While most pets stay at home when their owners go to work, there are a few who join them for the daily grind. Cats and dogs alike can be found in stores across Baltimore and the businesses are happy to share their stories.

“We are so fortunate our customers have embraced the cats in our locations and they have become local celebrities in their own right,” said Courtney Belew, marketing manager for Ace Hardware. “Customers often stop by just to say hello, and it’s been a wonderful way for us to connect with our communities and add a little extra personality to our stores.”

Whether you are a cat person or a dog lover, there are stores, breweries, and even a print shop where you can find a new furry friend hard at work.

“Since we work long hours, it’s comforting to know Archie’s needs are being met,” said Rennie Friedlander, referring to her golden retriever who spends his days at the Simply Beautiful Flower Shop. “He’s very social and is seldom left alone. He enjoys seeing everyone and is always ready to go to work.”

If you are out for a stroll or just needing some hugs, be sure to check out these locations with adorable associates:

FLUFFY FOODIES

Nepenthe Brewing Co.

Who wouldn’t love having their best friend come to work with them every day? That is what Brian Arnold and Jill Antos, owners of the brewery, thought when they started bringing their lab, Benny, into their homebrew shop six years ago. He is a valued part of their team often meeting customers for a belly rub—or two. Benny is a rescue pooch, and had some separation anxiety when they first adopted him.

“When we opened the shop he immediately let us know that he didn’t appreciate being left at home while we went off to work,” said Antos. “So we brought him with us one day after opening, and it was great. He loved it, we loved it, and our customers fell in love with him. The rest is history.”

The Avenue in Hampden
While Killer the cat is not attached to a storefront, he is a local celebrity on The Avenue. If you eat outdoors in the area, especially at Nori, Killer is likely to come and ask for some sushi or maybe just a scratch behind the ears. With some of his Instagram photos garnering around 1,000 likes, the Unofficial Mayor of Baltimore City/Hampden is famous in his own right.

Gypsy’s Truckstaurant
Gypsy’s Truckstaurant offers a home away from home for all neighbors and visitors, including a gray, long-haired cat known on their Instagram account as “his Highness.” He is pictured lounging in the sun and under tables, making any cat lover feel at home. You know you are in the presence of royalty when you see the feline with one white back foot.

Monument City
A local celebrity, Willow the cat is known for keeping Monument City Brewing Company’s free of mice. In a recent mishap, Will was “rescued” from the brewery by some good samaritans who quickly returned him when they realized he already had a loving home. They even threw a party for Will on his safe return home. You can visit the gray feline at the brewery, just make sure not to take him home when you leave. There’s even a hoppy saison named in his honor.

SNUGGLY SALESMEN

Greedy Reads
If you are itching for a new book or just a pooch to pet, Greedy Reads is the store for you. Audie, a black pup with just a few white hairs around her snout, greets customers and can often be found posing for pictures on the front stoop. As the star of the store’s Instagram account, Audie has stolen hearts and shown just how fun reading can be.

aMuse Toys
The toys are not the only thing that amuses patrons at this family-friendly store. If you stop by, owners Claudia and Tom Towles are sure to introduce you to at least one of their three pups. Customers like to get to know Olive, Lucy, and Lola and that also allows them to get to know the family better as well, according to Tom. All three dogs are a mix called “bugg”—half Boston terrier and half pug. “Puppy therapy. When around pups you can’t help from smiling and feeling loved,” said Tom. “That energy translates to folks walking in; it is just infectious.”

Ace Hardware
It is common to find a cat or two as store mascots in Ace Hardware. This company is a co-op that means each location is an independently owned and operated local business, so it’s up to each retailer to decide if a cat is the right fit. Ace likes to consider their store cats “four-legged associates” and they have a very important job to perform: entertaining customers, mild insect and pest control, and being door greeters. In Waverly, you can meet an orange tabby named Benjamin (after Benjamin Moore). Stanley (after Stanley, Black and Decker) is the chunky orange cat found in Canton, and Decker (also after SBD) is a gray and white cat with bright green eyes who will greet you in Fed Hill.

A local rescue group Animal Allies Rescue Foundation (AARF) approached Ace about adopting a cat for their stores. All three of their cats were AARF rescues, and they even host regular fundraisers and pet adoption pop-ups for the organization.

“As a 100-percent volunteer run rescue, we know every penny counts and goes toward placing local animals in a good home,” said Belew. “We’re so glad we are able to be one of their sponsors and look forward to growing our partnership with AARF in the years to come.”

ARTISTIC ANIMALS

Simply Beautiful Flower Shop
Nothing is more picturesque than dogs and flowers. Archie, a golden retriever, is the only example of picture perfect you need. The owners Brian and Rennie Friedlander never questioned bringing their pup to the shop—he goes everywhere they go. One dad brings his kids every Friday to see the golden dog; his kids even call it the Archie store. During the holidays, many people bring gifts for Archie and, when he is not at the store, he loves to go on deliveries with his dad.

“We all love him and he brings out the best in us. Everyone plays a part in caring for him,” said Rennie. “He’s always available for a snuggle and it’s always nice to take a quick minute to take him outside.”

Baltimore Print Studio
Kyle Van Horn and Kim Bentley are a husband-and-wife team who own and run Baltimore Print Studios with the help of their black pooch, Eleanor. Featured throughout their Instagram page, Eleanor helps them attract a crowd at events like Artscape. During normal weeks, Eleanor can be found lying around the shop or even on tables sometimes.

Marlow, McCrystle & Jones Florist
Golden retrievers aren’t the only pups who like to stop and smell the roses. Emma and Fergus are two corgis that help run the Marlow, McCrystle & Jones Florist shop. You can find photos of the working dogs on the company’s Facebook page. These dogs are even pictured on the sign outside the shop, proving to be the face of the store.

When our power goes out because of pesky branches in our neighborhood, we tend to only think of certain negative four-letter words. But a new partnership between BGE and The Maryland Zoo will turn these limbs that would otherwise be trash into animal treasure.

Beginning this summer, the program will provide branches from healthy trees to the animals at the Zoo for food. In addition to BGE, a number of Exelon’s other companies provide to zoos around the country, including ComEd in Illinois to the Brookfield Zoo in Chicago, and PECO in Pennsylvania to the Philadelphia Zoo.

“Normally, we would just be putting these branches through a wood chipper,” said Dan Mance, BGE’s browse program coordinator. “It’s far more beneficial to help the Zoo than to turn it into mulch.”

Once the BGE vegetation management crews identify the healthy trees—only 50 species of trees in Maryland qualify for the program—the branches are bundled, washed, and delivered to the Zoo twice a week. It is then spread throughout various animal enclosures—feeding tortoises, giraffes, and elephants.

Across the state, BGE has cleared more than 2,300 miles of tree lines in 2017 to prevent power outages, and now those trees are helping to feed dozens of animals. The program will save the Zoo nearly $2,000 a week, money that was typically spent to procure out-of-state vegetation for the animals.

“What it’s providing us is the ability to feed out a larger quantity and more variety than I would otherwise have means to,” said Andrew Young, commissary manager for the Zoo. “Just the sheer quantity of what they’re able to bring us is a huge cost savings.”

Young also explains that this browse program, named for the plant material that feeds the animals, has richer nutritional value than hay that had previously been used as a substitute. The animals are also able to get some of their favorite snacks like mulberry and tulip poplar, which would normally be too costly to order. Not to mention, visitors can get a better idea of what the animals’ eating habits look like in the wild.

“A giraffe walking across the prairie in Africa would come upon a tree and just eat directly from it,” he said. “What we’re able to do is hang it on fences and scatter it in other ways based on the animal’s specific needs and manipulate it so they can mimic that natural foraging behavior.”

This long-term partnership will run each year from the beginning of spring to as late in the fall as possible. During the winter months, the browse will be purchased but at a lower quantity and will also be supplemented with other nutritional items.

“Not only are the animals benefitting from the super fresh food,” Young said. “We are able to spread the funds we are saving to other parts of the Zoo.”

Think naming a restaurant is simple? Think again.

“It’s as agonizing and thought provoking as naming a child,” says restaurant consultant Arlene Spiegel of New York-based firm Arlene Spiegel & Associates. “Typically, stakeholders go through a number of brainstorming sessions to get it right.”

Foreman Wolf Restaurant Group named two of its six spots after the animal kingdom. The first, Cinghiale, is an Italian eatery whose name translates to “wild boar” in Italian. “You see them all over the Northern part of the country from Tuscany up through Piedmont,” says co-owner Tony Foreman.

When the group decided to rebrand its second Petit Louis location in Columbia earlier this year, Foreman wanted another animal name. The space was transformed into a Roman trattoria named Lupa, which translates to “she-wolf” in Italian. “A she-wolf has always been Rome’s symbolic calling card,” Foreman says. “Legend has it that Romulus and Remus, the twins who founded the city, were suckled by a she-wolf. So the she-wolf and the twins were on all of the coins of the republic before there were emperors.”

While there are plenty of ways to successfully play up the animal concept (Spiegel advises putting the word “bubbly” in front of any animal moniker to project a celebratory vibe), some species should never be used to name a new spot. “Snakes, spiders, and similarly feared reptiles and bugs should be avoided at all costs,” she says. “They evoke a negative image regardless of the venue.”

When it comes to eateries named after mammals, amphibians, birds, and others, Charm City is turning into a veritable zoo. Here are names that have us crowing:

Massive Mammals

Lobo: Restaurant and cocktail bar whose name, which means “wolf” in Spanish, serves as a nod to the bar’s location on Wolfe Street.
The Elk Room: Harbor East speakeasy that features a massive taxidermy elk overlooking the front bar.
Cinghiale: Harbor East Northern Italian destination that translates to wild boar.
Fat Tiger: The centerpiece bar inside newly renovated Broadway Market—which also boasts an outdoor sister spot, El Tigre.
TigerStyle: Chef Chad Gauss’ wok-inspired eatery located in an alley behind the Avenue in Hampden.

High-Flying Haunts

Iron Rooster: Breakfast-all-day spot with several locations, including Canton.
Bird in Hand: Charles Village coffee corner named after a town in Lancaster County.
Bluebird Cocktail Room: Literary-themed Hampden cocktail bar honoring Charles Bukowski’s poem “Bluebird.”
Duck Duck Goose: Chef Ashish Alfred’s French-inspired brasserie in Fells Point.
The Owl Bar: Prohibition-era speakeasy inside the Belvedere Hotel.
Cardinal Tavern: Canton corner bar with red-wing accents and a Southern menu.

Equestrian Eateries

The Horse You Came in On Saloon: Pre-Prohibition bar dating back to 1775, which is rumored to have been the last spot where Edgar Allan Poe drank before his death.
McFaul’s Iron Horse Tavern: Convivial Cromwell Valley destination whose name refers to the old Iron Horse train that frequently stopped near the property.
Stalking Horse: Federal Hill staple whose name references the screen that a hunter hides behind when stalking prey.

Aquatic Appellations

Minnow: South Baltimore seafood shack brought to you by La Cuchara’s Ben and Jake Lefenfeld.
The Greene Turtle: Sports bar with multiple East Coast locations.
Fish Head Cantina: Rocking UMBC Halethorpe hangout featuring gourmet tacos, giant burgers, and even bigger drinks.

BeLeaf 

In our city’s ever-evolving effort to become a “cleaner, greener” version of itself, the Flowering Tree Trails of Baltimore initiative is the beautiful, fragrant next step. The effort—organized by a coalition of city governmental departments, environmental groups, and volunteers—aims to plant 6,000 flowering ornamental trees along 39 miles of Baltimore trails. In the spring, when they flower, the trails will be visually connected and become a source of splendor for residents and tourists alike. 

