Dogpound Karma Bits and Bites

Hot Times in Halcyon
Animal Control in Halcyon Township
Cats and Dogs, Descending Fogs, and How Karma Caught Up With the Dogcatcher
By Terrance Gavan
We are teetering on the fulcrum of a full-blown feral cat controversy here in cottage country.
Animal control is a perennial and ongoing synapse-basting and soul-searing barbershop topic in any small town or rural enclave.
This latest set piece of alley cat sturm and drang reminds me of a time back in Halcyon, Manitoba when the animal control officer for the Rural Municipality (RM) of Reykjavik Adolph Dummkopher took a holiday. He decided to go to Kenya on Safari. I was the reporter of record for the Halcyon Packet and Times. I was in attendance at the RM council meeting one Monday afternoon when Dummkopher reported to council that he would taking a three month leave of absence to go on safari in the hope of killing a big cat. He explained that Reykjavik Council might want to consider hiring a replacement animal control officer to fill in during his absence.
I never liked Adolph. No one in my expansive circle of friends much cared for him either. And not just because he was the local dogcatcher. There was something about him, a swarthiness, a rough edge and a general demeanor that oozed sinister intent. My dog Spunky loved everyone in Halcyon. But he genuinely despised Dummkopher. In fact most dogs and cats around town shied away from Adolph. It was a local joke. Everyone simply surmised that the indigenous pet population knew what he did for a living and had united in solidarity against him. I always thought it went deeper than that. Animals are blessed with a marvelous and incongruous sixth sense and I was convinced that Adolph Dummkopher possessed a dark side. There were the other things too. Like the fact that his wife Mary Dummkopher was often seen sporting large dark glasses on cloudy days or at the Bingo Hall on Thursday nights.
In his one-and-a-half years as animal control officer for the RM of Reykjavik, the local dog and cat shelter had seen very little in the way of trade from the new animal control officer. Every once in a while a stray dog or cat would be found by a resident and taken to the shelter, run by a benign soul named Maggie Thorsson. Maggie was in her 70s and her husband Thorgundur was a retired local vet. In 23 years of running the local shelter the couple had never put a healthy animal down. Maggie was a persuasive and gentle old soul who was as adept as “Fiddler’s” Yente when it came to matchmaking strays with prospective owners. Many isolated widows and umpteen Reykjavik area youngsters had benefited from Maggie’s uncanny knack for matching lonely soul with abandoned pet. I had done several stories on the couple since arriving in Halcyon and Spunky always enjoyed heading out to their rambling old farmhouse and kennels for a Saturday afternoon romp with their 7 dogs and five cats. Maggie once confided to me that Dummkopher had never brought a stray dog or cat to their shelter. “I don’t like that man,” said Maggie, in a quiet moment. Thorgundur, an unusually silent man of Viking descent, with a very dry sense of humor overheard. And he said something that, in hindsight, still sends a chill up my spine today. “Oh, Maggie dear, not to worry, you’ll find that the gods find a way, when it comes to dealing with nasty spirited wee men like our friend Dummkopher.”
Fact remains that there was a perceptible drop in the stray dog and cat population since Dummkopher had assumed his role as animal control and bylaw officer for the RM of Reykjavik and since a lot of small councils dwell on the hard knife’s edge of the bottom line, any monies saved and redirected from the care and adoption of stray pets was seen as a boon. I had heard some rumors about Adolph, but nothing that could be corroborated.
But I was very interested, as a reporter, to see what would shake out in the animal control office after Adolph Dummkopher went to Kenya in search of the King of Beasts. I was naturally pleased when council named affable 30-year-old Gunnar Ericson as the interim by-law and animal control officer. Gunnar was a local sports hero. He lettered in 6 sports at Halcyon Collegiate Institute and pitched for the Reykjavik Wranglers, perennial finalists in the Manitoba Baseball League. He had two beautiful kids and a wife who just happened to be our local town doctor. They met at the University of Manitoba when he was playing for the U of M Bisons hockey team. He was an All Canadian with the Bisons and still spent his winters playing hockey for the Halcyon Cyclones in the Manitoba Senior Men’s Hockey League. His family ran the biggest Elk Farm in Canada. He was in charge of web sales of elk products to China, something he did from his computer at home. He was jovial, bright and well-liked. Best of all, he loved animals.
