Unfortunately, she forgot about Bellevue's policy against dogs that kill cats. "Over here, in Eastern Washington, it's not unusual for dogs to kill feral cats; it's just out in the country," Hardin explains.
Bellevue slated Zelda for euthanasia. But as the clock ticked down to execution, rescuer Swanson found a foster group that specialized in Pyrenees. She also found someone to make a run down to Centralia to drop off the dog.
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So, on a sunny morning in late February, Zelda takes up most of the backseat in the next link in the chain: Caroline Hicks' Jetta. Hicks, a technician at a holistic veterinary hospital in Redmond, heard about Zelda from the network, and since she happened to have a few days off, she volunteered to drive.
Zelda, despite her breed's reputation for barking and howling, spends most of the ride in silence, standing nervously and drooling on the leopard-print seat covers. She doesn't resemble the stereotypical shelter dog at all. She isn't aggressive or shy or mangy or emaciated or sick. She has a full, luxurious coat, cream-colored, with a cowl of darker, steely fur from her ears to shoulders. A tan patch of hair sits across her back like a dainty saddlebag. Except for a case of doggy breath, she's pretty adorable. And despite her palpable nervousness, she seems self-possessed, almost regal. When a Bellevue shelter worker let Zelda out of her cage and walked her down the row toward Hicks earlier that day, the other dogs saluted her with barks, like inmates cheering an early release.
While Zelda's history of killing cats was a death sentence in the shelter's eyes, her rescuers regard it as a minor concern. "That doesn't mean she's bad or aggressive," says Hicks. "I mean, cats kill mice. I believe any dog can be taught not to kill."
This is Hicks' first time transporting an animal. She never had any animals growing up and didn't get her first cat until eight years ago, when she was 26 and a friend dumped a cat on her, for which she intended to find a home. Instead, Hicks lost the cat within a week. "I freaked out," she recalls. "I was so worried about her, just thinking about what might have happened to her, that she could be suffering."
Hicks went door-to-door through her neighborhood and found the cat, and the incident opened a floodgate of empathy for animals. She's since had up to seven cats living with her. She currently has three, and would keep dogs, too, if her landlord allowed it. "My friends think of me as a cat lady, but when you're involved in this kind of work, everyone's the same way," Hicks says. "I'm almost mild.
"People in my family say, 'Why animals?'" Hicks continues, as if anticipating the question. "But we're all called to certain things." She gestures at the rosary hanging from her rearview mirror. "I was called to work with animals."
At 12:30 p.m., Hicks turns into a Chevron where Kathy Liles, who runs a Pyrenees rescue service, is waiting in a navy minivan. "OK," Hicks says to Zelda as they get out of the car. "You're going to get a bunch of new friends to play with."
Hicks leads Zelda over to Liles and hands off the leash and the intake sheet. Zelda gives Liles' jeans a sniff and then waits patiently while the two women chat. Despite the sun, it's cold and blustery, and Zelda's the best dressed one in the lot.
"Does she have any papers?" Liles asks. "Has she had her shots?"
"I don't know," Hicks says. "This is all they gave me."
Hicks asks Liles if Zelda is a purebred. Liles gives Zelda a dog-show-worthy once-over and declares, "Maybe not, but she's pretty close. If they look enough like a Pyrenees and they act enough like a Pyrenees, I can find them a home."
Then Liles opens the minivan's hatch and coaxes Zelda into a large transport cage. Zelda sniffs the chew toys and then sits down, the top of her head flush with the cage. Liles closes the hatch and that's that.
Liles says Zelda's prospects for adoption are good. This is the gold-plated rescue service. Anyone who wants one of Liles' dogs must undergo a thorough vetting process. Liles looks for a fenced yard, for financial wherewithal to support a big dog, and for owners who understand the idiosyncrasies of the breed and are willing to either let their dogs live indoors or be around livestock. Liles' club places 45 to 65 Pyrenees every year, and Liles frequently turns down otherwise-qualified prospective owners if the dog seems lukewarm to the pairing. Often, she can tell by how the dog acts, Liles says. "Certain people will make dogs really perform, like, 'This is where I really want to go, so I'll show off.' That tells you a lot about whether that's a match."
All new owners sign an agreement stating that they will return any unwanted dogs only to Liles.
"I'm sure she's probably a little nervous," Hicks says as she gets back into her car. "But I'm sure she realizes she's with people who love her. They're much better than us about picking up feelings."
The ride back feels empty without Zelda. "I'm sad," Hicks says. "I almost don't want to let her go. That's why I don't make a good foster parent. I just bond and I can't give them up."
hhsu@seattleweekly.com
bmiller@seattleweekly.com
