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Two years ago, before Eton’s Fire changed my life and his life, I met Sydney – Half German Shepherd, Half Great Pyrenees and the Mystery of the Capital E
Two days before I met him, I placed Lord Byron, the rescue of my 15-year-old shepherd, after nursing him for a year. I was a shipwreck. My friend Bob finally put me in his car, “Let’s hang out with the dog and stop the tears.”
Half an hour later we stepped into the rescue of a German shepherd on the West Side. There, a few feet away, stood this tall, elegant dog beast. We saw each other. I was hit. I ran away and wrapped my arms around him, but didn’t let go. He was almost unknown, so the nervous staff pulled me away.
Sydney had arrived from the Apple Valley Shelter that week. He was a runner and escape artist. Many times. There is no owner. There are no tags. There are no tips. Volunteers took him safely in a non-killed shelter for longtime shepherds in downtown. That day, Sydney rescued me and I took him back to Altadena.
Sydney was far away, scared, and always turned away. He investigated my house and settled in three small entrances and exits in a dark corridor. I was sure he had been caged for his first few years.
Within a month, Sydney ran off four more times. He was retrieved three times by the good Samaritans. His final attempt may have killed us. His sudden fixation to the squirrel gave me seconds as I chased him up Maiden Lane in his car.
If Sydney was human, he might be considered to a little. He is stealthy, troublesome around others, and is deeply unaware of his beauty and power. From the moment we met, I realized that he had a special gift. In the aftermath of the Eton Fire, strangely he will discover it too.
On January 7th, Sydney and I found ourselves desperately heading south, along with three women and four dogs from our neighbourhood, to Langamu Huntington, the iconic Grand Hotel in Pasadena, to escape the fast-moving fireballs. There were hundreds of lines. The front desk managed to find a room. The last room.
Although exhausted, thankful, we were only clothes on our backs, so nine of us were stuffed into room 401 at night. Sid and I chose a small front yard. He lets him get away from the crowd and sleep in a small, dark closet. The rest was glued to a big screen TV and I watched the orange fire line get violently rage throughout the night.
Early the next morning, Sid and I ran through a bustling lobby filled with beautiful people, huge flower arrangements and dozens of fire victims. Sydney’s impressive presence caused a stir, but he continued next to me before leaving the sliding door.
Two young valets ran in smart suits and tweed caps. After finding him the night before, they were looking for Sid. Sydney weighs 75 pounds, with a hairy lock and big ears that make his already handsome face even more expressive.
“What is that dog?” they asked.
“German/Pyrenees mix. Check out the giant fur legs and you’ll get it.”
Sydney and I were out to see if our home survived. We promised to be back soon.
The street was crowded with first responders, but we slowly made our way north until we could see the corner, the street and the house. Wearing an N95 mask and gloves, we entered through the broken front door. The roof was damaged, soot covered the floor, everything smelled like smoke, but the house was still there.
As the wind picked up and informed us of more destruction, we quickly collected dog food, medicines, some clothes, jackets and overnight bags. Sid grabbed his favourite toy, the lamb chops, and we returned to the hotel.
Sydney at the Langham Huntington Hotel in Pasadena.
In Langham, the same two Barretts, Randall and John, found Sydney and me. With their hunters, they hurt and loved Sid. We exchanged stories and I told them how Sid and I found each other. Sid has been an introvert so far and only handled for a few minutes before pulling me forward.
Now, Peggy and her two Goldens set off for Palm Springs, allowing Sally to go home. Agatha was homeless. She and her dog move in with her friends.
The nine-person spasm room was transformed only to Sydney and me, so we moved to Room 411, a cozy space with four big picture windows. In the queue, Sydney began looking up at the tree for the squirrel. I stepped into a black and white marble bathroom and noticed two silver bowls next to the tub and a soft hot pink dog bed. I found Maria, a housekeeper on the fourth floor. She collapsed in Sydney, hoping he would be comfortable. We hugged her and she became part of our hotel family.
That night, Sid and I took the elevator to the famous tea room. Not only crowded things, but Sid, unfamiliar with the elevator, had to be drawn in, so every time he shifted he had to splat like a cartoon character. His act brought some guests and a starter of laughter and conversation as we headed for dinner.
It was packed. There’s a mix of chic internationals, tourists, young and trendy up-and-coming groups, and the rest of us dressed in yesterday’s outfits. Sidney fell into the middle of the room and posed unconsciously, as if he was Carrie Grant. Like a magnet, he portrayed all sorts of interesting people who wanted to meet him, and heard what it was like to be us.
Jess, the bartender who made the mixing drink look like art, made me the first Arnold Palmer of many and provided water for Sydney.
Sid pressed his cold nose against my face every day at 6am, desperately trying not only for me, but for a walk. Every morning I chose a different street or path. He discovers a new world of smells, creatures, and people who inevitably stop and ask, “What is that dog?”
We met many outstanding encounters, including Eric and Patrice of Sacramento, Nicole of Santa Monica, and Miguel of Pasadena. They all wanted to see Sydney, so I was a beneficiary.
Sydney began searching for his bulllet cohort, who had been speeding like a racehorse to take the car for a long line of guests. It took Randall and John to constantly grab Sid and twist.
Back inside, we were hanging around a coffee cart near the front desk. This is a meeting place for interim meetings to exchange the story of fire. Many of us were coming and going – tied up by all ages, occupations, circumstances, trauma and confusion.
Over time, once refined Sid began to awkwardly lick and kiss the hands and faces of the gathered people, as if he were down the assembly line. I was worried it would be uncomfortable, but within a few seconds people loved it. Sid was developing this incredible gift to sense people’s needs and give back to them.
One afternoon, the doctor sprinted past us. He was the first speaker at the conference and was delayed. He cried, “What a god, what’s his name?” I cried, “Sydney!” After Pollack and Poitier. (I’m in the entertainment industry.) Near the end of a long corridor, he said, “What a god.”
This scene happened again and again. “Can I hold your dog? What is he? Where did you get him?” During our long stay, people were not afraid to approach or chase this big dog. Singles, homeless families, kids burned out at school.
Soon, Sid raised the hallway with his funny legs, hockey sticks, thick Swisi-like tails and ballerina-like movements, welcoming outsiders to his new neighborhood. The dog I always avoided seemed to understand that we all need contact, and he did.
He quickly learned the geography of the entire hotel and the majestic outdoor gardens. I took his lead. We met nurses, high-class bridal parties, countless fire lawyers, saw the celebrations for our fifth birthday and spoke with Romanian couples.
He dragged me into the coffee shop and looked at Isabelle and Wilson. At night, we went to the lounge to find Jess, Ernesto and Grace.
One night, when we returned to the hotel from somewhere, he thrusts his head out the window. I heard this loud, painful cry of excitement as Sydney saw Randall and John on Circle Drive. As they approached, Sydney went back and forth in the back seat, leaning out with the lamb chops, and leaned against them.
After a little over two months, we were finally allowed to return home, and Sydney and Lamb Chop spent 62 nights in hot pink beds on the marble bathroom floor. The next morning we packed things up and got the elevator on one last time. Sydney was a professional by then. There was a bittersweet goodbye.
When we arrived home, Sydney ran through the back door, around grass and Jacaranda trees, hoping for squirrels.
Now, a few months later, I am amazed at how Sydney blossomed during my stay in Langham. Every day new people came and some people left, but the constant was Sid, his presence, his shaking, his ability to give unexpected joy. A new Sydney has appeared. I can’t help but wonder if he dreams of returning there.
Henderson is a special correspondent.
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