My Life Among the Underdogs: A Memoir

Dedication

Thinking back to how VRC first came to be and to where we are now . . . who would’ve thought? Certainly not me. From the wolves to the Pit Bulls and now the parolees, we as the underdogs have tackled some pretty big hurdles and fought some even bigger battles.

But as probably the most controversial nonprofit organization around today, we couldn’t have done it without your help. And by that, I mean without you—the fans, our supporters, and viewers—Villalobos Rescue Center simply . . . would not exist.

This book is dedicated to you.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Introduction

1: Tatanka

2: A Dog Named L.A.

3: Duke

4: Moose

5: Junkyard Joe

6: Monster

7: Lucky

8: Bluie

9: Taz

About Villalobos

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

Coming into this world a descendant of the most famous werewolf in history can have its perks—but as legends have it, it can also be a curse. My future was set from the second some priest tried to drown me in a pool of holy water. I kicked and screamed bloody murder: This was no way for a loup garou to begin her life. From that moment on, I was one angry little pup.

Like Lon Chaney Jr.’s Wolf Man, my exterior persona was not always on point. No matter how much I tried to toe the line, that damn full moon kicked my ass every time. So I guess it’s no mystery why I was drawn to certain animals from an early age and have lived my life surrounded by them: wolves, black cats, and Pit Bulls. I have spent my entire life trying to defend the underdog—which usually involves fighting some of the cruelest humans imaginable. They continue to throw me to the wolves, only to find that I’ve returned as the leader of the pack. Like the alpha bitch I am, I am protective of my young, loyal to those who deserve it, and willing to take a silver bullet straight to the heart for what I believe in. A true pack leader may seem to stand apart, but she is never alone—and that is certainly true of me. Today, I draw my strength from my pack at Villalobos Rescue Center, my human family and colleagues as well as the canines. I suppose you could say they are my full moon: They make me stronger, more intuitive—and much, much crazier.

*  *  *

As a child growing up in a functioning dysfunctional setting, it was the animals I was constantly surrounded by that kept me from jumping off that cliché of a cliff. Animals were not only my companions but my heroes, my friends, and my reason for getting up in the morning. The hundreds of hours I spent on the backs of horses ensured that I’d always be a free spirit—but my relationship with dogs didn’t really start until I left the house at the rebellious age of seventeen.

Truly on my own for the first time and in need of some bare necessities, I took my last few dollars to Kmart (which, for you youngsters, was our Walmart at the time). In the parking lot, I encountered some people giving away puppies out of a shopping cart. Most of the black-, gray-, and white-speckled pups were quite flashy, but the one that caught my eye was the runt cowering at the back of the cart. As I reached in to pet her and make silly little coo-coo noises, she jumped up and nipped me right on the nose. Then she sat back and gave me the stink-eye.

I had to have her.

Cougar and I became inseparable. For years we traveled the rodeo circuit, living out of my truck when we had nowhere else to go. The bond between us was something new for me, something that couldn’t be measured. Although small in stature, she had the heart of a mountain lion (thus her name), and when she got pissed at someone—or just felt wary of them—she would let out a slow, high-pitched siren of a warning. Then, lowering her head and fixing her deep brown eyes into a laser glare, she’d back that enemy into a corner like any wild creature you might see on a National Geographic special. Cougar was a badass, plain and simple. We could’ve been twins, if I were a dog or she were a human.

Cougar showed how mighty she was on numerous occasions, but never more bravely than when she sensed I was in an abusive relationship. Putting herself between me and whatever jerk thought I made a good human punching bag, Cougar would snap and lunge at my attacker until I could get away. I learned a lot from that tough little cookie, who not only saved my life but served as a better role model than most of the people I knew back then.

*  *  *

In the summer of 1982, at age twenty-two, I was at a crossroads. Feeling that my life was going nowhere and that I needed a change, I enlisted in the army. As I prepared for eight weeks at boot camp, I promised Cougar I would be back for her, with a good career under my belt and enough money to take care of us. I left her in the care of my father and his new wife.

Life at Fort Dix, New Jersey, confirmed for me that I’m just not an East Coast kind of girl. I hated the humidity (which is ironic, since I now live in Louisiana) and found life there just too fast paced. I counted the days until I could return to California and start a new chapter with Cougar. We were confirmed road dogs, and I couldn’t wait to fire up my rust-bucket ’65 Chevy truck and head out into the sunset, like in an old country music video.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for the heartbreak I experienced when I arrived at my dad’s condo. Cougar had become a problem, he told me. They’d gotten rid of her. Not much has ever moved me to tears, but I broke down sobbing right there and then, begging and pleading with him to tell me where they had taken her. I intended to go after her and beg her new owners to give her back to me. I’d explain what had happened. I knew they’d understand and feel terrible and let Cougar go. She’d run out their front door and jump up into the bed of my truck and life would go back to normal.