“In time, our city could be as famous for its Flowering Tree Trails as Washington, D.C., is for its cherry blossoms and New York is for the High Line,” says the initiative’s website. The plantings, which can range from—crabapples and cherry trees to dogwoods and silverbells—will contribute to the city’s goal of increasing its tree canopy from 28 percent to 40 percent by 2037. That is the level of coverage the U.S. Forest Service recommends if Baltimore wants to improve its air quality. The first trees went into the ground on November 11, during a ceremony in Druid Hill Park. Organizers estimate that, when all is said and planted, the initiative will cost somewhere in the low seven figures. Fundraising efforts are underway.

Bay Watch

Maryland Senator Chris Van Hollen has introduced legislation to increase funding for a program that helps farmers prevent agricultural runoff from entering the bay. According to the Chesapeake Bay Program “agriculture is the single largest source of nutrient and sediment pollution entering the Chesapeake Bay.” The bill, officially titled the Chesapeake Bay Farm Bill Enhancements Act of 2017, would triple funding—from $100 million to $300 million—available to farmers for mitigating practices such as constructing secure manure storage, installing cover crops, practicing no-till farming, and maintaining forested stream buffers. 

Van Hollen’s bill has already garnered multiple sponsors, including one Republican, Sen. Shelley Moore Capito of West Virginia. According to The Washington Post, Congressman Robert C. “Bobby” Scott of Virginia’s 3rd District will introduce an identical bill in the House, but is still gathering support. Separately, Congress continues to debate 2018 funding levels for the Chesapeake Bay cleanup program—a six-state, $73 million agreement to curb pollution that President Trump has proposed eliminating.   

Sewer Followup

When last we checked in with Baltimore City’s $1.6 billion plan to upgrade its failing sewer system, the city was locked in a dispute with water quality advocacy group Blue Water Baltimore over the scope of the federally mandated consent decree. Blue Water Baltimore wanted the work to continue until water quality met a certain benchmark, even if that meant performing repairs and upgrades outside the purview of the initial agreement. The city—and the federal government—argued that this was not feasible or necessary. In October, a federal judge sided with the city and federal government. The first phase of the project, which will address 83% of sewer overflows, is supposed to be completed by January 1, 2021. All remaining work is to be completed by 2030. The consent decree can be viewed in full here.  

Park Places

• The ribbon cutting of a redeveloped baseball field in West Baltimore provided the setting for a classic Orioles reunion last week as Cal Ripken Jr., Eddie Murray, and Brooks Robinson gathered at the newly dedicated Eddie Murray Field at BGE Park. The park, a project of the Cal Ripken Sr. Foundation, now features a synthetic turf baseball diamond, dugouts, a backstop, and a digital scoreboard. The field is located behind James Mosher Elementary School and will host after- school programming in addition to James Mosher Baseball—the oldest continuously operating African-American youth baseball league in the country.
• Users of the Stony Run trail that snakes through many of North Baltimore’s most coveted neighborhoods had cause for celebration in early October. After nearly 10 years and $1 million in investment, two footbridges opened creating the final linkages in the trail that runs between Roland Avenue and North Charles Street from just below Northern Parkway to Remington.  
• In October, the state announced it will allocate $23 million to protect parcels of farmland, forest, and open space in 17 conservation districts around the state. The funds are part of the Rural Legacy Program, a program of the state Department of Natural Resources, that works “to preserve large, contiguous tracts of land and to enhance natural resource, agricultural, forestry and environmental protection while supporting a sustainable land base for natural resource based industries.” This year’s recipients include the Manor and Piney Run areas in Baltimore County, and the Deer Creek area of Harford County. 

Babies in a Half Shell: Turtle Power!

In late September, the National Park Service announced that a nest of loggerhead sea turtles successfully hatched on Assateague Island National Seashore. The approximately 100 hatchlings emerged from one nest site in the Maryland Over Sand Vehicle zone and successfully made their way out to sea. This is the first successful hatch of loggerhead sea turtles on Assateague, though other attempts have been noted in recent years. The species generally does not nest north of North Carolina. Bill Hulslander, chief of resource management for the National Seashore says, the hatch “underscores the increasing importance of undeveloped beaches along Assateague Island to sea turtles and other federally threatened and endangered species.”

The world is a scary and uncertain place. But some things remains pure and good—like baby penguins! 

The Maryland Zoo in Baltimore announced today the two latest additions to its award-winning Penguin Coast exhibit. The African penguin chicks, hatched on October 13 and 14, respectively, are the first hatchlings of the 2017-2018 penguin breeding season. One chick is being raised by its parents (male and female penguins take turns caring for their young) while the other is being raised by zookeepers because it wasn’t gaining sufficient weight. 

“The chicks will stay behind-the-scenes in the Penguin Conservation Center for a few months until their juvenile feathers have grown in and they pass their swimming lessons,” says Jen Kottyan, the zoo’s avian collection and conservation manager.

Zookeepers are especially excited about this breeding season, as it marks 50 years since the zoo began working with the endangered penguin species that is indigenous to South Africa. Over the intervening decades, the zoo has hatched more than 900 African penguins, many of which have been given to other zoos to increase species diversity in breeding programs. The two latest hatchlings represent numbers 988 and 989, and several more eggs are incubating.  

“If our penguin pairs hatch eleven more healthy chicks this season, then we will hit the 1,000 mark, enthuses Kottyan, adding, “We really have high hopes of hatching at least eleven chicks, if not more, this season.”

We’ll be rooting them on. The world can never have enough cuteness. 

In The Air

On Wednesday, Governor Larry Hogan directed Maryland Attorney General Brian Frosh to sue the federal Environmental Protection Agency for allowing coal plants in five upwind states to emit harmful chemical compounds that pollute Maryland’s air. The move is the culmination of a nearly yearlong standoff between the EPA and Maryland over a part of the Clean Air Act known as the “Good Neighbor Provision” that “requires EPA and states to address interstate transport of air pollution that affects downwind states’ ability to attain and maintain [air quality standards].” Last November, Maryland filed a petition requesting that 19 coal plants in Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia adopt stricter controls to prevent ozone-causing emissions. The EPA never responded to the petition, which asked that the plants employ already existing emission capture technologies every day during the summer months, when the released chemical compounds are more likely to react with heat and sunshine to form the ground-level ozone that triggers Code Red and Code Orange air quality alerts. 

“We know for a fact those power plants have the existing control technologies . . . but for whatever reason, they’re not running them every day during the ozone season,” Ben Grumbles, Maryland’s Secretary of the Environment, told The Sun in 2016. 

Thanks to a 2015 regulation, Maryland’s own power plants must use emission capture technologies every day during the summer. Maryland is also part of the Regional Greenhouse Gas Initiative, a coalition of nine northeastern states that have taken action to curb emissions from power plants through cap-and-trade programs. But rules and attitudes differ from state to state, and the lawsuit aims to bring upwind states in line with Maryland’s practices. 

“We’re not asking for anything that we’re not already doing in Maryland,” Grumbles said. 

Bay Watch

Speaking of the EPA, the agency and some of its landmark initiatives remain under assault from the Trump administration and some Congressional Republicans. As was widely reported earlier this year, President Donald Trump’s proposed 2018 federal budget would slash funding for the EPA by about a third and eliminate the Chesapeake Bay Program, a regional effort to rehabilitate the bay that dates back to 1983. Though it is unlikely that the final budget that emerges from Congress will feature such drastic cuts, the administration has already demonstrated a willingness to back up its rhetoric, announcing last month the cancelation of an annual EPA grant to the Bay Journal, a nonprofit news outfit that has covered the Chesapeake Bay since 1991. The administration is also challenging an Obama-era interpretation of the Clean Water Act that expanded the types of waterways protected under the legislation.  

This month, House Republicans passed an amendment introduced by Virginia Republican Bob Goodlatte that would keep the Chesapeake Bay Program nominally in tact but hobble its reach by striping the EPA of its ability to penalize states that did not meet cleanup goals. 

Though the Chesapeake Bay Program began under the Reagan Administration, its initial progress was uneven because the seven jurisdictions that make up the bay’s watershed (Delaware, Maryland, New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia, West Virginia, and the District of Columbia) were allowed to create and enforce their own disparate compliance standards. Then in 2010, the Obama Administration brokered an enhanced agreement—often referred to as a “pollution diet”—that stipulated how much pollution each jurisdiction could discharge into the bay each day. Under the new agreement, the EPA could penalize states that failed to meet their pollution reduction benchmarks. Since then, bay advocates have reported modest but steady signs of improvement, such as an increase in aquatic grasses and smaller than expected dead zones each summer.     

According to The Sun, however, Goodlatte called the initiative an effort to “micromanage” and “hijack states’ water quality strategies.” 

The measure, attached to a larger funding bill that would fund the federal government from December through September 2018, passed largely along party lines, though some bay state Republicans, including Rep. Andy Harris of Maryland’s 1st Congressional District, joined Democrats in rejecting the amendment. 

Fatberg Ahead! 

This week in ew: Baltimore City’s Department of Public Works announced it had discovered a giant mass of congealed fat, antibacterial wipes, and other materials lodged in a sewer main underneath North Charles Street near Penn Station. The accumulation—dubbed the “fatberg”—caused a sewer overflow on September 21 that spewed about 1.2 million gallons of sewage into the Jones Falls. Since then, most of the fatberg—which was blocking approximately 85 percent of the 24-inch pipe—has been scrapped off and disposed of in a city landfill. The Department of Public Works is using the occasion to remind residents not to pour fats, oils, and grease down the drain or flush disposable wipes.

Pipe Dreams

Even without fatbergs, Baltimore’s sewers have enough problems. Most of the sewage pipes that run underneath the city are over a century old, and they regularly fail causing backups in homes and spills in local waterways. It’s a long-acknowledged problem, and in 2002 Baltimore City entered into a consent decree with the EPA to upgrade its wastewater system by 2016. That deadline came and went with little progress made. State and federal agencies then agreed to modify the original agreement, and, last month, Baltimore officials announced a $1.6 billion plan to repair the aging wastewater infrastructure by 2030. The pact would require the city to finish upgrading its Back River Wastewater Treatment Plant by 2021 and implement a program that compensates residents for sewage backups in their home, among other items. 

But Blue Water Baltimore, a local water quality watchdog nonprofit granted third-party status in the consent decree last year, said the new version “lacks full accountability standards,” and has asked a federal judge to reject the agreement. Specifically, the group wants the agreement to allow for additional repair projects should water quality monitoring indicate a need.

“Blue Water Baltimore’s top concern is that the consent decree be an enforceable, science-based plan to eliminate sewage overflows and improve water quality, as required by the Clean Water Act, not just a static list of projects,” said Angela Haren, the nonprofit’s Baltimore Harbor Waterkeeper and Director of Advocacy. The city contends that Blue Water Baltimore’s demand is beyond the scope of the consent decree’s narrow purview.  

Park Places

Here’s an update on recent developments at green spaces near and far. 

• A $750,000 grant from the U.S. Department of the Interior, will breath new life into a circa 1930 campground in Gwynns Falls Park. The campground—an old Girl Scout facility—will see renovations to its existing pavilion and stone amphitheater and the addition of water and electrical service, lighting, kitchen and storage areas, composting toilets and showers, and extra camping pads. Gwynns Falls Park is also getting a new visitor center and a renovated Cahill Recreation Center, which is adjacent to the campground. Both of those projects are funded by the state.   
• As of June, the drained fountain and cold concrete blocks of the old McKeldin Square are gone, replaced by an expanded lawn and young trees. The $4 million overhaul of the plaza at the corner of Pratt and Light streets is just phase I. Phase II will add a water feature, as well as signs and a memorial honoring Theodore R. McKeldin, the former Baltimore mayor and Maryland governor, for whom the park is named.    
• Earlier this month, the state Board of Public Works approved the Maryland Department of Natural Resources’ acquisition of land for a new state park. The newly secured 2,009 acres in Garrett County are spread over three parcels near the town of Kitzmiller, and two of the parcels border Potomac State Forest. The tracts include a riparian forest, three brook trout streams, approximately 1,700 acres of mixed forest, and critical wetlands and bird habitat. The property will be open for biking, camping, fishing, hiking, and hunting. 

