Romeo is a pit-bull mix (he was also in the front barn).  He is black and white and huge!   He is an active boy who just wanted to run and play. He would jump up and down in his cage and always spill his water bowl. He liked to bark while he bounced, so I nicknamed him "jumping bean." Nik, a volunteer i worked closely with, adopted him right away. It was love at first sight. Romeo had a distinct bark and, wherever I was on the property, I could recognize his barking.  If I heard that bark now, i'd know it was him.

There was an area marked off for dog walking -- part gravel and part grass, in a large rectangle shape. A white fence ran along the far end, and miniature horses and donkeys grazed on the other side. These little horses and donkeys were so brave and walked right up to the fence to see what was going on. Romeo and a miniature-horse became best of friends!. The two would canoodle with each other and lick each others ears. Whenever Romeo was out on a walk, he would pull you to the fence where his horse was waiting. His tail wagged a mile a minute as the two rubbed noses. It was hard to break Romeo's attention away from the horse to get him to pee and poo. Nik was very watchful over her Romeo and she always wanted the details about his walk. She'd giggle and get slightly teary eyed when you explained how good he was or how he didn't have any interest in anything but the horses. The vets had run out of heart worm tests early on in the week. Most of the dogs who had been tested, were positive. The folks in Louisiana are not exactly big Heartguard users and you think they would be as the mosquitoes are so bad. I was working with a vet one afternoon and he pulled out a box of heart worm tests. He had just found them in a box. I grabbed a test and put it in my pocket. I gave it to Nik later that day so she could have Romeo tested. She was so thankful, and when they finally did his test, he was negative. Nik ran around the barn telling everyone that Romeo was negative! We all knew exactly what she meant.

There was a pair of German Shepherds. I imagine they were from the same litter. They were huge and gorgeous and strong! They had been trained as guard dogs, not to attack, but to bark. Anytime you walked by they broke out into vicious and seething barking matches. Spit would fly and they showed their teeth. They scared me for the first 5 minutes. Once you slipped a collar around their necks and took them out of their crates they were giant love bugs! (more on love bugs later). They were obedient and heeled silently at your feet. German Shepherds have a bad and undeserved rap.  They are a wonderful breed -- smart, loyal. and scary if they want to be! Pasado's recognized how bonded these 2 were and they could only be adopted together. Someone told me that K9 rescue was coming for them. K9 rescue is a group of police officers who train dogs to work on the police force. The day I left, they were still there. I hope K9 rescue takes them because these dogs are so willing and wanting to work. They had basic training so someone, somewhere, had to be wondering what happened to them?

The love bugs are insects. The hot afternoon air is full of them. If you walked with your mouth open, you'd catch a few. They didn't bite, but were totally annoying. They fly 2 at a time, connected, as they mate. They are like slow helicopters that land all over you. One day, they were so bad, I had to tie my hankerchief around my face. They
would go away at night, but were replaced by swarms of mosquitoes the size of golf balls. Before the sun went down I would spray oily deet all over myself. I was already covered in dirt and grime, so the bug repellant was just another layer of stuff on my skin. I would spray my socks so much that they squished when I walked. Even then, I still got eaten alive. I was out on a single dog walk one night and when I got back Nik counted 28 fresh bites on my ams and shoulders. It got to the point where I couldn't differentiate one bite from the next. They all morphed together. There was no way to win the battle over the bugs.

When I finally finished my chores and made sure every last dog had been cared for and every last kitten had been bottle-fed, I would make my way to the "kitchen" area and eat dinner. The hot dinners were incredible. One night it was indian and the next it was cajun. There were big trays of basmati rice and cajun beans and salad and fresh bread. I would use 3 paper plates for my first serving alone. In between mouthfuls, I would chug ice water with vitamin C powder in it. You needed to eat this way to keep up your strength. I have never before been in a situation where food was so necessary; so craved; so enjoyed. The nights would wind down, or not (more on that later), and the sense of community really came to be. People swapped stories from the day. We laughed and we cried. A few questions would come up about where we all lived and what we did for a living, but mostly we spoke about the animals. It was strange to feel so close to people, but not know a single thing about them. A running joke with me was that I wore lipstick and heels in my real life. People cooed in disbelief when I told them I collect vintage clothing and actually dress up on satuday nights!  We were all so natural and filthy it was difficult to imagine any of us in anything but sweaty t-shirts and shit-stained sneakers. We would hug one another and try to figure out who was grosser. It was always a tie.

