Strays Of Hope

Each day hundreds of people -- old, young, singles, families, of all hues -- arrive with hope of good news. They register, write down descriptions of their pets, whether they were wearing an identification collar, perhaps even offer photos. Then they begin their search, coursing up and down the lanes of small kennels and large crates searching for their companions. They share anecdotes. They share horror stories, like the uncorroborated rumor that police in a nearby parish shot dogs on the streets.

Bafalis described one measure of how badly these animals want to be found. To gain entry to a house with a barking dog, rescuers pulled out an air conditioning unit and a dog came flying out, jumping into the arms of a rescuer.

Not all pet owners simply left their animals behind, she says. In some cases, "people had taken large bags of dog food and ripped them open before they left."

Hear the tale of the potbellied pig. Rescuers found it inside a home, in its own bedroom, says Bafalis:

"There were pig murals on the wall and family photos with the pig."

Peter Allnet, Atzenhoffer's son, tries to explain how it is that people become so attached to animals. "They have their own personalities," says Allnet, a Jaguar mechanic. "He knows the kids' names," Allnet says of Pepe, adding that the dogs are so close they have to be transported to the groomer in the same carrier, lest a righteous ruckus will break out. "They're like brothers," he says, shrugging.

But it is looking hopeless. Atzenhoffer, of Slidell, La., is forlorn. She and her grandson have walked from cage to cage for more than an hour, finding no Pepe, Scout or Datsun. It's depressing, and she's already depressed. She's been to counseling for the horrors she witnessed on the streets during the flood. She says Charles, her grandson, probably needs some help too. Her counselor says Charles "might be just pushing it all back," back to the back of his mind where it won't haunt him.

The day Katrina struck, she gathered Charles with the dogs at the hotel she manages. But flooding forced them out after three days. They ended up on a street corner. "Rats were running around," says Atzenhoffer, tossing away the memory with a shake of her head.

And a very ill man died right in front of them -- a man whose name they did not know but who had a dog named Rudy, a dachshund just like their Datsun. When the man died, Atzenhoffer decided to take care of his dog too. But they had to leave Rudy behind with their own dogs.

Suddenly, as Atzenhoffer is speaking, Charles comes racing with all his might, all red in the face and shouting, "Grandma! We found Pepe!"

They run to the end of the row, to a small kennel in a medical ward. Now Atzenhoffer's crying flat-out. She kisses Pepe through the cage, letting him lick her face.

"He's the old man. He's been with us a long time," says Allnet, who's choked up too. Charles is jockeying for a look, too happy to cry, though the news is not all good.

"He's going to need to go right back to a veterinary hospital, because he has some serious injuries," says Jodi Witte, a FEMA veterinary technician.

There are deep lacerations around the little terrier's neck. Later in the day, Atzenhoffer's private vet tells her that a large dog bit Pepe and apparently swung him from side to side, causing deep toothy gashes. And one of his eyes was scratched, which could lead to blindness.

But Pepe Le Pew will live. And Datsun, Scout and Rudy (as well as her daughter's missing dogs, Buddy and Brinkley) may yet be found, Atzenhoffer hopes.

"Well, I'll just have to make another trip tomorrow till we find everybody. They're not just animals. They're my babies," she says, carrying Pepe toward the parking lot in a white towel, like swaddling clothes.

Another family is arriving -- two adults, three small kids. They look tense, stressed. Atzenhoffer holds up her prize, her Pepe, and calls out to them: "There's hope!"