Animal Collective

The past few months have brought a raft of odd animal news. Here’s a rundown of our favorite stories about local creatures, great and small. 

• A female blue crab with two oysters growing on her shell near her eyes was pulled from the Chesapeake Bay in June. 
• Last week, the Maryland Department of Natural Resources announced the discovery of New Zealand mudsnails in the Gunpowder River, the first confirmed finding of the tiny invasive mollusks in Maryland waters. Maryland DNR is asking that people using the river take care not to spread the snails to other waterways by decontaminating clothing and equipment used in the river. A list of helpful tips can be found here.  
• In late June, the University of Maryland Center for Environmental Science asked Chesapeake Bay users to report dolphin sightings via the center’s Dolphin Watch website. Each sighting will be logged on an interactive map allowing researchers to learn more about the aquatic mammal’s numbers and habits. Dolphin season in the Chesapeake Bay continues through October before cooler water temps send them south.
• By far the cutest story you’ll read all day: Earlier this month, the Baltimore City Public Schools’ board of commissioners approved new guidelines for service animals in its buildings. In addition to dogs, the new rules also allow for miniature horses, provided they are housebroken and under their handler’s control. 
• Towson University took a cue from savvy farmers everywhere this month when it employed a herd of goats to munch unwanted vegetation in its 12-acre campus arboretum. This is the fourth consecutive year the university has hired the goats from Harmony Church Farm in Harford County to tackle its overgrowth.    
• On Wednesday, 7-Eleven gifted the Baltimore Police Department’s mounted police unit with a 4-year-old draft horse named Slurpee. The black Percheron replaces the original Slurpee—also a gift from 7-Eleven—who retired to a farm in Pennsylvania earlier this year at age 17. (No, really, he is at a farm.) We look forward to hearing the clip-clop of Slurpee No. 2’s hooves on Baltimore’s streets for years to come.  

Fall Foliage

As October approaches, so too does leaf-peeping season across the region. The Maryland Department of Natural Resources releases weekly fall foliage status reports that can help you locate peak color across the state. This week, change is just beginning in the mountains of western Maryland, which the DNR says are still 75 percent green. If you’re heading out that way to leaf-peep, we recommend you check out our guide to 10 great nearby mountain getaways for tips on where to stay, eat, and play. Happy peeping! 

You may see a lot of new faces—and places—when The Maryland Zoo in Baltimore opens its doors seven days a week starting March 1.

Over
the winter, the zoo gained a boatload of new animals, through births
and acquisitions—including adorable lion cubs Luke, Leia, and Zuri; a
baby black-and-white colobus monkey named Gonzo; and two 1-year-old
reticulated giraffes Anuli and Juma, pictured.

“We are
very happy to have them join the herd,” says Carey Ricciardone, mammal
collection and conservation manager. “The two young females have been
acclimating nicely to the Giraffe House and are very cooperative with
the keepers.”

Additionally, in the spring, the zoo is reopening
its Marsh Aviary and African Aviary, both of which sustained extensive
damage in the 2010 blizzards.

Another long-term build is the new
$10.4-million African Penguin Exhibit, which debuts in the fall and will
double the number of birds and include underwater-viewing features and a
wave pool.

The viewers will be able to see the penguins from
every angle possible,” says Don Hutchinson, the zoo’s president/CEO. “We
think this new exhibit will redefine the zoo.”

Still carrying his Nerf dart gun, 10-year-old Dominic Solesky ran outside and down the alley behind his family’s East Towson row home after hearing his friend, Scotty Mason, screaming.

“We’d played baseball earlier in the day, and we were playing tag,” Dominic recalls five years later. “Two of our other friends met me at the gate on the side of the alley and said they saw him get attacked. I ran down and saw his Nerf gun and blood on the pavement—and then I saw the pit bull trying to jump out of its kennel.”

The pit bull’s owner had pulled his dog off Scotty and had already begun cleaning up the 9-year-old’s face and shoulder when Dominic arrived on the scene. As the owner, in his kitchen, was warning Scotty not to tell his parents what had happened, the dog leapt off the back of another pit bull in the kennel and got free.

“I was scared and started running toward my house,” says Dominic, who weighed about 60 pounds at the time. “I looked behind me and saw my two friends—one went over a fence and the other hid next to a telephone pole—and the dog gaining ground. I kept running, but he caught me and jumped on my back and knocked me down. I tried to push him off, and he bit my arm and then he bit my face.

“It was sort of pouncing on me and barking all at once.”

By the time the owner pulled his pit bull, Clifford, off Dominic, the dog had ripped opened his thigh and severed his femoral artery.

Witnessing the attack and seeing Dominic lying in an expanding pool of blood, a neighbor dialed 911, pleading through tears for assistance.

“I just saw a dog attack a little boy. He’s covered in blood. He cannot walk,” the woman says on a tape of the emergency call. “This boy needs medical attention now . . . he’s hurt bad. . . . We need help now! We need help now!”

“Is the boy conscious?”

“Barely.”

“Please hurry.”

Another neighbor rushed over and applied pressure to the gaping wound, hoping to stem the bleeding until an ambulance arrived.

“It didn’t look like a dog bite,” says Dominic’s mother, Irene, who also ran to her son. “It looked like a shark attack.”

Later, as doctors at The Johns Hopkins Hospital emergency room worked to save Dominic’s life, the Baltimore County Fire Department dispatched a “wash detail” to the alley to clean up his blood. Dominic eventually underwent a second surgery and spent a year in rehab. Afterwards, the Solesky’s civil claim against the pit bull’s owner was discharged when the man filed for bankruptcy protection. However, Anthony Solesky, Dominic’s father, also sued the pit bull owner’s landlord for negligence, alleging knowledge of the dog’s “vicious” nature in court papers.

With Dominic left with several scars but otherwise long-since recovered and a member of his high school’s wrestling team, that lawsuit finally completed its circuitous journey through the Baltimore County and Maryland judicial systems last spring. The state Court of Appeals (Maryland’s highest court) ruling: Pit bulls are “inherently dangerous” and, therefore, a landlord with knowledge of a pit bull on their property can be held “strictly liable”—automatically culpable, in other words—for the dog’s actions. For all intents and purposes, the court’s decision set a new precedent, negating the state’s so-called “free-first-bite” rule, which held that in order for a dog’s owner—not to mention, a landlord—to be liable, a dog must be shown to have bitten previously. Suddenly, pit bulls became the exception to that rule.

State Farm, the landlord’s homeowner’s insurance carrier in Dominic’s case, quickly settled out of court with the Soleskys.

The real fight, however, was just beginning. Days after the court decision, a Baltimore Sun column by Dan Rodricks supporting the ruling and characterizing pit bulls as “four-legged time bombs” ignited a firestorm of online comments from pit-bull lovers. Over the next few weeks, Facebook, pit-bull-friendly websites, and editorial pages lit up in outrage over the court’s “breed-specific” decision. A month after the ruling, under intense pressure from pit bull advocates and the rescue community, which included a rally in Annapolis, the General Assembly set up a Pit Bull Task Force. But in a special session this fall, legislators failed to pass a bill addressing the court decision.

And while pit bull supporters and the rescue community are concerned that shelters, dog parks, animal hospitals, and third parties can be held automatically liable for the actions of pit bulls on their property, their more pressing worry has been that landlords would force tenants and families to choose between their pets and their homes. Not without good reason. In the aftermath of the Court of Appeals decision, organizations such as the Maryland SPCA, the Humane Society of the United States, and the Baltimore Animal Rescue and Care Shelter (BARCS), received hundreds of calls from panicked pit bull and crossbred pit bull owners about the impact of the decision. (The court has since ruled their decision only applies to purebred pit bulls.) At last count at BARCS, more than 40 pit bull owners have given up their pets to the shelter following the court ruling, with many explicitly mentioning eviction warnings from their landlords.

“It’s been heartbreaking at times, parents with children, everybody crying, including our staff members and other customers,” says Jennifer Brause, BARCS’s executive director. “This has been hard for everyone. We even had a purebred boxer come in—a dog that obviously isn’t a pit bull—because the landlord thought it was a pit bull and suddenly got nervous after the ruling. The tenant didn’t have the resources to fight and, in the end, was afraid of retaliation by the landlord.”

Meanwhile, pit bull supporters continue their campaign for legislative action to override the pit-bull-specific language in the Court of Appeals ruling. Among other events, the SPCA of Anne Arundel County hosted its first Pit Bull Appreciation Month this fall. B-More Dog, a pit bull outreach and education organization launched in 2007 as Baltimore County considered pit-bull-specific legislation in the wake of Dominic’s attack, hosted a “Holiday Pit Bulls on Parade” walk at the Inner Harbor in December. And this month, Pact for Animals will host a daylong, “Punish the Deed, Not the Breed” symposium at the University of Baltimore.

“This pit bull ruling is so difficult because it started as a court decision and not in the legislature, where it bubbled up almost immediately afterwards,” says Aileen Gabbey, executive director of the Maryland SPCA, who has testified in Annapolis about the ruling. “Animal welfare groups were really taken aback, obviously upset, and very worried about what this meant for pets and people. There was the [Annapolis] rally and animal-rights groups started getting phone calls to their legislators, who, to their credit, listened to their constituents. The more they heard, the more they realized they needed to act.”

Elected officials are readying to tackle the issue again in the General Assembly. But the question remains, can the state Senate and House find a way to protect the public from vicious dogs without harming families who love their pit bull pets? Right now, pit bull owners and landlords remain in a kind of limbo as another lawsuit—this one filed in federal court by Baltimore City pit bull owners—challenges the constitutionality of evictions based on the Maryland Court of Appeals decision.

Late last summer, the pit bull uproar galvanized when the management board that oversees East Baltimore’s low-income Armistead Gardens housing co-op, a neighborhood of roughly 1,500 homes, sent a letter to leaseholders ordering them to give up their pit bulls and threatening legal action, “including termination” of leases. In reaction, Armistead Gardens resident Joseph Weigel reached out to the law office of Barry Glazer, filing a federal suit, later joined by neighbors Joanna Profili and Jenine Gangi and amended to a class-action complaint, that alleges, among other things, the wrongful abrogation of their property rights and an unjust attempt to terminate their leases. All three express a deep affection for their pit bulls.

Weigel is described as “the disabled owner of Angel, a loving and obedient dog believed to be a pit bull or pit-bull mix” in court papers. Profili, a 28-year-old single mother of two and a machine operator recently laid off from her job, is raising her children alone after their father was tragically killed on Christmas Eve, 2011. According to the suit, she wants to avoid having to give up the family’s beloved 2-year-old pit bull, “which serves as a reminder to her children of happier times with their father.”

Gangi, a veterinarian’s assistant at the Essex Middle River Veterinary Center and a trainer at PETCO in the Golden Ring Mall, has two crossbred pit bulls, Tank Girl, 6, and Baby Girl, 2, who also serve as blood donors at her veterinary clinic.

“Since the court decision was made, it’s been very stressful,” Gangi says. “People became very paranoid that their dogs are going to be taken away or they’re going to be forced to move. For me, my dogs are my children. I think of Tank as my ‘first born.’ They’re very social animals—they play tricks, they play dead—and they’ve gotten me though some rough times. If my dogs were ever taken away, I’d be devastated.”

