Fifty Years in the Doghouse by Lloyd Alexander
Ryan had been pretty busy during the course of all this, but when he had finished and stopped to catch his breath, he noticed an elderly man watching him with interest. Shabbily dressed, he carried a blanket roll over his shoulder. "You done all right there," the man called. "What's wrong with that horse, anyway?"
"You a country boy?" Ryan asked. "Ever hear of black water?" The man nodded. He questioned Ryan about what would eventually happen to the horse, and what kind of treatment the animal would get. Ryan, who makes a policy of giving polite answers to all queries, no matter how unlikely the source, explained it in detail. "That horse is going to come around all right," Ryan added. "I know it." The man nodded again. "That horse belonged to a big company," he said. "What about a poor man's animal?" Ryan assured him it would get the same treatment as a millionaire's. "But what if that poor man can't pay?" the man asked. "If he can't pay," Ryan said, "he doesn't have to. The Society won't charge him a nickel."
"Interesting," mused the bystander. "Very interesting." The man disappeared into the crowd then and Ryan thought no more of him. That afternoon, Ryan was ordered to report to the Society's General Manager, William K. Horton. When Ryan entered Horton's office, the manager asked if he had been the agent handling the grocery-wagon horse on Sixth Avenue. Ryan admitted that he was, casting back in his mind to remember what he could conceivably have done wrong. "Don't look so nervous, Ryan," Horton told him. "Nobody's going to shoot you. A friend of yours stopped in a little while ago. He left this for you." The manager tossed over a wad of ten-dollar bills.
"There's fifty of them," Horton added. Ryan stared at the money. "A thin fellow, needed a shave? Carried a blanket roll?"
"The same," Horton said. Ryan shook his head. "I can't keep this," he said. "Poor devil, it must have been his life savings. Put it in the ambulance fund, it'll do more good there."
"Not a chance," Horton said. "This is yours. He made that very clear. Besides, you deserve it. You really sold him on the Society, and any salesman's entitled to his commission."
"I still think ..." Ryan began. "The Society ..."
"I told you he left it for you," Horton said. "Oh, as far as the Society's concerned the manager held up another sheaf of ten dollar bills there's a hundred of them here. That's what he left for us." "Say," Ryan cried, "who is this guy?" Horton shrugged. "I don't know. That's one thing he wouldn't tell us." Ryan pieced out some more of the story later on. As one of the other agents told him, his unknown benefactor had stalked into the Society's headquarters demanding to see somebody in charge. Ushered into Horton's office, the mysterious donor proceeded to haul up his shirt and pull fifteen hundred dollars out of an old money belt. He was loaded with money, said the agent, not only in the money belt but in his pockets, pinned inside his clothes, in the waistband of his trousers. When Horton presented a receipt for the donation, the man smiled, thanked him, tore up the slip of paper, dropped it into the wastebasket and hurried out into the street. Ryan often speculated as to who the fellow might have been: a Texas oilman in disguise, the black sheep of some prominent family, a bookie on the lam, a bank robber with pangs of conscience, an eccentric scientist with a valuable patent? Whoever it was, he liked animals-which, in Ryan's opinion, makes up for a multitude of sins.
If Ryan is not averse to practicing a little veterinary medicine under the guise of first aid, he is just as willing to administer medical treatment to himself. Even Ryan is not 100 percent infallible in his work with animals, and in the course of fifty years has been kicked, scratched and nipped; he has been bitten perhaps twenty times, a gratifyingly low average when spread over half a century. In the bite cases, however, there was always the danger of rabies, and doctors have talked themselves hoarse imploring him to get anti-rabies shots. Ryan, who has never had rabies in his life, has always refused. He prefers an old standby remedy he has used for years, a three-part prescription consisting of the following: ONE One drop of carbolic acid on the wound I. Ten seconds later, one drop of sterile alcohol on top of the carbolic II. One Irish jig, danced ad libilum. This last is optional, but according to Ryan it passes the time while you're waiting for the pain of Parts l and 2 to go away. "Damn it all, Ryan," a doctor told him, "I don't see how you can get by with that. If it was anybody else, I'd say they were too mean to catch anything. In your case, you're either immune--or just plain lucky." Ryan has done more than patch cuts and bruises and treat himself for rabies. Going out to investigate an unlicensed Airedale one day, the Ryan persuasiveness either ran into a dry spell or the dog was too grumpy to appreciate it. The Airedale ended up not only biting Ryan but breaking his little finger. After the carbolic-acid treatment, complete with jig-dancing, Ryan set his own finger, splinted it with pieces of an old egg basket and tied it up with friction tape.
