A Dog Named Pixie: a Survival Story
Way out on the far side of the Olympic Peninsula is a town
named Forks, and in that town there is a dilapidated warehouse once called the
Olympic Animal Sanctuary. In that warehouse dog crates were once stacked up row
on row, dozens of them, pee-stained and filthy. In one of those crates lived a
dog named Pixie.
She wasn’t the only dog to spend time crated in the reeking
darkness of the warehouse. For many years the warehouse was packed with dogs,
over a hundred of them, crouching in cramped misery, unable to stretch their
legs, unable to escape their waste, unable to do anything all day long and all
night long except endure.
A few of the dogs were confined to small kennels lined with
straw. For three years, before she was crated, Pixie had lived in one of the
kennels. The manager of the “sanctuary”, Steve Markwell, modified her kennel by
barricading it with plywood walls, leaving only a crack for light. That was his
response to her aggressiveness toward other dogs: isolation. Sensory deprivation.
Confinement in black hole.
The warehouse was supposed to be a paradise for unadoptable dogs.
The website for the “sanctuary” had promised exercise in compatible playgroups,
homecooked meals, veterinary services, and rehabilitation for behavior
problems. Some of the dogs confined there did have serious bite histories. However, most were like Pixie: not perfect
dogs, but adoptable to the right home.
Pixie’s problem was kennel-craziness.
She was over-active, demanding, puppyish. She was desperate for love and
attention.
Pixie had experienced very little love in her life. She had
been picked up as a stray and turned in to a Midwestern city shelter, just
another pitbull, one of the millions of pitbulls turned in to shelters each
year. And, like so many shelter pits, she came to the shelter young, untrained,
undersocialized to dogs and pathetically, desperately needy.
Pixie couldn’t handle
life in a kennel. She lunged at the kennel door, barked too much, grabbed at
people with her mouth. There was a young girl she loved who came to visit her,
and some of the adult volunteers liked her, but no one adopted Pixie. As the days passed she grew more stressed and
anxious and needy.
Then time ran out for her. Her anxious neediness led to a
bite incident and she was deemed unadoptable. That meant euthanasia unless an
alternative placement could be found. And one was: the Olympic Animal
Sanctuary.
Steve Markwell drove all the way out to the Midwest
to pick Pixie up. He acted like he was doing everyone a giant favor, but Pixie
was sent to him with a substantial donation. Her friends at the shelter threw
Pixie a good-by party. They invested their faith in OAS to take care of their
girl.
The shelter folks thought Pixie was going to heaven, but
they sent her to hell. She, of course, had no idea why she was sentenced to a
life of semi-starvation and close confinement in stink and noise of the
warehouse. OAS became reality to her; the few good experiences given to her by
the shelter workers receded in her mind, replaced by the daily experience of
misery. Pixie endured for four years.
Four of the five years of her life were years of suffering.
Then suddenly one
night the manager and a few other men took the dogs out of the warehouse one by
one. When it was Pixie’s turn, she got one quick lungful of fresh air outside
the warehouse before finding herself once again confined to a small dark space:
a wooden box. She, and all of the other dogs, were on a truck. The truck
lurched into motion. The dogs barked their worries and questions as the truck
rolled away.
Pixie didn’t know it, but once again people were concerned
about her welfare. Not the driver of the truck; no, the dogs had never mattered
to him except as props for his pose as a rescuer. The people who cared about
Pixie were the thousands who had seen the photograph of her sad face in the
darkness of her kennel. Her picture, and pictures taken by the Forks police of
the warehouse interior, had been posted on Facebook, exposing OAS for what it
really was: a hoarder’s hellhole. Thousands of people were writing, calling and
emailing Forks authorities, trying to free the dogs so they could be placed in
legitimate rescues. Protests had been held outside the warehouse. Lawsuits had
been filed. Consumer fraud complaints had been lodged with the state Attorney
General. Many of the rescues that had sent dogs to OAS desperately tried to get
their dogs back. Among those were the volunteers who had sent Pixie to OAS.
The driver of the truck was running away from the protesters
and rescuers. As is typical of hoarders, he was a control freak. He knew he didn’t have the resources to feed
the dogs. He knew that sooner or later
he was going to have a warehouse full of dead dogs. But he didn’t want to give
the dogs to the people who were trying to rescue them. So he took the dogs and
ran.
But he also knew that if he drove long enough, he would end
up with a truck full of dead dogs. So six hours on the road, he finally called
a rescue, one that had not been involved in the lawsuits or protests.
He called the Guardians of Rescue, a New
York Washington Golden
Valley , Arizona
It took Markwell four days to drive to Arizona
Pixie did not know what was going to happen to her next.
Since her life so far had been a progression from bad worse, her expectations
were not good. A photo taken just after she was unloaded from the truck shows
her bellycrawling on the ground. But,
within minutes, she found herself in a spacious clean outdoor kennel. She had a
dog house. She had a bucket of fresh water. She had food. People gave her
treats and spoke to her. She could see other dogs, see birds flying overhead,
could smell the sagebrush and the grasses and the wind…
The explosion of sensory input was too much for her. As days
went by, Pixie began to bark and growl at people. She fence-fought with the
neighboring dogs. She twirled in circles, hysterical, unable to process the
confusing world around her.
But time heals and routine is comforting. Pixie learned that
people would give her attention and be kind to her. She got food and water on a
schedule. She grew familiar with the smells and sounds. She recognized her
caretakers and grew to enjoy their visits. She was able to relax in the sun,
just stretch out, breath deeply, feel the warmth, close her eyes and dream. For
the first time in many years Pixie was able to feel a little happiness.
Meanwhile those volunteers who had worked to free Pixie from
OAS searched for a sanctuary for her, a place for her to live for the rest of
her life. This time they did not trust to a website. When they found a
possibility, they visited to see for themselves.
A farm sanctuary is planning to accept Pixie in as soon as
housing can be built for her. Her story will have happy ending.
However, of the 124 dogs turned over to the Guardians by
Steve Markwell, one hundred and two have been placed and twenty-two remain in Arizona
