Pong the Dalmatian

The West Los Angeles animal shelter was our home base of sorts, and it was where we did most of our volunteer work. As I mentioned, while it’s one of the better shelters in Los Angeles County, that’s not saying much.

For the most part, the people who work there try hard to do what’s best for the animals, but it’s a tough assignment. They aren’t given enough space, resources, or funding. So they do what they can.

One of the things they do is hold special adoption days, usually on the weekend, and they attempt to drum up publicity for them. They provide incentives for adoption, usually reduced costs, and there are giveaways for the kids.

The shelter is located off Bundy Drive in West LA, but it had the disadvantage of being behind other buildings, and therefore couldn’t be seen from the street. This tended to discourage drive-bys from stopping in, though in some ways that can be a positive. It cuts down on spur-of-the-moment impulse adoptions, which often don’t work out.

People who work with dog rescue organizations are overwhelmingly female, probably 90 percent in my experience. As one of the token males at the West LA shelter, I was given some of the unenviable assignments, and on one particular special adoption day, it was a beauty.

In order to attract passersby who couldn’t see the shelter from the street, someone would dress up in a Disney-type animal costume and go out on Bundy Drive. On this day the costume was of Pong the Dalmatian, and the sucker they dressed up was yours truly.

The major disadvantage to the job, other than the fact that I looked and felt like a dope, was the midsummer heat. It was ninety-five degrees outside, which was chilly compared to inside the Pong suit. I felt charcoal broiled within five minutes of the time I put it on. I will never again say, “Get lost, creep,” when approached by a character at a theme park.

But I dutifully went outside in my costume and started attracting attention. There was a traffic light on the corner, so I would approach stopped cars and go into my act.

I would get on my knees and assume the begging position, as though I were imploring people to come in and adopt a dog. I would dance like an idiot, wave my arms wildly, and do whatever else was necessary to get people to notice me. Because in Los Angeles, just dressing up as Pong the Dalmatian doesn’t get it done.

And to a degree I succeeded, in that people definitely paid attention. They would point at me and laugh, yelling things and getting into the spirit. Kids were most enamored of me, and for the hour that I was out there, the Bundy traffic light was a fun place to be.

Except, of course, for me. Though no one could know it by looking at me, I was fully baked and miserable. You can’t tell a fake Dalmatian by its cover.

But the really annoying part was that I was completely ineffective. While everyone was noticing me and was laughing both with me and at me, I wasn’t getting people into the shelter. When the light turned green they would move on, leaving poor Pong behind. I wasn’t, as they say, putting asses in seats.

So my time ended with my not having gotten a single person to come to the shelter who wasn’t already going there. I went inside to peel off the suit, though by that point everything was so hot and melted that it was hard to tell where the suit ended and my skin began. I had probably lost ten pounds in that hour, which is to say that I should get a few Pong suits for my regular wardrobe.

There was one other sacrificial male lamb in the shelter, and he was tasked with going out as my replacement Pong. After my performance, he was going to have big rubber shoes to fill. On my suggestion, he hosed down the suit with cold water inside and out before putting it on, and after he did so, he asked, “Where’s the sign?”

And then it hit me, as well as everyone within laughing distance of my discovery. There had been a sign prepared for us Pongs to carry and wave around, announcing ANIMAL ADOPTION DAY and directing people into the shelter.

I had forgotten to bring the sign outside with me, so people passing by had no idea what the hell I was doing out there. To them I must have been just an idiot in a Dalmatian suit, a humorous if bizarre diversion, but not an invitation to enter the shelter.

Ever sensitive, Debbie laughed the hardest at my humiliation, and was instrumental in “Pong” becoming my nickname for the remainder of our time at the shelter.