But the splint soon bothered him and finally he threw it away. The finger showed no sign of damage. Some months later, on an errand to Bellevue-Hospital, one of the technicians called him into the X-ray room. "Come on, Ryan," said the technician, "I'm practicing. Put your mitt in the fluoroscope and let's have a look at it." As soon as the technician saw Ryan's finger through the machine, he called one of the residents to see it. The doctor shook his head in admiration. "Boy, I've never seen a break like that knit so well. It's perfect. Who did that work?"
"I had a real good man for that one," Ryan said. The doctor nodded. "I should think so. Which bone surgeon was it?"
"Well," Ryan said, "I don't think you could call him a bone surgeon. He was more of a horse doctor."
18 - 3 R's for Animals
Ryan is really too big and muscular for anyone to believe he counts the Little People among his ancestors-although that could be one explanation for his skill not only as a do it yourself doctor, but an animal handler. Certainly a portion of his way with animals has come down through generations. Another part stems from meeting bulls and bears (the real kind), horses, dogs and elephants practically every day of his life. But to a lot of city people, even a hamster may seem as strange and remote as a Martian; a city child's contact with animals often consists only of Disney movies, Television cartoons or a quick trip through the zoo. Teaching children to appreciate animals not as comic characters but as living creatures is an important part of any educational system. The average teacher doesn't say, "Now, children, turn to page three in your turtle or Jimmy, would you mind reading the first paragraph of the chinchilla?" But this, figuratively, is what happens at one of New York's most unusual schools. Each year, in a spacious classroom at the Manhattan Shelter, more than 16,000 children (and adults) attend the Society's Humane Education lectures and demonstrations. The living textbooks include dogs, cats, mice, and almost 200 technicolor tropical birds. In the class, a blind girl strokes the long, silky ears of a rabbit and laughs with delight at her discovery. A deaf child sees what friendship looks like from the wagging tail of a dog.
A boy whose only handicap is shyness about greeting the Society's tame boa constrictor finally ventures to touch the handsome reptile. "Let the child learn," said Henry Bergh, "that there is no being so insignificant as to be unworthy of protection, be it the worm which crawls upon the ground." Bergh saw clearly that the long-term success of the humane movement depended on education. He himself took to the lecturing platform, wrote newspaper and magazine articles. He printed and distributed literature at his own expense, one of the earliest being a small pamphlet entitled Our Dumb Chattels. In 1873, Bergh published a monthly magazine, The Animal Kingdom, a title later changed to Our Animal Friends. Designed for young readers, it carried material by some of the most prominent authors of the day, including Harriet Beecher Stowe and Louisa May Alcott. Today, the Society publishes two attractive periodicals: Animal Protection and the ASPCA News Bulletin. The Humane Education Department has also prepared a series of animal-shaped bookmarks carrying information on the care of dogs, cats, turtles, hamsters, guinea pigs, horses, mice, rats, rabbits, fish and parakeets. Each year, the Society distributes about 8,000 calendars with animal p
Public schools receive it free; the public can buy it at cost; prices for booklets range from a nickel to 35 cents. And, of course, anyone who adopts a pet from the Society gets a free copy of the booklet dealing with that particular animal. In addition, the Society offers a selection of film strips and other visual aids; every year, more than 500 schools, pet clubs, civic groups and humane societies use this ASPCA material to reach an audience of almost 18,000. The Humane Education Department's library holds hundreds of volumes of animal reference books, as well as the better fiction featuring animals as central characters. Staff members, however, don't confine educational activities to the printed page. Within any given year, they make an average of 39 public appearances, lecturing and demonstrating animal care on radio and Television, in schools and to teen-age organizations. The Humane Education Department also gives lecture-demonstrations at the New York Public Library. But if one picture is worth a thousand words, one live animal must be worth a thousand pictures. One of the most exciting attractions is the classroom on the third floor of the Manhattan Shelter. Some years ago, Society demonstrators had to make do mainly with stuffed animals. Now, immaculate cages with live tenants line the walls, giving the impression of a miniature zoo. The Society's big, flamboyant macaw acts as official greeter. Much of the credit for the switch from stuffed specimens to the present contingent of live models goes to the Society's former President, Hugh Paine, and ASPCA General Manager, the late Warren McSpadden, the two men who sparked the idea of the Animal port for animal air travelers at Idlewild. McSpadden's background as a science teacher and school supervisor gave him unusual insights into the art of capturing a child's imagination. He produced movies and developed instruction courses.