“There’s an estimated 500 pit bulls or pit-bull mixes in Armistead Gardens, but this really impacts Maryland as a whole,” says Charles H. Edwards IV, an attorney in Glazer’s office, which has taken the case pro-bono. “We made a decision to attack the law and not just seek relief for the three Armistead Gardens residents. This shouldn’t be allowed to stand in Maryland.”

Christopher Moll, another Armistead Gardens resident, a married refrigeration technician with three kids, and the owner of a 4-year-old pit mix named Dahlia, is not a part of the federal complaint, but has become a pit bull activist following the court’s ruling. He participated in a B-More Dog pit bull event outside the local elementary school as well as attending the organization’s “Holiday Pit Bulls on Parade” downtown with his family.

Moll believes that the court ruling and surrounding media attention has not just frightened pit bull owners, but likely has also scared off potential owners from adopting animals—something Brause mentioned as well. “I’ve been to BARCS and the Baltimore County Animal Shelter and interacted with the dogs there and taken them out,” he says. “They’re approachable, they’re not dangerous.”

Moll maintains, as do all pit bull supporters, that the problem is not the pit bull breeds, generally considered the American pit bull terrier, the American Staffordshire, the Staffordshire bull terrier, or mixes thereof, but each dog’s training. “Their behavior is all based on how the dogs are raised, it’s definitely not the breed,” Moll says. “Our dog has never showed any signs of aggression. My kids have jumped up and down on her, pulled her ears, and stuck their hands in her bowl when she was eating.”

In its decision, the Court of Appeals painted a different picture of pit bulls as it highlighted its long frustration with existing law, or lack thereof, regarding attacks, noting the mauling of another 10-year-old Maryland boy, John L. Clark, in a case that came before the court in 1916. More recently, over the past 13 years, the court said in its opinion, “there have been no less than seven instances of serious maulings by pit bulls upon Maryland residents resulting in either serious injuries or death that have reached the appellate courts . . . including the two boys attacked by the pit bull in the present case.”

In its opinion, the Court of Appeals cited, among other studies, research published in the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association that found that from 1979 through 1996, dog attacks caused more than 300 U.S. fatalities, and that pit bulls were involved in approximately one-third of the deaths during a 12-year period from 1981 through 1992.

While the pit bull controversy here garnered not just local and state headlines, but national attention, it is hardly the first time legal questions and legislation around pit bulls in the state has popped up.

In an effort to protect the public, cities and counties have often taken matters into their own hands, passing pit-bull-specific legislation. Most notably, Prince George’s County banned pit bulls outright in 1996 following several attacks. Baltimore County, as mentioned earlier, considered requiring pit-bull-specific licensing and liability insurance in the aftermath of Dominic’s attack. This summer, Hagerstown’s City Council considered strict liability legislation on pit bull owners and landlords, but ultimately placed the proposed ordinance on hold. Two small Maryland towns, North Beach and Port Deposit, also outlawed pit bulls in recent years. North Beach, however, rescinded the ban this summer.

According to DogsBite.org, a national dog-bite victims’ group, which monitors attacks, breed-specific legislation, and court rulings, more than 500 municipalities and 18 counties in the U.S. have some type of pit-bull-specific law. Founded by Colleen Lynn, whose arm was broken in a pit-bull attack, DogsBite.org also reports that 23 countries regulate pit bulls and “dangerous dog” breeds with national breed-specific laws.

Although pit bulls have a complicated history—bred in England to “bait bulls” (a popular blood sport where dogs fought tethered bulls) and, later, in the U.S. to fight each other—pit bulls and pit-bull mixes have not always had such a bad reputation. For a long time, they were the all-American dog in the country’s imagination. The Little Rascals’ dog “Petey” was a pit bull; so was Buster Brown’s dog. Theodore Roosevelt had a pit bull terrier named “Pete.” Helen Keller’s companion was a “pittie” named Sir Thomas. Gen. George Patton had a white pit bull named “Willie” and pit bulls served as U.S. military mascots and in combat during both World Wars.

Lynn believes that the number of pit-bull attacks—and, therefore, their aggressive reputation—is linked to an explosion in the number of pit bulls since the late 1970s. She puts the cause of the problem at the feet of irresponsible owners and breeders, as well as an increase in the number of dogs exploited for fighting—or at the very least—their macho image. But Lynn also believes pit bulls to be dangerous regardless of how well-bred or how well-trained they may be, due to what she describes as their “hold-and-shake” biting style and inherent tenacity.

The bottom line, says Marcy Setter of Pit Bull Rescue Central, an online resource for pit bull owners, is that there are not any easy answers.

Pit bulls can be mishandled, abused, and taught to be aggressive.

They can also be wonderful family pets.

“Everybody wants you to wave a magic wand,” Setter says. “We need to move slowly in the right direction, but breed-specific legislation doesn’t work—it’s expensive for local animal control and identification alone is too complicated.” (When is a pit-bull mix defined as a pit bull, for example?)

Instead of breed-specific laws, Setter says elected officials should propose incentives to spay and neuter and stronger leash laws, including enforcement and higher fines, that can fund a more-responsive animal control effort. “It’s a horrible situation when a victim is attacked and that should never happen to anyone,” she says. “The problem is important, and we need laws. But we should write laws so that animal control can be proactive and respond to neighbors’ complaints. Usually, there are harmful signs before something happens.”

Gabbey, the Maryland SPCA executive director, says much the same thing. “There are leash laws and in a lot of quarters of the city, the rules are broken,” she says. “Ideally, it’d be nice, when a fence is broken or a neighbor makes a complaint providing a dog’s address, that there’d be a response. Right now, typically, animal control is only reactive. I’d say in most communities, animal control is woefully underfunded, and without that, these things are hard to do.”

To the current controversy, Gabbey notes that state legislators heard from concerned constituents throughout the state about the urgency around the pit bull ruling before the second special season last year and will again during the regular session. “Pit bulls owners of Maryland want to see this resolved,” she says. The Senate and House, once they began working during the special session, took different approaches to crafting a solution—although they did find some key common ground.

Both chambers proposed bills to override the Court of Appeals’ pit bull-specific language and treat all breeds the same. Both also considered lowering the strict-liability threshold for landlords.

However, the Senate also agreed with the Court of Appeals’ decision in removing the old, “free-first-bite,” common-law guideline, says Montgomery County state Sen. Brian Frosh, a co-chair of the Pit Bull Task Force.

The House legislation, on the other hand, essentially created more liability exemptions for dog owners than the Senate bill. Pit bull owners, under the House proposal, would be held strictly liable, for example, if their dog was off leash.

“The main difference between the Senate bill and the House bill was that the Senate bill would’ve aligned Maryland with about 35 other states that have eliminated the so-called ‘one-free-bite’ rule,” says Frosh. “I’m optimistic, but we still need to reach a consensus.”

“We are all anxiously awaiting for the legislative session to start,” says Gabbey. “People who are landlords and people who own pit bulls are still worried until legislation is passed. Frankly, I think a lot of damage has already been done.”

On a clear, crisp March day, Officer Christopher Davies prepares the second floor of a long-abandoned building at Rosewood State Hospital to go to the dogs—or, more specifically, to the Baltimore County K-9 unit.

Earlier in the day, Davies had signed out dangerous controlled substances stored in a safe at Essex headquarters (many of which were seized during local drug busts) as well as an arsenal of explosives acquired through the State Fire Marshal’s Office. Now, as if preparing for a dangerous scavenger hunt, Davies plants plastic Zip-Loc baggies of heroin, hashish, meth, and explosive compounds such as R5 and PETN in various hiding places around the floor. The hash goes on a shelf in the bathroom; the heroin gets stashed in a room behind closed doors; the meth is hidden inside the receiver of a telephone that sits on top of a desk area.

“It’s like a game of hide and seek,” explains Davies. “That’s all we do out here all day.”

First to arrive on the scene is the team of 4-year-old German shepherd Bosco and his handler, Sergeant Daniel Buchler, a former lacrosse player dressed in County-issued navy cargo pants with Oakley sunglasses on top of his head and a 40-caliber sig (pistol) strapped to one leg. Bosco, with his bear-sized paws, is equally formidable—at 99 pounds, he is one of the K-9 unit’s larger animals and, like many of the canines, is a dual-purpose dog trained in explosives and patrol work.

Bosco sniffs his way across the floors of the empty, tiled hallways while Buchler eggs on his shepherd with words of encouragement.

“Let’s get the bad guy. Let’s get the bad guy,” he says.

As Bosco sniffs, Buchler guides the dog through the halls, running his hands along the walls. When Buchler points to a paper-towel holder in a bathroom, Bosco stands gracefully on his hind legs and shoves his snout along the edge of the dispenser. Suddenly, Bosco’s breathing shifts from a steady pant to a more excited one. “He’s easy to read,” says Buchler. “You can hear his breathing change as he inhales.” Bosco takes a whiff, spins around, and then offers his “final response”—”a sit,” which is what he’s been trained to do once he locates the explosives. Buchler retrieves the R5 shoved up in the dispenser and praises Bosco for a job well done. “Good boy. Good boy,” he repeats, tossing Bosco his Kong chew toy reward. “He’s a foam monster,” says Buchler as he beams at the sight of his drooling dog who appears to be foaming at the mouth. “Yes, he is.”

For decades now, police dogs (thought to have originated in Belgium in 1859) have been widely employed throughout the United States, although in the wake of 9/11, they’ve become an increasingly common tool used against terrorism, especially for explosives. And Baltimore has benefited. Thanks to a federal grant from the Department of Homeland Security in 2010, Baltimore County received six Suburban SUVs for the unit. (They’ve since tricked the Suburbans out with a customized HVAC “hot-dog” system to keep temperatures just right for the dogs who often have to wait in cars before their officers bring them out to sniff around.)

Even before the events of 9/11, the Baltimore area was ahead of its time in using man’s best friend to assist the men and women in blue. Founded in 1956, Baltimore City’s unit is thought to be the oldest in the country with Baltimore County and the Maryland State Police units—both founded in 1961—not far behind. (Baltimore County has a relatively large unit for the state, with 25 handlers, one bloodhound, four Labradors, and 23 German shepherds.) As of today, Maryland has a K-9 unit in almost every county.

It was the Baltimore County K-9 Unit that presided over Obama’s visit to Towson University in 2011 and guarded the perimeter of a Dundalk row house during the 2000 fight-to-the-finish standoff with spree killer Joseph Palczynski. Throughout the Old Line State, the K-9 units patrol our streets, our malls, and our airports. They are called to the scene during armed robberies or when citizens are lost or on the lam.

According to Lieutenant Stephen Troutman, top dog of Baltimore County’s K-9 Unit, his team handled 6,600 calls for service last year (in Baltimore County and beyond), which led to 129 apprehensions. Though, interestingly, Troutman notes that “the mere presence of a dog is such a powerful deterrent” that of those 129 apprehensions, only 25 times was a dog actually directed to bite.

Yes, the dogs are trained to bite, but using force is a last resort. And this reflects a certain shift in policy. In the “olden days,” explains Maryland State Police Corporal Rick Kelly, “These dogs were known as ‘alligators on a leash.’ Nationally, that’s how it was done. We’d say, ‘You have five seconds to show yourself before you get bitten.’ Those days are over—now, we ‘play fair’ and give one-minute warnings. When a dog is present, that’s often enough for people to turn themselves in.”

But it’s not just their bite that makes them an effective tool against crime. Simply put, dogs can do things that humans cannot.