Without emotion, remorse, or even a decent apology, my father’s Stepford Wife put her expensive wineglass up to her lips, took a long sip, and told me that they’d taken Cougar to an animal shelter.

Cougar was dead, and I knew it. Because of her behavioral issues, there was no way that any shelter (especially back in the eighties) would’ve adopted her out.

And just like that, all that I’d gained in the army—my skills, my uniform, my sharpshooter’s pin, my military ID that said I was somebody special—none of it meant anything to me. The guilt I felt over that dog was overwhelming. I’d trusted my father, someone who should have been worthy of that trust, and he had betrayed me. To this day, I have never forgiven him, nor have I spoken to him. I don’t even think about him. But Cougar is another matter. I think about her all the time. She lives in every dog I meet. She was my inspiration for the deep and abiding love of dogs that has shaped my life and purpose ever since.

*  *  *

After that trauma, I was dogless for around thirteen years. I went through a lot of changes in that time. I was a waitress, a country-western singer, I competed in country-western dance competitions, you name it. If it could make me a little money, I tried it.

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, my life became one long, out-of-control, off-the-tracks roller coaster ride, with dogs in every seat but mine. My estranged brother (who came around only when he needed something) showed up at my door with a huge white fluffy wolf hybrid, whom he called Cujo. He looked more like an oversize white teddy bear than the fictitious killer dog he was named after. The bottom line was: I had a dog again, just when I didn’t need one.

I already had my hands full with two cubs of my own: my daughters, Tania and Mariah, who were still very young at the time. But after my experience with Cougar, I sure as hell wasn’t going to let my brother leave with that dog. Without saying a single word, I took the leash from his hand and walked my new best friend inside, slamming the door in my brother’s face. That was the last time I saw or spoke to him.

I knew nothing about these wolf/dog mixes that had become popular since the release of Disney’s White Fang, but I connected with them on a deep level. I understood that they were caught between two worlds, unwanted in either one. The people who adopted them soon grew disenchanted with their ways of the wild. The wolf rescues didn’t want them because they were part dog, and the dog rescues were hesitant to take them because they were part wolf.

I was hooked. I began to learn everything I could about them. Wolves soon occupied my every waking thought and invaded my dreams. The more I read about them and studied their behavior, the more I was drawn to their enchanting spirit. The more time I spent around them, the more I became one of them. It felt as though my senses of sight, sound, and smell had heightened. Was I becoming more like the wolves—who are hyperaware of their surroundings and highly suspicious of strangers—or had I been like them all along? It hardly mattered. I felt myself slipping into their world and carrying my kids with me. We became true pack members.

*  *  *

By 1993, I was running a full-blown rescue for wolves and wolf/dog mixes. On a high mountain in Agua Dulce, California, Villalobos Rescue Center (Spanish for Village of Wolves) was fast becoming a refuge for both animals and people who felt they didn’t belong anywhere else. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt connected to something extraordinary.

It didn’t take long for me to make friends within the rescue community. My skill at handling wolves and wolf hybrids prompted people to call me whenever an animal proved more challenging than the average Fido. That’s when Tatanka muscled her way into the picture—the first of many beloved Pit Bulls to come. Our adventures together in Sri Lanka on the set of The Jungle Book inspired one of my favorite stories in this book.

Wolves and their kin were still the main focus of Villalobos, but it wasn’t long before the little muscle dogs were competing for kennel space, and it did make a kind of sense. The two breeds had a lot in common, if not physically then socially. Both were misunderstood and maligned as vicious, in news stories and storybooks. It wasn’t the animals that needed rehabilitating—it was their image. Was it even possible to chip away at centuries of bad PR?

Looking back, I can’t help wondering what I was thinking—but I guess the answer is that I wasn’t thinking. Not with my head, anyway. It was all part of my wiring. The best way to get me to do something is to tell me I can’t, especially if I know in my gut it’s the right thing to do. You’ll find that most of the stories in this book are about animals (and a few humans) who needed nothing more than someone to believe in them and a purpose in order to show their true nobility. As tough as my road has been, I’m proud to have fought and advocated for animals whom others were content to exploit and destroy.

*  *  *

For years, I pushed forward, taking in all the animals I could handle and involving myself in the politics of the shelter world, which was slowly coming to its senses about Pit Bulls. I spoke often to city councils and such—sometimes assisted by my tiny daughter Mariah and her devoted companion L.A. Those two changed more hearts and minds in ten minutes than I could’ve done in a lifetime.