A first-rate photographer, he also provided the Society's publications with spectacular shots of animal life. The Department's present supervisor is a vivacious young lady named Diana Henley. She has such a widely diversified assortment of talents that the amazing thing ceases to be their number and variety-but that she has been able to find a focus for all of them in the Society. Miss Henley, with a Bachelor of Arts degree from UCLA, has studied acting, teaching, worked in little theater, written several books-and has loved animals since childhood. Every other week, she packs up a monkey, mynah or one of the department's other animals and does a guest shot on one of the childcare’s Television programs. She lectures, writes some of the Society's animal-care literature, and serves as consultant on animal problems to a number of organizations, including one of the big insurance companies. Since life insurance companies are more concerned with the health and longevity of their human clients, no one would expect them to be much involved with animal care. Nevertheless, the company felt information of this type to be a public service and turned to the ASPCA for advice and guidance. The result, gained through the Society's cooperation plus some hard work by Miss Henley and the Humane Education Department, was a bright and knowledgeable series of booklets on pets. Organizing and conducting programs for children account for a large part of the Humane Education Department's effort. The resident animal faculty helps out, too. Most educational institutions recruit their professors through the usual academic channels. At the Society, furred or feathered members of the teaching staff arrive with a background far removed from hallowed halls of ivy. Some are unclaimed strays whose origins will remain forever a mystery. Others are gifts to the Society-gifts which the giver is usually delighted and relieved to unload.
"A lot of people like the idea of keeping exotic pets," Miss Henley says. "After a while, they realize these animals are terrifically hard to care for properly." The kinkajou or Cebus monkey that looked like such fun in the pet shop just doesn't seem to work out right in a Manhattan apartment. Often the disillusioned owner donates his exotic friend to the Society. The Humane Education Department's most startling faculty member, the big boa constrictor, has the strangest background of all. After matriculating in the jungle, taking advanced courses in camouflage and tree-draping, he suddenly appeared in a New York Post Office during the height of the Christmas rush. The boa had no passport, no package or shipping instructions. He didn't have a stamp to qualify for first-class mail or even parcel post. Desperate clerks called the Society to take charge. Miss Henley guesses that the boa was originally destined for a zoo. On the other hand, he might have been on some obscure business of his own, perhaps even an exchange fellowship. Whatever his history, he has been teaching at the Society for the past five years. The word 'teaching' is not used here facetiously. Interpreted through their human supervisor, the lessons animals have to teach are meaningful to every child visiting the Society's classroom. First, youngsters learn that strange and even frightening animals tum out to be friends. The boa is the best example. When Miss Henley first brings out the big reptile, many of her young students gasp at the sight. Some of them shriek when she drapes the boa about her shoulders or winds it around her waist as a 100 per cent authentic snakeskin belt-with the snake still enclosed. Some anthropologists believe that humans possess a deep rooted fear of snakes, deriving from our simian connections; others say it comes mainly as a result of social conditioning.
From what Miss Henley has observed, the biggest factor is inexperience. It's a lot easier to like the animals you see most frequently. Eventually, most of the children get up enough nerve to stroke the boa. When they do, their doubts change to delighted amazement. Snakes, they suddenly find out, aren't damp and slimy at all. Instead, they feel slightly cool, smooth and as pleasant to the hand as a bolt of silk. Mice make wonderful mothers, the children learned from one maternal mouse that undertook raising her deceased colleague's litter. And, although the Society hasn't a lion and lamb to lie down together, the Humane Education Department does have a guinea pig and turtle that are the closest of friends. The cat and dog enjoy each others company there by demolishing at least one old-wives' tale. Harmony among animals certainly suggests that human beings can get along with each other, too. The most important thing the children learn in the Society's classroom is love and respect for animals. A child who has had the pleasure of cuddling a milkweed-soft chinchilla or listening to the affectionate rumble of a purring cat stands a good chance of taking some of this warmth back with him into his daily life. Communication, with or without words, is the beginning of understanding. Between children and animals this happens quickly, and the good feeling may last a lifetime. Animals also help break down other serious barriers. In recent years, the Humane Education Department has made a practice of inviting groups of emotionally disturbed children from New York's well-known League School.
Sometimes a hamster or white rabbit accomplishes what trained teachers and psychiatric workers have tried fruitlessly to achieve. An emotionally disturbed child, withdrawn into a world of silence and loneliness, too terrified to speak to adults or other children, will very often talk to an animal. A breakthrough like that may open the way to more effective therapy. The Humane Education Department enriches the classroom sessions with a grand tour of the hospital. Favorite stopping-point for the kids is the Society's dog and cat ad option wards. No one can estimate exactly how many young visitors have gone home later, bursting with what they've seen, to apply some not-so-subtle pressure on their parents to get one of the Society's puppies or kittens. It probably happens frequently, but so far no parent has kicked. Happily, love for animals is contagious. A trip through a candy-making plant wouldn't be complete without a free sample. The Society follows