“They can sweep a stadium with 40,000 to 80,000 people,” says Sergeant Eric Fogle, unit commander of the Maryland State Police’s Special Operations Division. “Or [inspect] a school with 1,000 kids that’s been shut down because of a bomb threat, or seize 39 kilos of cocaine. It’s hard to put a price on what they do. It’s immeasurable.”

Police canines are genetically blessed super soldiers of sorts. For starters, their olfactory senses can be up to “40 to one hundred times stronger than humans,” says John Pearce, associate director of the Canine Detection Research Institute at Auburn University where scientists have proven that dogs can smell 10 to 50 particles (that’s the size of something so small it could fit on a pinhead) per one trillion particles. In many cases, dogs have superior hearing, eyes equipped for night vision, and the ability to run up to 30 mph. In other words, dogs may be man’s best friend, but they can be a bad guy’s worst nightmare.

“As human beings, I don’t think we could genetically create something that would be a better tool for the tactics that we do,” says Davies. “If we sat back and said, ‘We are going to create an excellent tool for law-enforcement search and rescue, companion work, and public service, and let’s figure out how were going to do it,’ the first thing we would say is, ‘Let’s make sure he’s very stable—let’s give him four legs. Let’s make sure he’s very strong and can withstand the elements, so let’s give him fur and muscles everywhere.’ And as you went along with your list, you’d probably say, ‘That looks a lot like a dog.'”

Back at North Point’s headquarters in Essex, Steve Troutman is the guy who reads all the reports, deals with the litigation (Troutman can cite chapter and verse on seemingly every legal ruling involving K-9 dog bites), and oversees everything from the veterinary calls (because the work is so physical, it’s not uncommon for dogs to get injured in the line of duty) to the purchasing of new unit dogs.

“These dogs are living creatures and they become a companion to the [officer’s] family,” says Troutman, sitting in his office near a tiny memorial to Duke, Baltimore County’s first police pooch. “But the dog is still owned by Baltimore County, and is considered ‘equipment.’ It’s difficult to say that because it’s an animal, but it’s really like my handgun and my radio.”

Because of strict breeding standards, strong bloodlines, and a long history of using canines for police work, the “equipment” is most often imported from countries such as the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Germany. And though the price tag can be steep at upwards of $7,000 per dog, canines have proven to be quite cost effective. “One dog team [one cop and one canine] can replace the efforts of five officers,” points out Troutman.

Which is why ongoing training is so essential.

At Rosewood and other area training grounds, the point of the exercises is to expose the dogs—and their handlers—to an infinite number of scenarios they might encounter in the field. “You can never replicate everything that happens on the road,” says Davies, “but we try to be as creative as we can.”

The officers and their dogs go through a 16-week basic patrol school (think agility training, obedience, bite and hold work), plus an additional six-to-eight week “scent training” camp for the dog to learn to detect narcotics or explosives. Beyond that, each team is also required to “retrain” an additional 18 days a year to keep all involved on their paws and toes. It’s one thing to train in a controlled environment, says Troutman, “but the million-dollar question is if you move that task to a different location, from roadside to a ship to the interstate, can they do that simple task you trained them to do? And that’s why we never stop training.”

By the end of boot camp, the dogs and their handlers form a unique working relationship that extends off the job as well.

“Picture being married and being with [your spouse] 24 hours a day,” says Baltimore County Corporal Joe Putnam, who has a narcotics dog named Carbo. “At work. At home. On weekends and whenever you go somewhere—just because I’m off, doesn’t mean he wants to be. All he wants to do is work.”

Occasionally, a dog doesn’t have the right stuff to serve as a police canine, such as Buchler’s yellow Lab, Rusty, who is now happily living out his “retirement” at Buchler’s home. “The Lab is a washout,” laughs Buchler. “He was a bomb trainee who decided he preferred the permanent vacation concept. We got to that fourth week of training, and he just lost interest.”

Not so Buchler’s Bosco, Officer Chris Strevig’s Jett, and Corporal Michael Stricker’s Jack (who was given a set of titanium teeth after chewing through his cage—talk about a crime deterrent), who appear eager and ready to go. First, Davies calls out a series of military-style commands to the handlers, “Halt. Line up on your left. March. Pass your dogs. Leave them down.” Then, their handlers speak to the dogs in a mix of their “native” languages, most often German and Czech. “Sitz (sit), lehne (lay), zustat (stay), propustit (release),” and the dogs follow their every command.

In the ultimate test of canine self-control, Davies dresses as a decoy in a blue “scratch suit.” He comes within inches of each of the handlers and their charges, making sudden movements with his arms and loud cracking sounds with his whip. The dogs seem unbearably tense as they screech and whine, but none of them come within a wet nose of Davies. “He’s doing everything in his power to keep in control,” explains Putnam looking at Jett. “They have to ignore the decoy because the handler is telling them it’s okay.”

During “tug play,” the dogs let loose for a job well done, but Bosco’s tooth inadvertently nicks Buchler’s hand. “Almost all of the handlers have been bitten by their dogs at least once,” says Buchler. “You know what we say as a guy is standing there with two to four holes in his hand bleeding?” asks Buchler rhetorically. “We say, ‘Welcome to K-9.'”

But while dogs such as Bosco are fierce enough to apprehend suspects with a “bite- and-hold” technique usually aimed at the extremities (“Picture the pressure of three refrigerators on top of you,” cracks one of the officers), even more amazing than all the doggie derring-do is their ability to transform from ferocious warriors to beloved family fuzzballs.

“This is how terrible mine is,” laughs Buchler showing a photo of his 13-year-old daughter laying on the floor while hugging Bosco who, mere moments ago, looked like a ringer for Cujo. “On the weekends, he just plays,” says Buchler smiling at his partner. “On the weekends, he’s just a dog.”

This article originally appeared in print in our May 2010 issue. Included here are extra entries and photographs that did not appear in print. Where possible, this additional content is noted with an asterisk.

Have you ever wondered what goes on at the National Aquarium after closing time? Or been tempted to open doors marked “Personnel Only” to see what actually happens behind the scenes? I know I have. And my curiosity really piqued after hearing a few Aquarium staffers mention during a breakfast meeting that it’s more of a 24/7 operation than anyone would imagine. So I asked them to show me around, after all the visitors were gone and the doors were locked.

I figured it would be an eye-opener, but I had no idea.

Unlike certain museums in the movies, the Aquarium’s exhibits don’t magically come to life after-hours, because they’re already alive. And hundreds of people go to great lengths to keep them alive and maintain the facility. During my first visit, for instance, vets performed an ultrasound on a stingray, and I saw a dove get a dressing changed on an injured foot as a half-dozen giant bats watched. I was hooked and went back nine times to see what went on in different areas.

With various curators and keepers as my guides, I navigated a labyrinth of hidden hallways, stairwells, labs, and offices. I held a dolphin by its pectoral fins—they’re a lot harder than you’d think—and rubbed its belly—which is softer than you’d think. I also fed a stingray, spotted a baby sloth clinging to its mother, and stood atop the rocky gorge in the Australia exhibit and marveled at the view of the harbor.

I also learned that, on any given day, Aquarium workers may be mixing seed for exotic birds, examining a quarantined puffin, scrubbing algae in a tank, removing a cancerous tumor on a monkey, transporting a rescued sea turtle to the Animal Care Center—housed in an old Fells Point warehouse—testing life support and security systems, scaling a rock face to water plants, baiting mousetraps—the Aquarium deals with pests, too—unpacking jars of mosquitoes, counting lizards, breeding rare frogs, or mixing up seawater.

Their world feels private and mysterious; their work is loaded with unique, sometimes dangerous, possibilities. It’s something few outsiders get to see.

What follows is a glimpse into that world.

DOLPHIN TANK: MARCH 10, 10:30 P.M.

It’s a girl

Stepping off the elevator near the Pier 3 security desk, Leigh Clayton and Kat Hadfield (both vets in the Animal Care Department) and Brent Whitaker (deputy director for biological programs) look elated. They’re coming from the Marine Mammal Pavilion, where a dolphin calf was born just 90 minutes ago. “Mother and baby are doing well,” says Clayton.

The trio exudes a sort of familial glow. Hadfield beams, her eyes twinkling, and Whitaker flashes a smile. “So far, so good,” he says, and the group heads out into the night.

Upstairs, the lights are dimmed and all is quiet and calm at the dolphin pool. Dolphin trainer Deirdre Weadock and Sue Hunter, the Aquarium’s director of animal programs, watch the water, looking for the three-foot long newborn—still wrinkled from the birth, its dorsal fin flopped to one side—swimming alongside its mother, Jade.

When the female calf comes up for a breath and makes a small splash, Weadock makes note of it on a Palm Pilot. Another trainer, in an observation area below the water’s surface, logs behaviors such as nursing and disciplining. “It’s going really well, just about textbook,” says Hunter, who’s been doing this for 17 years. “The calf is swimming strongly and taking clear breaths, which are encouraging signs.”

The trainers seem more reserved than the vets—which may be due to marathon workdays and round-the-clock observations that were initiated weeks ago, as the birth neared. Or it may be due to the realization that dolphin calves have a high mortality rate. One-in-three doesn’t make it past the first year. “That’s the reality,” says Hunter, “but this one looks great. Someone even referred to it as ‘super-calf.'”

Weadock nods, and she and Hunter return to watching the pool in zen-like silence.

Eventually, a cell phone rings, and Hunter answers—it’s the vets checking on the newborn.

VETS: FEBRUARY 17, 8 A.M.

Stingray Ultrasound

A half-dozen veterinarians and vet techs from the Animal Health Department convene in Rob Adamski’s office. Amid the typical clutter of computer equipment and stacks of paper, books such as Fish Medicine and Avian Physiology line the shelves. The department, according to Clayton, “takes care of things that get sick and does preventative health.” Today, it’s dealing with, among other things, a sick stingray.

After discussing items on the day’s agenda—deworming of frogs, nail trims for birds, and turtle x-rays—and applauding hospital manager Christine Steinert’s 17-year service anniversary, the group turns its attention to a southern stingray with a possible uterine infection. The ray is scheduled for an ultrasound at 8:30.

Hadfield, the primary vet on the case, notes that this is the third exam for this particular ray, and the procedure involves hoisting the animal out of the “Wings in the Water” exhibit, lowering it into a plastic tub containing 200 gallons of water, and performing the ultrasound. “That way, we can determine how much fluid is in the uterus,” she explains, “and see if there is any fluid in the body. If we need to do a uterine flush, we’ll put in a small catheter.”

The group disperses to check e-mails and firm up the day’s schedule, before reconvening at the “ray tray,” where a team of divers and a half-dozen additional Aquarium staffers—dressed in requisite blue polo shirt and khakis—await. After Hadfield outlines the procedure and everyone’s clear who’s responsible for what, four divers slip into the water and herd the six-feet-wide ray into what looks like a large stretcher. The stretcher is then chained to a lift that extends over the water. (A permanent fixture, the lift is painted black, like the ceiling, and is barely noticeable to visitors.)

Once secure, the stretcher is pulled aloft, and when it breaks the water’s surface, the ray furiously whips its wings against the canvas and splashes water out the sides. The flapping ray is hoisted up and over the cement wall—a section of the railing has been removed to help with clearance—and slid onto the laps of two staffers in wetsuits sitting in the plastic tub. The ray thrashes, spilling waves of water over the sides of the tub, as the staffers hold it down—its stinger, or barb, has been trimmed to minimize any risk—and Adamski administers a shot of antibiotics into its dark brown skin.

Then, staffers flip the ray, so its white underbelly is exposed. The flipping, for reasons that aren’t completely understood, induces a state of near-hypnosis. “They kind of go to sleep,” says Clayton, as the ray becomes completely docile.

