My Life Among the Underdogs: A Memoir

143 Pages·2019·1.93 MB·English

by  Tia Torres

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
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
C
oming 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 lung 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
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
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