“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”
This is the greeting I get from Edna, who for fifteen years has been my secretary but who now insists on being called my “administrative assistant.” In neither role has Edna ever done any actual work, but as an administrative assistant she can do nothing with considerably more dignity.
Like all of us, Edna strives to satisfy her enjoyment drive, and she does so by doing crossword puzzles. She is the greatest crossword puzzler I have ever seen, and possibly the greatest who has ever lived. Just as art collectors seem to discover DaVincis or Picassos at flea markets or in somebody’s garage every month, in three hundred years crossword puzzle devotees will be finding long-lost Ednas and selling them for fortunes.
She is polishing off today’s
“We’ve got a client,” I say.
“How did that happen?”
Her tone is somewhere between baffled and annoyed. “I was in the right place at the right time. Come in with Kevin when he gets here.”
I head back to my private office with a window overlooking the finest fruit stand on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson, New Jersey. If I ever blow my money, it’s not going to be on office space.
I use the time to look through some law books and browse on the computer, finding out as much as I can about dog law in New Jersey. What I learn is not encouraging; if there’s a dog lover in the state legislature, he or she has been in hiding.
I’m fifteen minutes into finding absolutely no protections for canines under the law, when Kevin and Edna walk in. As soon as they sit down, I start in.
“Our client is a dog named Yogi, who is currently at the shelter. He’s scheduled to be put down the day after tomorrow.”
“Why?” Kevin asks.
“He’s alleged to have bitten his owner.”
Kevin shakes his head. “No, I mean why is he our client?”
I shrug. “Apparently, no other lawyer would take his case, probably because he sheds. What do you know about dog law?”
“Nothing,” Kevin says.
“Then you take the computer and I’ll take the books.”
“Do I have to do anything?” Edna asks, openly cringing at the prospect.
I nod. “You might want to get some biscuits. We’ll need them when we meet with our client.”
Edna goes out, and I explain the details of Yogi’s situation to Kevin. We then spend the next hour and a half researching the law. Kevin is far better at this than I am, and my hope is that he’ll come up with something.
He doesn’t. “Yogi’s got big problems,” he says.
He explains that the animal control system’s regulations prohibit them from letting anyone adopt a dog who has bitten someone. It is considered a matter of public safety, not reviewable under any statute. Under certain conditions the owner can take the dog back, but Yogi’s owner doesn’t want him. Nor would we want Yogi to go back to someone who was kicking him.
“Andy,” Kevin says, “are we sure the dog isn’t really dangerous?”
I nod. “I’m sure. I looked into his eyes.”
“You always told me you never make eye contact,” he says.
“I was talking about with people.”
“Oh. Then, are we sure the dog actually bit the guy?”
I nod again. “Apparently so. The neighbor said the guy was kicking him, so…”
Kevin notices my pause. “So…?” he prompts.
“So… it was self-defense.” I’m starting to get excited by what is forming in my mind. “Yogi was a victim of domestic violence.”
“Andy, come on…”
There’s no stopping me now. “Come on, the dog was being abused. He couldn’t call 911, so he defended himself. If he was the guy’s wife, NOW would be throwing him a cocktail party.”
Kevin is not getting it. “If the male dog was the guy’s wife?”
“Don’t focus on the sex part,” I say. “We’ve got a classic abuse-excuse defense here.” I’m referring to the traditional defense used by abused wives who finally and justifiably turn violently against their husbands.
Kevin thinks about it for a moment, then can’t hold back a grin. “It could be fun.”
“The hell with fun,” I say. “We’re going to win.”
Now with a strategy to work with, we spend another couple of hours plotting how to execute it. This defense, when the client is a dog, is obviously not something the justice system or the legislature has contemplated, so there is little for us to sink our teeth into. We’re heading into uncharted territory with few bullets in our legal guns.
Kevin heads down to the courthouse to file for injunctive relief on Yogi’s behalf, which essentially amounts to a request for a stay of execution. The court does not have to see merit in our position to grant it; it need only recognize that not granting it would result in Yogi’s death, which would in effect be ruling against our overall case before we’ve had a chance to present it. Pleading self-defense on behalf of a dead client is not a terribly productive use of anyone’s time.
After his stop at the courthouse, Kevin is going to attempt to interview Warren Shaheen, the man with Yogi’s teeth marks in his legs. Kevin will get his side of the story and try to persuade him to see the merit of our position. Shaheen may well not want to get taken through the torture I’ve got planned for him, and Kevin is going to suggest some alternatives that we’ve come up with.
The first hurdle we’ll have to overcome is to get a judge to consider our request tomorrow, the scheduled last day of Yogi’s life. I head home to think about that problem in the way that my mind functions most clearly. I take my own golden retriever, Tara, for a walk in Eastside Park.
Tara’s official name has changed a few times over the years. Right now it is Tara, the Greatest Creature on This or Any Other Planet and if You Can’t See That You’re an Idiot, Carpenter. It’s a little long, but apt.
I rescued Tara more than eight years ago from the same shelter that currently houses Yogi. Just looking at her now, enjoying the sights and smells as we walk through the park, easily reaffirms my commitment that I will never let another golden die in a shelter, not if it takes every dollar I have. Fortunately, it doesn’t.
Tara and I pass a number of our “dog friends” as we walk. These are the same people, walking their dogs, that we meet almost every time we’re in the park. I don’t know any of the people’s names, and we merely exchange pleasantries and minor canine chitchat, yet we have a common bond through our love of our dogs.
Each one of these people would be horrified to know of Yogi’s plight, and I don’t share it with them. At least not now. But I do come to the realization that my only hope lies in sharing it with all of them.
Yogi is about to become famous.
I call my friend Vince Sanders, editor of the local newspaper and the most disagreeable human being I have ever met. As a terrific journalist, he will take a heartwarming story and run with it, despite not having the slightest idea why it is heartwarming.
Vince’s long-suffering assistant, Linda, answers the phone. “Hey, Linda, it’s Andy. What kind of mood is he in?”
“Same as always,” she says.
“Sorry to hear that,” I say, and she tells him I’m on the phone.
“Yeah?” Vince says when he picks up. “Hello” and “good-bye” are not part of his verbal repertoire.
“I’ve got a big story for you,” I say.
“Hold on while I try to come to terms with my excitement,” is his deadpan answer.
I tell him to get a photographer and meet me at the animal shelter. He doesn’t want to, but he trusts me a little from past stories, so he considers it. I close the deal by promising to buy the burgers and beer the next time we go to Charlie’s, our favorite sports bar.
I drop Tara off at home and then go down to the shelter. Vince hasn’t arrived yet, so I use the time to bring Fred up to date on the situation. I think he likes what he’s hearing, because every few sentences he claps his hands and smacks me on the back.