Hadfield moves the ultrasound scanner over its belly, and images appear on a nearby monitor. The ray’s beating heart is visible, and Hadfield checks the esophagus, liver, kidney, gall bladder, and uterus. “It looks better than it did the last time,” says Clayton.

“It’s much better,” Hadfield confirms. “There’s a lot less fluid.”

Satisfied with what she sees, Hadfield wraps up the exam, and, in short order, the ray is weighed (190 pounds) and returned to the exhibit, where it retreats to a far corner of the pool. The entire procedure takes 20 minutes.

As Hadfield gives an assessment to her assembled colleagues—”everything looks okay, and we’re seeing significant improvement”—water is squeegeed off the floor, plastic hoses are coiled, the section of railing is replaced, and the large tub is wheeled away.

In minutes, there is no evidence that a stingray exam ever took place. And Clayton, Hadfield, and their colleagues hustle to their next round of exams.

* ANIMAL CARE CENTER: MARCH 4, 12 P.M.

FISHRUS

Aquarist Karen Owczarzak surveys the fish on ice at Sal’s Seafood in the Broadway Market. She comes here twice a week—usually Tuesdays and Thursdays—to buy food for a sand tiger shark that’s kept at the Aquarium’s Animal Care Center in Fells Point.

Owczarzak waves to the guy behind the counter. “Hi, how are you?” she asks.

“Como esta?” he responds.

“Bien,” she says. “Y, tu?”

“Bien. Gracias.”

“We did mullet and a bluefish the other day,” says Owczarzak, scanning the fish on display, “so I’m going to get a Spanish mackerel, because I know he loves those.”

She points to a mackerel: “Uno.”

“And can I get two perch?” she adds. The counter guy wraps the fish and gives them to Owczarzak. The Aquarium runs a tab at Sal’s, so no money changes hands.

“Gracias,” says Owczarzak. “See you next week.”

She hops into a white van—with “FISHRUS” plates—and returns to the Animal Care Center. The shark is large (about seven feet long) and so is the tank (50,000 gallons). Owczarzak inserts vitamin supplement pellets into the gill cavity of each fish that will be fed to the shark. “He usually doesn’t even notice the pellets,” she says. “He just smells the fish and goes after it.”

Using a pair of long-handled tongs, she holds the fish below the water’s surface. Seconds later, the shark appears, snags the fish off the tongs, and heads to the far end of the pool.

“There you go,” says Owczarzak, before repeating the process.

When asked about the shark’s appetite, she doesn’t hesitate: “It’s been good. Except for having gas one time, he’s been eating fine.”

But he hasn’t been playing well with others. That’s why he’s been at the Center for the past year and a half. “He was too aggressive,” explains the Center’s Manager Jason Cook, “so he had to be taken out of the exhibit.” The shark is awaiting transfer to another facility, where the dynamics of the tank will hopefully be more to his liking.

Housed in an old Fells Point warehouse, the 20,000 square foot Animal Care Center functions mostly as a quarantine area for sick animals and animals on their way to being exhibited at the Aquarium—750 fish were recently transferred from the Center to various Aquarium exhibits. “Animals can come here from the wild, or from wholesalers across the country,” says Cook. “So when we get in a shipment, we follow quarantine protocols and treat the animals for any parasites, before transferring them to the Aquarium. The average quarantine is about 30 days.”

The Center is divided into four main areas: rooms A, B, C, and D. A and B are mostly for fish; the other half, says Cook, houses “almost an entire Australia exhibit, a lot of turtles and reptiles. We do quite a bit of turtle breeding because some of them are hard to acquire from Australia.”

Later today, the vets will perform a medical induction on a pregnant turtle, because an x-ray revealed that some of her eggs were malformed.

Down a hallway, Jennifer Dittmar, is checking on a quarantined seal. Dittmar heads the Marine Animal Rescue Program and is currently caring for the seal, along with a few ailing turtles that were rescued along the New England coast. “He has seal pox and seal lice, which are not uncommon,” says Dittmar. “His immune system is really suppressed, and he’s a little contagious.”

That said, she exits through a metal door to check on the seal’s condition.

The Center is also home to the Aquarium’s exhibit design and fabrication workshop.

Its director, Allan Sutherland, and his crew are creating faux rocks and barnacles along with some rubber seaweed for the puffin exhibit.

There’s more to it than meets the eye, and Sutherland stresses that his team “has to meet the psychological and physical needs of the animals.”

“We want them to settle in comfortably to the environments we create,” he says. “After all, it’s their home.”

AUSTRALIA EXHIBIT: FEBRUARY 24, 6:45 A.M.

Python Feeding

John Seyjagat walks purposefully through the Australia exhibit, which replicates a river gorge in Australia’s rugged northern territory. Right away, something catches his eye; something isn’t quite right in a small tank in the hallway. “See that particle that’s dropping?” he says, pointing to a barely visible speck descending inside the tank. “That shouldn’t drop. It means there is no water movement in this tank. If there is no water movement, it means the pump is shut down, so we need to check it.”

As curator, he’s responsible for the exhibit’s “total management and problem solving,” including issues relating to its life support system, mechanical facilities, and animal collection. “The minute I get off the elevator,” says Seyjagat, “my job starts.”

Seyjagat takes out a ring of keys, and inserts one of them into the fabricated rock below the tank. He twists the key clockwise and removes a section of the rock face, revealing a pump housing tucked behind it. It’s empty. “Good,” says Seyjagat. “Somebody already got to this.”

He replaces the section of rock and moves on, lingering for a moment on the walkway overlooking the harbor. “I stop here and look out over the plaza for signs that the bird migration has started,” he says.

He’s looking for dead or injured birds. “The lights from the buildings in this area attract birds migrating south in the fall and north in the spring,” he explains, “and the birds crash into these buildings.”

That’s why Seyjagat has customized the Aquarium’s lighting. “I use green-colored lights, because birds can see green,” he says. “Now, they’re less likely to crash into our building, which makes sense because we’re a conservation agency.”

Seyjagat then checks the flow of the waterfall behind him, eyeballs water levels in various tanks housing turtles and crocodiles, and scans the towering, simulated river gorge. “I try to look at our animals to make sure everybody’s fine,” he says. “I want to see that everybody’s looking good, no one needs emergency attention, and nobody’s stuck.”

After a brief meeting with half a dozen staff members, Seyjagat and his team ready the exhibit for visitors. Animal Planet Australia: Wild Extremes (named “Best Exhibit” by the Association of Zoos and Aquariums in 2008) is the first stop on the Aquarium’s tour route, and the doors open in about two hours. By then, over 2,000 animals—including exotic birds, large turtles and lizards, crocodiles, pythons, bats, and lots of fish—need to be fed, plants watered, tanks cleaned, and floors scrubbed.

The food prep area looks like most restaurant kitchens, with its gleaming stainless steel sinks and counters and large refrigerator. But a sign on the refrigerator distinguishes it from any restaurant; it reads, “Snakebite Antivenom Type B Stored in Bottom Right.” A peek inside reveals a bounty of high-quality produce such as blueberries, melons, and grapes, alongside plastic containers of mice and the antivenom. Varieties of birdseed sit on a nearby shelf, along with a container labeled “monkey biscuit.” While prepping trays of seed, senior aviculturist Kim Mann notes that there aren’t any monkeys in this particular exhibit, and the biscuits are actually fed to the bats. “It has everything they need, nutritionally,” she says.

Down the hall, herpetologist Courtney Russo is feeding the whiptail rays. First, she runs downstairs to turn off the waterfall, and, when she enters the exhibit through a camouflaged door cut into the back wall, the rays sit at the water’s edge waiting for her. “They know that when the waterfall goes off, they’re about to get fed,” she says. “And they’ve been trained to come to these specific spots.”

She puts on a latex glove, reaches into the plastic container she’s holding, and extracts a small fish. She bends down and holds the fish below the water’s surface in the vicinity of the ray’s mouth. The ray sort of hunches around her hand and swallows the fish. Each ray gulps down about 20.

The crocodiles are fed on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Fridays; pythons are fed on Thursdays. The largest python eats in a back hallway, where it’s served a once-frozen rabbit that’s been thawed and warmed to its original body temperature. If its food isn’t properly warmed, the cold-blooded python’s metabolism will drop, making digestion difficult. Russo always observes the feeding “to make sure she gets the rabbit down okay. It’s rare, but snakes can choke.”

And how do you aid a choking python? “You have to scare it,” she says. She’s being serious.

“You just pick her up and play with her mouth a little bit,” she explains, more casually than one might expect. “Because the mouth is her main defense, handling her will cause some stress, and she’ll spit up the rabbit.”

That said, Russo heads down the hallway to feed fish in an exhibit that is also home to a couple crocodiles. She runs into Seyjagat, who volunteers to spot her (a requirement for this type of feeding) and reaches for a 4’x2′ fiberglass shield. “If you should need [the shield], the trick is keeping it between you and the crocodile,” says Seyjagat. “The other trick is keeping your wits about you, which helps with a lot of the things we do here.”

* RAIN FOREST: FEBRUARY 26, 7:30 A.M.

Giving Up Secrets

If you listen carefully, you can practically hear the Rain Forest come to life in the morning. It’s totally quiet as horticulturist Chris Baker uncoils a hose and begins watering lush foliage all around him. The spraying triggers an audible response from various frogs, all of them unseen. “When I water, it wakes them up,” says Baker, “and they start calling.”

In short order, the birds start chattering, chirping, and singing. An extraordinarily loud, whistle-like call rings out; it’s a screaming piha—a surprisingly tiny bird—living up to its name.

Baker presides over the Rain Forest’s extensive plant collection, which he curates like an artist and organizes like a landscape designer. One moment he’s discussing “the importance of mixing textures and colors,” and then he’s talking about “creating little areas where people can see things” and “leading people through the exhibit.”

He points out bromeliads, a mahogany tree, peace lilies, ficus, a cocoa tree, philodendrons, and a vanilla orchid. He seems especially exited about how some of the trees are used by native people. The Soursop, for instance, bears fruit that have a green, prickly skin. “People from South America have told me they love it,” says Baker, “but it’s pretty sour.”

Natives dry leaves from the Cecropia tree and use them for tea and to soothe toothaches. Dye from the Annatto tree is used for face painting and dying clothing. “That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?” he asks.

As Baker sprays, the humidity spikes, and the air gets thick.

Rain Forest Curator Ken Howell comes by and takes a look around. “When people come here,” he says, “they consider the plants to be secondary to the animals, like they’re nothing more than props for the animals to sit on. But in a tropical rain forest, it’s actually the animals that are secondary.

“Most first time visitors fly through the rain forest and never see anything. For the first time visitor, the rain forest can be a disappointment. But for return visitors, it quickly becomes one of their favorites. It doesn’t give up a lot of its secrets. Not everything is pegged down and in sight. In a naturalistic exhibit like this, animals can hide or stay in a corner. It can take multiple visits or a keen observational eye to really appreciate it.”

Walking up the steps towards the rain forest’s observation deck, he stops abruptly. “Look,” he says, pointing. “It’s a greenhouse frog.” By his foot, a tiny frog slips between cracks in the wood.

On the deck, the morning “bug drop” is in progress. The aviculturists drop bugs, wax worms, and other goodies on the deck to attract the birds. As they swoop in to eat, aviculturists Debra Dial and Alex Kessler check off each bird on a checklist. They’re looking for 20 birds, 15 species in all. Dial takes note of a motmot bird. “It’s always out and about,” she says. “Instead of building nests, it burrows underground. Last year, she built a burrow right in the middle of the exhibit.”

