogs and Their Tale of Rescue and Redemption

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THE SURRY COUNTY ANIMAL SHELTER sits just outside the center of town at the end of a gravel access road that leads to something of a vehicle depot-a lot filled with old semi containers, a car trailer painted in camouflage, and a stable of garbage trucks. The back of the lot is taken up by an appliance dump, stacked with old stoves, leaking refrigerators, rusted-out water heaters, and broken-down washers and dryers. Off to the side lies a low, drab building-the shelter.

Inside, there are fourteen four-foot-by-six-foot chain-link pens broken into two rows of seven, and at the end of April 2007 all but one of those pens were occupied by dogs from 1915 Moonlight Road. Within a few days of arriving the dogs felt as if they knew every inch of the place-the dull beige walls, the ceiling with its exposed beams, and the fans turning slowly. Eight small windows spread around the room let the daylight in, reminding them of where they were not.

They weren’t made for this. Over centuries their bodies and minds and dispositions had been honed for activity, and their muscles longed for something to do. They had energy and power. They wanted to run and play. They needed things to occupy their minds. Things to chase, to watch, to chew on and figure out.

Some paced to work off their energy, back and forth or round and round in little circles until they became dizzy and unsure of themselves. Some jumped, over and over, straight up in the air, delighting in the thrust it took to lift their bodies clear off the ground and in the momentary sensation of floating above the earth. They barked, too: at the other dogs, at the spinning fans above them, at nothing.

Life in the clearing was bad, but this was bad too. A different bad. Their days now crept along with a dreary sameness. Long hours spent waiting for something, for a few moments of activity that never led to anything. Those came when the man arrived, an event that occurred twice a day and was announced by the sound of tires on gravel.

When he came in he fed and watered the dogs. When they were done eating he’d go down the row and clean the cages one by one. To do this he’d open the gate, clip a leash to the dog’s collar, then lead it to the far wall and tie it to a hook while he hosed out the cage. For some dogs this seemed to be a painful experience, and they would cower in the back of their pen so that the man had to coax them out and then half drag them across the room. As they waited on the leash, these dogs slumped over with their heads facing the wall or they lay flat on the ground.

For others it was an exciting and happy opportunity. They barked and paced and jumped up on the gate as they awaited their turn. When they were finally let out they bounded up on the man, jumped in the air, tried to run, so that the man had to pull and settle them.

A few of the dogs simply stood tall at the gate when their turn came, head up, tail wagging. The moments tethered to the wall were a high point for them-a full belly, the thrill of interaction, a different view of the room, and most of all the sensation of space around them. It wasn’t much space, but it was an expanse, compared to the cramped confines of the pen. The feeling carried them even after they were led back to the pen and the gate was latched closed. Sometimes it even lasted for more than a few minutes.

Fifty miles southeast of Surry, the city of Chesapeake ’s animal shelter held ten of the Bad Newz dogs. One of them, a small black-and-white dog, slept at the back of his kennel. He was younger and smaller than many of the others and not at all sure of himself. He stood out because of his coloring: His body was black with a few white waves that swooshed up from his light belly, while his head was almost all white, except for his right eye and a span under his nose that were both black. They made him look as if he had a black eye and a greasepaint mustache.

The kennels, more than one hundred of them constructed on two levels, were made of cinder blocks with a chain-link gate. This broke up the noise and meant he could get some seclusion and peace from the dogs on either side of him. But there was also a small opening in the back wall covered by a plastic flap. If the dog walked through, he entered a ten-foot-long run that was all chain link. He could move back and forth freely. This meant that he had a place to relieve himself that was away from where he ate and slept and that he could choose to see other dogs or not. He could jump and trot. He had some space, some options.

He also had some comforts. In the front section of the run there were either blankets or torn-up newspaper on the floor, which made it soft and warm. He liked to sit there, on the blankets, in the relative quiet of the cinder block-covered section. He liked to sleep.

The stalls that did not contain animals-smaller ones on top, larger on the bottom-were filled with supplies, clean blankets, detergents, miscellaneous gear. The long squeegees that they used to clean out the pens leaned against the wall and he liked to stare at them.

There was a lot of activity. A washer and dryer at the end of the row seemed to run almost constantly, cleaning all those blankets. The sound of voices carried in from all around as people came and went. He liked that. It was like white noise that helped drown out other distractions, a soothing soundtrack to his dreams.

There were people, too, who came to see him. They brought toys and handed out treats. Sometimes they took him for walks outside the small gray building, even though he wasn’t always eager to leave his kennel. Some days when the people came for him, he sat panting rapidly. They had to reach in and slide him out or lure him with food. He loved to eat. When they brought his food, the silver bowls topped off with kibble and water, he jumped up to dig in.

Truth was, he didn’t mind the small confines of the pen. He was a dog, and like all dogs he was hardwired to live in dens, small dugouts, or caves, spending long parts of the day lolling or sleeping. Of course, dogs also spend much of that time socializing with their pack, something that was impossible to do here. And they are driven to venture out, to forage for food, patrol their territory, explore the world around them. They’re energetic and ambitious creatures. They need exercise and stimulation or they start to lose it. They get “kennel crazy.” It’s an affliction that’s epidemic in shelters. Pit bulls, intelligent and given to activity, are particularly prone to it. Dogs that get it are usually euthanized.

The dogs around the little black-and-white guy spent the day pacing and barking and running, trying to achieve some semblance of the stimulation they craved, but the black-and-white dog didn’t do much of that at all. Mostly he slept. Those other dogs seemed to be waiting for something to happen, but he was not waiting for anything. He was just waiting.

He rolled up onto his back and let his legs stick up into the air. He closed his eyes.