“Santa” Janowitz

Adopted 12 December 2010 in Houston,  TX – died 28 June 2023 in Fayetteville, AR
 
An animal trainer at the Houston SPCA once asked me to “borrow” the dog I was taking for a walk. “She looks non reactive and I’d like to use her a few minutes to train some aggressive dogs,” he said to my horror. Adding implausibly that the exercise would not endanger or frighten her but it would benefit the other dogs. “Johnson” had been through more than any animal should endure but on that “expert’s” word and hoping to help other homeless Dogs I handed her over. He walked her on the leash in front of some overreactive dogs who barked at her ferociouly, but she looked at them without barking back or acting afraid. On the second pass, the the barking was less enthusiastic and by the third some Dogs didn't bark at all. The "bait" Dog remained unperturbed. “Non reactive?” She was a saint! I thought.
 
All the more remarkable considering her background which, like all cruelty cases, was not devulged. As a volunteer, however, I had “contacts” like Cynthia who, witholding names (to my disappointment), told me that a case of criminal neglect was called in. As in "Houston Cops," on 22 October 2010, investigators went to the address with Constable Christine Kendrick and seized three Dogs. All had been confined in darkness, without access to water or food, living in their own feces, clearly destined to die by starvation. One was already dead, the other died on arrival at HSPCA, and "Johnson" was barely alive. Normally, in her condition she would have been euthanized to spare further suffering, but she had to serve as “evidence” for the arraignment and court case. Unable to eat on her own anymore, Johnson clung to life thanks to fluids and soft food intubation. The crime had occurred within Houston city limits.

Because the SPCA clinic provides no long-term care, cages are few and too small for a large dog to stand and walk, Johnson was placed on the adoption line on 16 November, woefully too soon.
 
And there I met her while lookin for Dogs to walk: a black skeleton standing in the center of her kennel and shaking like a leaf. Her eyes anticipating more evil to come. As a volunteer I had seen the outcome of human cruelty and stupidity on many other beings; sights I’ll never unsee, and Johnson was among the worst. She needed an advocate – me. 
 
Sunshine and exercise were as essential to her recovery as food. I walked into the pen and she remained frozen in place, trembling while I patted and gently leashed her. She would not move. Since she was half her natural body weight, I could easily lift her, and I carried her. Half-way to the lobby she started grumbling; "there goes my face" I thought, but it was the sound of contentment. We made it outside and by her reaction I surmised she had never seen the sky. 
 
We did this every day and I left instructions for other volunteers to do the same. Every day we noticed improvement and soon she was looking forward to her walks. She would walk with other volunteers, but if she saw me, however far away, she pulled in my direction.
Fostering was the only way to expand her horizons, build trust, fatten her, and make her adoptable. But not all fosters are ideal and with Christopher’s kind approval we took her. We had two other Dogs (Farhaan and Astra), at least four Cats and she was so modest they barely noticed her. In one week the improvement was noticeable and before we got too attached (I said to myself) I took her back to the adoption line, Kennel 49, shared with another unfortunate, Queen. It was traumatic for her to return to the turmoil of a shelter. Every time I walked by she was desperate. She would follow me with her eyes wherever I went. I heard her bark for the first time, and it was not a happy one. She just wanted to go back to the only safety she had ever known. 
 
Fighting my impulses to adopt her, I posted this note on her kennel:
 
“Johnson” is the name of my past; perhaps you can call me a loving name for a better life than I have known. Let me tell you about myself:
 
Quiet, clean, and gentle.
Although still shy, I soon become attached to people, children, and dogs. Cats don’t bother me at all. I’m a great believer in peaceful coexistence.
Thoughtful and eager to please, I can go far if you take me along.
You can teach me how to fetch and other people games. I already love to play with dogs.
I have an elegant stride and walk well on the leash. Let’s avoid high-traffic streets until I’m more self-assured.
Sudden moves and angry voices still bring painful memories, so please be patient and gentle with me.
Because I have known starvation, I wolf down my food, but I will eat slower when I understand that you will feed me every day.
Because I’ve been ignored, I want to be in the same room with you; please don’t ban me to the yard.
I’m just looking for a chance to live in mutual kindness and affection in a forever home. All I have to offer (other than elegant good looks) is my total devotion and gratitude. Thank you. 
 