Asked why he volunteered for the job, Gunnar just winked, smiled and said, “Well, Terry, I just thought I might be able to make a difference … and it gets boring in front of that computer screen.”
Within three weeks of Dummkopher’s departure for Kenya things began to percolate on the stray pet front. All of a sudden, the Thorsson’s animal shelter began to receive an assortment of dogs and cats courtesy of the RM’s interim animal control officer. Maggie was utterly thrilled to be back in the matchmaking business. Thorgundur was donating his spay and neuter services for the new adoptive pets.
Mary Dummkopher filed for divorce, citing three episodes of spousal abuse, and she took the three kids with her to her brother’s home on Saltspring Island.
Gunnar said he had an opportunity to unearth some very unpleasant emails from the hard drive of Adolph Dummkopher’s workplace computer. He handed it over to the RCMP’s special investigations unit. Gunnar let me in on most of the unsavory details.
Turns out that for the better part of a year, Dummkopher had been selling Reykjavik’s stray dogs and cats to an organized dogfighting ring based in Thunder Bay. Dog trainers historically use stray dogs and cats for pre-fight practice, to keep the Pit Bulls “savage.”
I broke the story on the front page of the Packet and Times. At editor Lorne Bjornsson’s request we left out the gorier details. I remember that as soon as I finished writing the piece I felt an overpowering urge to head out to Maggie’s with Spunky.
I drove into the yard. I spotted Gunnar’s Ford pickup. A couple were in the driveway with their two young boys. I watched as Maggie handed a leash attached to the collar of a beautiful golden lab puppy to one of the boys. She handed the other young boy a book on the care and training of puppies, a book especially written for and geared to kids. Thorgundur rushed up with a blanket and a brand new tennis ball.
Maggie whispered conspiratorially to the smiling, wide-eyed boys. “You see Gunnar Ericsson over there? Well, when he found your puppy on the side of the road, he was only a month old, shivering, cold and he was very sick. We took him in and gave him a new start and now it’s up to you two. Make sure he’s loved and he’ll never let you down … promise.”
The family left and then Gunnar called us over.
“Thought you might be interested in this piece of news from the on-line version of the Times in London,” said Ericsson. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. On it was a news story. The headline fairly jumped from the page. “Canadian Big Game Hunter Mauled By Lions”
It went on to say that a “Canadian dogcatcher, 42-year-old Adolph Dummkopher was killed by two lions, while on safari.” It went on to say that a tracker sent in to reconstruct the scene said that the Dummkopher had apparently been followed by the rogue lions for the better part of two days.
I remembered the chat with Thorgundur and immediately looked over. He smiled, gave a low whistle and then excused himself. “Well, that’s too bad, but not entirely unexpected,” said Thorgundur. “Excuse me, I have some work to do on one of the new kennels before this storm breaks.”
The skies were looming black, the precursor to that beautiful freak of nature, the prairie thunderstorm. I said my goodbyes to Gunnar and Maggie and called Spunky to the truck.
Just before leaving I looked over at old Thorgundur who was preparing to drive a nail into a two-by-four. Over his shoulder a bolt of lightening cackled, snapped and cracked into the ebon prairie sky. The Stanley hammer of Thorgundur came down just as a peel of thunder shook the surrounding fields of alfalfa.
And the Faroe Islander in me felt the shrill thrill of the words spoken just three weeks ago by my friend Thorgundur.
“Oh, Maggie dear, not to worry, you’ll find that the gods find a way, when it comes to dealing with nasty spirited wee men like our friend Dummkopher.”
And I saw at that moment, beautiful Karma, delivered with jarring effect, courtesy of Thor’s large, 28 ounce, steely Stanley hammer.