Other nights it did not wind down. It got busier as the rescue vehicles would arrive back from the city. The vans and SUVs lined up outside of the barn and slowly drove in so that the precious cargo could be triaged. The barn turned robotic at times like this. Each and every single one of us had a job to do in order to save the starving and injured animals being unloaded. As soon as one vehicle was emptied, it would drive off and another took its place. The cages and crates were lined up in front of the "hospital", in order. It was a true triage. If it was going to take the medical staff longer to save a single animal over many others, the others got treatment first. ALL the animals that came through the barn got the best medical attention. If there were not enough tables, we would use the very crate the animal arrived in as a makeshift operating table. I let the vets and vet-techs do their work, but assisted in holding up IV bags and getting fresh supplies when needed. Intake, as it was called, not only includes immediate medical attention, but paper work and photographs of the animal. If there were 6 dogs that arrived, I would help figure out where to put these 6 dogs after intake. Cages were moved or assembled and set up with food and water and blankets so the animal could get right into it when the vets were through.

These animals were in shock. They were frightened. They hurt. They were hungry and thirsty. Imagine 5 weeks later, and they were still alive! I sat with a new intake one night for over an hour. He was a black lab mix and just needed human contact. I stroked his head with my finger and this wonderful dog trusted me immediately.  I must have filled his water bowl 9 times that night. I didn't leave until he was asleep. When I got back to him the following morning, he was still sound asleep. I imagine it was the first time in 5 weeks that he felt safe enough to sleep.

At the end of each day, I left the barn and walked to my car. The cars weren't far from the barn, but every night I forgot where I had parked that morning. I'd take off my fanny-pack and shoes and slide into the velour seat of my impala. I turned the ignition key and waited for the AC to kick in. I remember how incredible the stars were. The drive to my motel (that would be Motel 90)  was short and easy.  I'd take a left out of the driveway and go straight until I came to the krickety old bridge. At the bridge, I turned right and through the town of Raceland -- not much of a town -- a gas station with no gas; a drive-through daquiri bar and a dollar store. I only had to make that one right turn at the bridge as my motel was up the road about 3 miles.

I keyed into my room and dropped everything in a heap on the floor (until the floor flooded, more on that later).  I'd strip down to reveal distinct grime marks where my clothes ended. The only thing I have to compare the body aches to, and this is only in minor fractions, is to how I feel after a serious day of skiing. Every joint hurt. Every muscle throbbed. I limped and staggered as though I were drunk. When I bent down to untie my shoes, I got dizzy. My feet were swollen and impacted into my shoes and socks. Dr. Bill, the vet, told me this is because I am dehydrated. I would sit on my bed and wait for the hot water to come on (sometimes it did and others it didn't) and drink a large gatorade. I chugged it so fast that it spilled over my mouth.

The nightly shower was always a curious thing. Soap, on its own, didn't work. In fact, it made it worse. I foolishly brought an expensive bar of sandalwood soap from New York. It didn't cut it. On the recommendation of another voluteer, I took a bottle of horse shampoo from the donate box at the farm. Horse shampoo. There was little about it that was like any shampoo I had ever used. It was dark brown and had granules in it. It smelled like grease. It was the only thing that worked. I would crouch under the minor stream of water, as the shower head came down to my shoulder. I squirted 2 pints worth of this horse shampoo onto a facecloth. I then exfoliated my entire body with it. The suds going down the drain were black. The granules hurt my sunburned skin, but it it was a good pain, a cleansing pain. I repeated this procedure and then washed my hair with the stuff. I'd scrape my scalp ferociously to clean my hair and also remove the dirt from under my nails. Dead love bugs, mosquitoes and strands of grass were washed away. These showers lasted 45 minutes. On an average day in NY, it takes me 20 minutes to shower and get ready. Not so in Raceland. The shower was the pinnacle of my day. The towels provided by the motel were disgusting. They were clean, but tattered and stained. I brought a super light-weight camping towel from Paragon in NYC and used that after my showers. I cleaned my ears with a Q-tip. Black grime. I air dried and put aloe vera gel on my face. It stung my freckles. I put Tiger Balm on my shoulders. I sterilized my tweezer with a lighter and drained my blisters. I applied ointment to my scrapes and cuts. I swallowed 4 advil. I put on my sweatpants and a tank top and brushed my hair. I put baby powder all over my feet as they were pruned after being stuck in wet socks all day.

There was no lamp in my motel room, so I turned on my flashlight and spread my sleeping bag over the bed. I wiggled down into it and zipped it up all the way around my face. I tightened the bungee cords so all that showed were my eyes, mouth and nose. I clicked off the flashlight and lay there with my hands crossed over my chest, like I was in a coffin. I didn't move. I never remembered the moments before sleep, because there weren't any. I passed out immediately.  Just a few hours later, the alarm on my cellphone would awaken me.   In the pitch-black, I would fumble to unzip my arms from my cocoon.

I'd click on my flashlight and hurry back to the barn.

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