Hoping-for-a-Name (alias “Johnson”)
 
Obviously, I was not going to let just anyone take her and the Houston SPCA doesn’t vet prospective adopters. It’s a lottery; too often “out of the pan and into the fire”. I was going to the shelter every day to give her an extra ration of food, ensure at least one daily walk, and ward off creeps. While I was exhausted, Farhaan, Astra, and the Cats were being ignored at home. Enough is enough. On 12 December 2010 I sent an email to Chris who was traveling in order to persuade him that three Dogs were really no more trouble than two. It was a long, rambling, schmaltzy justification, to which he answered, “Do it.”
 
At the adoption line, sensing she was not coming back, she was befriending toddlers, Dogs, Cats, Rabbits and even a Budgie. Behind us there was a young woman adopting two Kittens. We exchanged stories and I mentioned I’d like to rename my new Dog "Janowitz" in honor of an infuential first-grade teacher of mine, but that it probably sounded as inadequate as her old name. The woman, a Russian Jew, informed me that both names had the same Ashkenazik root and Janowitz is the German form of several Slavic toponyms equivalent to, yes, Johnson. “Bad people called her Johnson; Janowitz sounds sweet, like your teacher” she said. (I never keep former names, but the coincidence affirmed my tentative choice.) 

One of the first things Christopher and I noticed was Janowitz’s  (aka Jano, Witz, or "Santa", a title she earned) attraction to toys. None of our current Dogs cared for them, but Jano, who in all probability had never seen one, went for them instinctively. If food was being served … toy; if we got ready for a walk … toy; and anytime Chris asked “Who’s got a toh-oy?” she ran to the basket and got one or two. The house was strewn with them. Timid kisses and prolonged soulful stares were other means of expressing happiness. Her mildness made her every visitor’s favorite.
 
Then after a short while of living with us, this quiet Dog emitted an assertive bark as she ran toward the door. Someone had rang and Janowitz had decided to protect her new “lifestyle”. She became the best home-invasion deterrent there is: a Dog with a deep, threatening, persistent bark that would scare any would-be intruder. She got so good at it that she “intuited” approaches well before we could see or hear anything.
 
Not surprisingly, her voracious apetite never abated. Food was not chewed but Hoover-sucked and although she was done long before the other Dogs, she never challenged their bowls, which having been starved to near death would have surprised no one.
 
In fact, given her torturous beginnings, any odd behavior on Jano’s part would have been understood and forgiven, but, she only had goodness in her.  There was, however,  one sudden expression of fear that surfaced after several years of living with us: Sometimes she would climb the stairs from the backyard to enter the house, but then stop, cower, turn around and hide under the stairs. We had not given her any grounds for fear; not once had we yelled at her – didn’t have to. Her hiding hole was hard to access by a person. Coaxing her with words, food, toys … nothing worked until she was ready to come in, sometimes hours later in all kinds of weather. Chris then decided she might as well be comfortable and covered her hiding spot with hay and she approved. This behavior continued with varying frequency until the end. The only posible explanation was that some synister memories had come back to haunt her aging mind.
 
By 2023 Witz's hind legs were getting weeker -- not unusual in tall dogs. A veterinary checkup revealed a tumor to be further studied. Days later she had a difficult night and in the morning refused her usual treats and meds for the first time. She laid down and never got up. I managed to place her on her bed and slide her to her favorite place, behind my desk chair. 
 
On a long piece of foam I placed by her side I slept a few hours. In the morning she was breathing faster and I knew from experience that she was coming to her end. Medical intervention would only inconvenience an old dog who was duying the natural way. I spent most of 28 June by her side and, law of Nature, just as I left her for a few minutes, at 15:00 she died. This happened 160 days after Janowitz's antithesis Astra, a fellow Houston SPCA adoptee, died. 
 
My father once said that in life we eventually "run out of tears", not for lack of sorrow, but of exhaustion of having endured so much. While writing about the old-age fears that visited Janowitz is when I first cried ... not of sorrow, but rage. 
 
Janowitz's "revenge" like Holocaust survivors, was living well. Given a chance she may have licked the hands that tortured her. To this day, I would starve the culprits to death.