After the “bug drop” is over, Dial climbs to a walkway on a ledge above the treetops and heads to the far corner of the rain forest. Here, two tamarin monkeys spend the night in a cage. Dial opens the door, and they come out immediately. “Rosa, she’s much more outgoing and daring,” says Dial. “She goes out and explores. Lee, he stays closer to the cage, and you rarely see him.”

She tells how Lee has a bump on his arm that needs to be monitored. “We needed him to be willing to raise his arm,” says Dial, “which is a bizarre thing to ask a monkey to do. But we trained that behavior.”

Dial explains that it’s possible, if you build a relationship based on trust. “It’s incremental,” she says. “One step at a time. You take a step, and then you build on that.”

Howell makes it sound like they’re all one big family—the keepers, monkeys, sloths, toads and frogs, tortoises, birds, and plant. “Our second baby sloth was born last Thursday,” he says. “Mom’s been stretched out with a little baby on her for the past couple days.”

He mentions a tamarin monkey with cancer, and a pygmy marmoset who died of heart disease. “It’s interesting that these captive primates begin exhibiting the same medical issues that people do,” says Howell. “You have all these varieties of different living things that all have different requirements and needs. And they’re not just physical needs; they can be psychological needs. Their environments may need to be enriched, so they have more stimulation. The parrots are real high maintenance when it comes to stimulation and psychological well being, as are the primates.”

Howell smiles broadly and says: “I always picture this job as somewhat like that bar in Star Wars.”

Note: A few weeks later, Howell sent out the following email… “Lee, our male golden lion tamarind, has been battling metastatic cancer for almost a year now. Lee has had several tumors removed and has been on a rigid chemotherapy regime for his cancer. His last exam showed us that his condition had dramatically worsened and Lee was placed in ‘hospice’ care at that time. Yesterday, his condition began to rapidly decline, and we made the decision to humanely euthanize him. Lee was born March 10, 1994 at the Milwaukee Zoo, spent two years at the Brookfield Zoo, and came to the National Aquarium in November of 1998. Lee was always the ‘cowardly lion’ of the rainforest, and his presence will be missed.”

DOLPHIN TANK: FEBRUARY 19, 8:30 A.M.

Breakfast Time

It’s breakfast time for the dolphins. Four trainers grab buckets of herring and capelin, scatter around the perimeter of the dolphin pool, and step—in unison, so all the dolphins are fed at the same time—to the deck’s edge. Through a wall of red-framed windows behind them, the harbor glimmers in the distance; before them, the dolphins congregate, waiting expectantly.

Foster looks up at Allison Ginsburg, his primary trainer. At two-and-a-half years old, Foster is still considered a calf, although he’s four-and-a-half feet long and weighs about 150 pounds. Ginsburg tosses him a fish, which he snags in the air and swallows quickly. “You’re the cutest little boy in all the world,” she says, adopting a high-pitched voice that sounds like she’s talking to a golden retriever. “You’re such a good boy.”

Foster responds with spirited chirps that sound as if he agrees. He makes the sounds by forcing air through his blowhole, as dolphins don’t have vocal cords. Ginsburg likens it to letting air out of a balloon. “You know how you can stretch a balloon opening to make different sounds?” she says. “A dolphin’s blowhole cover is a very thick muscle, which they can manipulate to produce different types of vocalizations.”

As if to demonstrate, Foster lets loose with a flurry of crackles and squeals. Ginsburg tosses him a fish.

Actually, this is more than a feeding. The 8:30 “session,” though it always involves food, can take a variety of forms. It’s up to each trainer. “We can choose to play with the animals,” says Ginsburg, nodding toward a variety of toys—plastic balls, floats, sinkers, and hoops—lining the back wall. “We can do an enrichment session, where we give them a few toys and just let them do as they please, which encourages natural behaviors such as foraging and looking for food. Or we can train show behaviors, such as aerials, lots of jumping, swimming fast—high energy stuff.”

Those behaviors, and the routines reinforcing them, are vital, because the dolphins perform, on average, three times a day. So when the blizzards hit in February and the Aquarium closed for nearly a week, the trainers staged mock shows, in an empty theater, to keep the group on-point.

This morning, Ginsburg gives Foster a physical exam. “Dolphins can’t tell us if they’re not feeling good,” says Ginsburg, “so we’ve trained them to present their bodies to us, so we can look them over.”

Ginsburg kneels at the water’s edge, and Foster bobs in front of her. She extends her hand—palm away, fingers straight—and motions to the right. Foster turns in that direction and positions his body so it’s parallel to the deck. Ginsburg reaches for his dorsal fin and examines it. After a few seconds, she releases it, and Foster inches forward, so she can look at his tail. When she gives the tail two quick pats, Foster turns around, and she tosses him a fish.

Then, Ginsburg extends her arm and rotates her hand counterclockwise, and Foster flips over on his back. She holds his pectoral fins, looks at his belly, checks the underside of his tail, gives him a quick pat, and he swims away. He returns, and she tosses him a fish. Ginsburg cycles through a few similar maneuvers, assessing body tone and looking for cuts and scrapes along the way. “Everything looks good,” she says.

Ginsburg and the other trainers wrap up their sessions and continue prepping for the day. She retreats to a poolside office to work on scheduling and go over diets.

Her colleagues return pails to the food prep area and start scrubbing the deck with long-handled brushes.

Except for the scrubbing and the occasional splash, it’s completely silent. A scrim gets lowered from the ceiling and raised. Spotlights are tested, on and off. A dolphin with a yellow and black float toy in its mouth rises to the surface and tosses the toy clear out of the pool. It’s almost showtime.

LIFE SUPPORT STAFF: FEBRUARY 26, 7 A.M.

Water Main Break

Water gushes up through the brick walkway in front of the Hard Rock Café, creating something of a three-sided waterfall streaming over the Hard Rock’s deck into the harbor. A main has burst, and, shortly, the water will be turned off on Pier 4. That’s bad news for Andy Aiken, director of the Aquarium’s life support department.

“Having no water presents a few problems for us, as you can well imagine,” says Aiken, sitting in his office, which is accessed, oddly enough, through the dolphin gift shop. With glasses perched on his head and a disarming chuckle, Aiken seems like a cross between a straight-laced engineer and a mad scientist. “We are responsible for making sure the environment in these tanks is suitable for keeping the animals alive,” he says, “and that always presents challenges.”

Right now, he’s hoping to avoid a domino effect in a complex system that processes over a million gallons of water an hour. The life support system adjacent to the dolphin tank is his main concern. From his computer, he monitors temperatures, flow rates, water levels and pressure—hundreds of bits of data—in the tanks.

He surveys the pump room, as well. A sprawling mass of metal pipes, plastic tubing, webs of circuitry, droning engines, and massive holding tanks, it roars with mechanized purpose. “It’s an outrageous amount of equipment,” says Aiken, “but it’s what’s required to keep a very large amount of sea water in good enough shape to keep the dolphins happy.”

Aiken heads for the ozone generator. Because chlorine can irritate the dolphins’ skin, ozone is used to disinfect their tanks. This piece of equipment—fairly unremarkable, painted battleship gray and not very large compared to other items in the room—splits oxygen atoms to make ozone, which requires an enormous amount of electricity. Fresh water usually cools the generator, so it doesn’t overheat and burn up. But with the water shut off, Aiken has switched to an alternative coolant to keep things running.

Everything’s working now, but if the ozone generator can’t do its job, “we can’t disinfect,” says Aiken. “Then, we have a coliform problem, in very short order, in the dolphin tank. The USDA regulations state that we can’t have more than a certain amount of coliform in the water, and if we exceed it, we need to fix it.”

Without ozone, that would mean using chlorine to bring down the level. And if the coliform level remains high, the USDA can actually order that the dolphins be moved. “I’m not going to have that on my watch,” says Aiken, who seems remarkably calm. “I have total confidence in my guys and in their troubleshooting abilities.”

He’s obviously experienced more dire circumstances. “Hurricane Isabel was the worst,” he says, back in his office. He recalls wading through waist high water to the building, “where it was totally dark inside. I’m feeling my way up a stairwell, and I see somebody up ahead wearing a headlamp, and they say, ‘Welcome to hell.'”

For Aiken, it was exactly that. The pump rooms were flooded. There was no power.

His guys, who had worked through the night, were spent, and conditions were worsening for the animals. “I just started grabbing scuba tanks with regulators and taping lead weights onto them,” says Aiken. “I opened the regulators a little bit and started chucking tanks into the water, one after another. They were like little air bombs, bubbling some air into the water. And when we ran out, we called an oxygen company, and they boated cylinders over to us.”

Not a single animal died. Though obviously proud, Aiken stresses that he can’t take credit for that. “It was everyone who was here,” he says.

By contrast, the current situation is a minor hiccup. But late in the afternoon, a life support staffer drops by the office to tell Aiken the busted water main hasn’t been fixed. In fact, the City still hasn’t found the pipe, which elicits an “Oh, my god” from Aiken.

“They have to bust through a lot of concrete to get to it,” says the staffer. “I’ll stick around tonight and monitor things.”

“We’ll be okay for a couple days,” says Aiken, “unless something catastrophic happens.”

He leans back in his chair and sighs: “Thanks for the heads-up. We should be all right until Monday. Let’s just hope this doesn’t go on any longer than that.”

Water service was restored to Pier 4 on Monday morning.

* SECURITY OFFICE: MARCH 3, 2010, 2:30 P.M.

Listening to the Quiet

Sitting in an office adjacent to the Pier 3 security desk—which is helmed by Dee “Miss Dee” Green, easily the “best dressed” Aquarium employee—Safety Manager Gene Taylor and a few security officers talk about working the night and early morning shifts. During those shifts, they test systems, perform inspections, coordinate with contractors working after-hours, and conduct CPR and fire extinguisher training. They also make the rounds.

“We do inspections in all three buildings,” says Taylor, “so we’re alone with the animals.”

“When you first start working here,” says Hilda Henson, who works the 3 to 11 shift, “it’s really weird at night, because all the lights go down. After awhile, you get used to it, but the first month or so, it’s weird, especially in the Rain Forest. I was praying that the sloth didn’t want to come down and meet me.”

“At night, most of the birds are quiet,” says Sergeant George Sipes.

“Not the lorikeets,” notes Taylor. “They’re a little sexually aggressive. They saw two humans walking in their area and started dive-bombing us. But, you know, we were walking into their territory.”

“The sharks and snakes don’t bother you because they’re all behind glass,” says Miss Hilda.

“I like the coral reef because of the solitude,” says Sipes. “You go down there and it’s real quiet and soothing.”

“Down there, you’d like to have a La-Z-Boy at night,” says Miss Hilda, “so you could just listen to the quiet. Mmm.”

Taylor and Sipes nod in agreement.

PIER 4 OFFICE: MARCH 22, 1:30 P.M.

Cycle of Life

The mood in Sue Hunter’s office is somber. The baby dolphin passed away yesterday morning at seven o’clock—it was just 11 days old. “The calf had been nursing well, which was a positive sign,” says Hunter. “A lot of us were commenting on how strong she looked.”

She lets out a sigh: “But we also knew there was a decent chance she wouldn’t make it.”

“These young animals are very fragile,” says Brent Whitaker, “and life is tough for them early on.” Whitaker speculates that an infection was the cause of death, but he won’t be sure until test results come in from Johns Hopkins.

He turns philosophical. “We had a real high when it was born,” he says, “and this is a real low. It’s heartbreaking, but we’ve worked with these animals long enough to understand that this is part of the reality of the job we do.”

“It’s another side of what we deal with, a side that isn’t usually seen,” says Hunter. “It really is the worst part of the job.”

“But we help each other through it,” she adds. “We’ve been getting support from the whole Aquarium. Everybody’s been writing e-mails and stopping by and sending food. It’s almost like a wake. It’s a very supportive atmosphere, and we’ll keep going.”