*  *  *

We soon became the largest Pit Bull rescue in the country and maybe even the world, but life in the desert was becoming impossible. The hurricane-force Santa Ana winds were wreaking havoc on a nightly basis, ripping off roofs, destroying kennels, and setting off wildfires all around us. On top of that, the Golden State’s economy was going down the toilet. Donations had pretty much dried up, even as our dog population grew unabated. It was starting to feel like a war, with me and my kids on one side and Mother Nature on the other—and she was winning.

A chance visit by a relative of one of our volunteers set events in motion that would lead to the next chapter in the saga of Villalobos. The volunteer’s brother had just been released from prison and she didn’t want to leave him alone to get himself into trouble. No problem. We declared it Bring Your Parolee to Work Day and welcomed our newest volunteer. Mark ended up staying for quite a long time, the first of many human underdogs within our gates.

In case you thought the idea of hiring parolees to work with our dogs was a made-for-TV gimmick, I promise you, that couldn’t be further from the truth. The formerly incarcerated soon became a part of the fabric of Villalobos, and something about that fact prompted LA Weekly to write about us and name me one of the city’s Most Important People.

Honestly? The article came just in the nick of time. When it ran, every bank account we had was overdrawn, our vehicles had zero gas in them, and we were reduced to begging for food from the local church (not easy for my band of nonbelievers). I was seriously contemplating closing the rescue, all the while tossing and turning each night thinking about what might happen to our dogs.

That article and that award quite literally saved a lot of lives. Television production companies began to approach us about participating in a reality show. My first reaction was Get lost! (Or saltier words to that effect.) The wolf in me will not be denied, and I have always been a private and guarded person. I held out for about two weeks, before the grumbling in my belly and the fact that my kids were reduced to stealing toilet paper from a local fast-food restaurant brought me to my senses. Or what was left of them.

Some of the producers who contacted us were hoping for parolees fighting and dogs raging. Needless to say, that was a no-go. Others, from what I could tell, would turn our lives into the punch line of a bad joke. I was beginning to think the whole thing was a bad idea when a new contender came forward, a production company by the name of 44 Blue. They had done the shows Cell Dogs and Lockup. Somehow, they had earned the respect of inmates in prisons all over the world, so I figured they would get us and present us in the right light.

Next came the search for a network. It would take another year or so of starving and struggling and hanging on to the dream before we’d get the news for which we had been waiting. We not only had a home, we had an entire planet: Animal Planet.

As happy and relieved as we were, I went into the process with a sense of dread. Opening up my life and home and workplace to a television crew day in and day out would be a big adjustment for anyone; for me it sounded like hell on Earth. (Even writing this book has been a huge struggle for me, and it’s just words on paper.) But I was determined to do it, for the sake of the dogs. But I was adamant about one thing: Everything they filmed had to be authentic. There would be no scripts or faking of scenes. This reality show would be the real deal or no deal at all.

So . . . I was all in. My family was another matter. I’d been dragging them into everything I’d ever done their whole lives, and, mainly, it had worked out to everyone’s satisfaction. But that didn’t mean they wanted to be TV stars. What the hell had I brought down on their heads now?

None of my kids were jumping for joy about being on television—and the truth is, I was proud of them for it—but they understood the importance of the opportunity and reluctantly agreed to participate. They shared my own priority: to keep the rescue open at all costs. I guess I hadn’t done such a bad job of parenting after all.

As I hoped it would, the show struck a chord in viewers—a fact that I chalked up to my insistence that everything be absolutely real. Pit Bulls & Parolees was an immediate success, much to the delight of the network. But if you think it made us rich, think again. Even after a couple of seasons of steady growth in viewership, our finances were stretched to the breaking point. The cost of living in California was way out of control.

After an attempt to build a new rescue (and one that was much more affordable to maintain) about an hour north ended in a devastating fire (so much for the luck of the Irish), I knew California was over for us. We had to expand our horizons. I went to the local AAA office and picked up maps of several states that sounded both interesting and affordable. It was instantly obvious that we couldn’t afford the East Coast any more than the West; I was sick of the desert; and I definitely didn’t want to go anywhere cold. What I did want was green grass, lots of trees, and warm weather most of the year. That narrowed things down to . . . the South!

From that point, we let Animal Planet help make the decision. Their thinking was this: Wouldn’t it make great TV to move to New Orleans, where that bitch Hurricane Katrina had created an epic problem of stray dogs?

We talked it over. While