“It’s the cycle of life,” says Whitaker, “and we know we’ll have more babies born in the future.”

And that may be sooner, rather than later. It seems that two of the dolphins, Chinook and Spirit, have taken a shine to one another. “They’ve been very close, swimming everywhere, touching each other,” says Hunter. “The other day, they were nose to nose, and it looked as if they were kissing. She was at the surface looking at him, and he was spinning around, like he was doing a little dance.”

She cracks a slight smile: “There’s no sign of pregnancy yet, but we’re watching for it.”

Kim Hammond’s obsession with Africa began, like a lot of things in his life, with a girl.

In 1997, the veterinarian, founder of the Falls Road Animal Hospital, and notorious man about town, found himself sitting next to an attractive woman on a transatlantic flight.

“I was coming back from Niger, and he was coming back from a fashion show in Paris,” recalls Marjorie Copson, then a desk officer in the Peace Corps, who sat next to Dr. Hammond on the flight. “He kind of jokingly said, ‘Well, maybe you can get me a gig in Africa.'”

Recalling the conversation today, Hammond, 57, now married with a two-year-old daughter, smiles and shrugs. “She was a pretty girl.”

As it turned out, Copson was married, so the flirtation didn’t get very far. But the encounter proved fateful nonetheless: When she returned to her desk in Washington, Copson found a request for an animal doctor in Niger. “They specifically needed a veterinarian to work at the zoo in Niamey,” she says. “I just couldn’t really believe it.”

Copson contacted Hammond, and, never one to back down from a challenge, he accepted. Then, he panicked. In his animal hospital, Hammond rarely handled anything larger than a St. Bernard. In Niger, he would be asked to treat wild animals. He turned to Dr. Mike Cranfield, head veterinarian at The Maryland Zoo in Baltimore.

“I got this message from Falls Road asking me, ‘How do you immobilize a lion?'” Cranfield recalls. “I thought, well, nobody at Falls Road should be immobilizing a lion, so I didn’t answer it. Then, I got a message a couple days later that said, ‘I’m going to Africa. I’m going to need to immobilize a lion,’ and I still thought, this doesn’t sound right. The next message I got was, ‘Going to Africa. Want to come?'”

Hammond, Cranfield, and a couple of technicians made the trip later that year, sedating and treating zoo animals so that Peace Corps volunteers could repair their badly deteriorated cages and feeding equipment. “They went out there and did a fabulous job,” recalls Copson. “Kim kind of takes a place by storm. When you’ve got a guy like Kim Hammond and his crew coming in to a lot of starving, overheated Peace Corps volunteers, it was kind of inspirational.”

It proved inspirational for Cranfield and Hammond, too. It was the first time either had worked in Africa, and Cranfield was moved to make it his life’s work. “If you work in a zoo long enough, you see animals born and die and you want to see more than that,” he says. “I’d always wanted to work with wild animals.” Soon after the trip to Niger, Cranfield got involved with the Mountain Gorilla Veterinary Project (MGVP), a legacy of Dian Fossey’s work with endangered Rwandan mountain gorillas, portrayed in Gorillas in the Mist.

By 1999, Cranfield was director of MGVP, and, soon thereafter, Hammond began visiting the project site in Rwanda. He joined the board of directors in 2005. Cranfield spends about half of the year in the group’s sites in Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Hammond makes several trips a year to the sites, helping to train African veterinarians and bringing his seemingly endless energy and enthusiasm to the project. He has also poured a significant portion of his fortune into the cause as well.

“This has been brewing inside of me for a long time,” says Hammond. “Public service, to me, is the payoff. It’s not the gold. For me, to sit by the pool or play tennis in the afternoon doesn’t do it.”

Wearing blue scrubs, sitting in his bug-infested, wood-paneled office above Falls Road Animal Hospital, you might not guess that Kim Hammond is heir to one of America’s most revered fashion families.

But the man who frequently finds his hands inside peoples’ pets is actually the great-grandson of Andrew Saks, the founder of Saks Fifth Avenue. His dad graduated from law school at 20 years old and founded the very successful Farboil Paint Company on Key Highway. Brought up in luxury in Mt. Washington, Hammond says he was always searching for his own calling.

“I was raised in a setting of nice, pretty lawns and beautiful swimming pools,” he says. “And yet, that image didn’t often reflect the people that lived inside those homes. My parents read all the classics to me. I still remember Wadsworth, Kipling, and Hemingway, and seeing Jacques Cousteau at the Lyric.”

Hammond had a love of dogs that dates back to his beloved childhood German shepherd, Jinx. “I could always read animals pretty well,” he says. “I was clearly a dog person.”

As an undergrad at the University of Colorado, he admired the pre-vet students, who worked with their hands and didn’t seem to take grades too seriously. He says he never really considered human medicine. “If you scan the population at Ravens stadium, how many do you want to do a physical exam on?” he asks.

There were obstacles to becoming a veterinarian, however, chief among them, the fact that Hammond was allergic to cats. “My allergist told me I needed to find another profession,” he recalls. “Instead, I found another allergist.”

After college, Hammond went to veterinary school at Tuskegee University in Alabama and had no intention of returning to Baltimore. But soon after he graduated, his sister got multiple sclerosis and he moved back to be with his family. His sister died of MS and his brother died of prostate cancer soon thereafter, and Hammond settled in Baltimore. In 1981, he teamed with his father to open Falls Road Animal Hospital, the first 24-hour animal care facility in Maryland.

With his dedication and tireless energy, Hammond built the hospital from two doctors and a cot to its current staff of 12 full-time and three part-time veterinarians, who see 75,000 patients a year.

Along the way, Hammond cultivated an image as a celebrity vet, frequently appearing on TV and hanging out with any bold-faced names who came through town.

Twice a year, Hammond flew to Paris for fashion week, attending runway shows and Diddy parties with his cousin, Peter Marx, who runs the family’s Saks Jandel chain. It was during such a trip that the veterinarian was called into duty to care for Ming, Parisian designer Hervé Léger’s French bulldog. Hammond miraculously cured Ming’s hyperkeratosis (nose warts), earning Léger’s eternal favor and amused write-ups in The New Yorker and The Daily Telegraph.

Soon, Hammond was treating Valen-tino’s pugs, Britney Spears’s bulldog, Charlize Theron’s Italian mix, and Billy Bob Thornton’s mutt. A veterinarian to the stars was born.

Hammond’s jet-set-vet caché carried over to Hollywood, where he began to consult on films like All the Pretty Horses, The Accidental Tourist, and Pirates of the Caribbean.

Hammond’s energy in promoting both his animal hospital and his own celebrity throughout the ’80s and ’90s led The Baltimore Sun to cheekily name him “Baltimore’s most modest veterinarian” in 1998.

These days, Hammond still finds ways to drops famous names of interest—he had drinks with Christian Siriano the night before—but just as often, the names he mentions are veterinarians and scientists. He mentions that David Letterman’s favorite vet, Jack Hanna, is on the board of MGVP, and shows off a picture of him with leading conservationist Jane Goodall, who he says was patting his butt at the time. “She said, ‘chimps don’t shake hands, you know,'” he recalls.

Hammond’s face brightens when he talks about his trips to Africa, particularly his most recent excursion to Congo, where the vets’ travel was risky because of civil war.

“When you’re going to work in a country like that, you have to assume there’s risk,” he says. “We prepare, but you can’t predict some 10-year-old with an AK-47 coming out of nowhere.”

“So, why do it?” he continues. “I have a great business in Baltimore, I have a great family, I have a new daughter, I have an older daughter who’s 24. It’s really public service. I go to Rwanda, Uganda, and Congo because I’m a veterinarian and I’ve been offered a dream of a lifetime to care for these gorillas. These projects, they’re not for self-aggrandizement, they’re not for self-enrichment, they’re projects cause they’re the right thing to do. We’re veterinary missionaries.”

Hammond’s wife, Carol, who has traveled to Africa with him, says she has come to accept the risks he takes. “There’s definitely dangers when he’s camping in Uganda and the Congo—it’s scary,” she says. “But I think that they’re smart. They do their homework. It’s in his heart and he was meant to do it. He loves it. He lives for it.”

Hammond’s eyes are set on permanent roll as he sits in on a December conference call of MGVP’s board of directors. Dr. Cranfield and board president Billie Grieb review detailed budgets and schedules, occasionally broken by the confused “Hello?” of Jack Hanna, who seems to be having trouble with his phone connection.

Hammond only pipes up once, when Grieb suggests that board members might consider making additional contributions to the group before the end of the year.

“I’ll send a check for $10,000 today, Billie,” he says, then steps out of his office to instruct his assistant to cut a check for $10,000 dollars and send it out right away before returning to the call.

Since joining the board in 2005, Hammond has donated hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash and equipment to MGVP, but Dr. Cranfield says the resources are not Hammond’s biggest contribution.

“He’s done several things,” he says. “Probably the most significant one was to bring African veterinarians over to his clinic.”

Beginning in 2005, Hammond paid to bring African vets to work in his Falls Road hospital to learn basic techniques. “In Africa, they see very few cases,” says Cranfield. “They needed to see dozens of cases a day. They needed to be comfortable around animals, they needed to draw blood. Their didactic skills got much better.”

When bringing individual veterinarians to Baltimore proved slow and costly, Hammond decided to bring the training to Africa, paying $100,000 out of his pocket to transport high-tech equipment into the mountains of Rwanda for young veterinarians to use on-site—a feat most thought was impossible.

“He’ll get an idea, and he’ll take it to the nth degree, and more often than for a lot of people, they work out, just because of his drive,” says Cranfield. “He’ll follow it until he hits an obstacle that is insurmountable—and he’ll pass four or five obstacles that everybody else would call insurmountable along the way.”

Beyond training young vets, Hammond has taken a particular interest in serving the communities that live around the gorillas. He funds a mentoring program with several orphanages in the Rwandan mountains, where local tour guides teach orphans skills to become part of the eco-tourism industry. The MGVP’s work provides a sustainable habitat for the gorillas so that tourists—about 56 per day—can pay $500 each to tour the mountains and see them. A large portion of those fees go to the people who live nearby.

“We take care of about two million people now and the main reason is that no one’s gonna save a gorilla if they’re hungry,” says Hammond, citing MGVP’s One Health philosophy, which states that, in order for the gorillas to be healthy, surrounding communities must be healthy as well. “If the people are sick, they’re gonna spread those diseases to the gorillas.”

More than anything, Cranfield says, Hammond greatest gift to MGVP is his boundless energy. “I go over there more than him, but every time I go over, everybody asks about Dr. Kim,” says Cranfield. “He gives away T-shirts and he always throws a party. Somehow, he just builds the morale in the town that we live in. He’s always up and always energetic. It’s amazing.”

Never one to rest on his accomplishments, Hammond has a full slate of projects he’s trying to pursue with the help of the Rwandan government, including reintroducing rhinos into Akagera national park, and creating a face recognition database for the gorillas, both to track them for medical reasons and also so that tourists can know the names and histories of the animals they’re seeing. There’s also a team of producers from HBO’s Big Love, who want to shoot a series on Cranfield, Hammond, and the other veterinarians of MGVP, called Gorilla Doctors.

“Five years from now, we’re going to be sitting here and all these things are going to be done,” he says, without a hint of irony or false modesty. “That’s how I operate.”

Dr. Hammond is in one of Falls Road Animal Hospital’s four operating suites, spaying a golden retriever named Kelly. It’s a procedure he’s performed thousands of times.

His hands move quickly, occasionally slowing to show visitors the dog’s ovaries or incision points, but his mouth never stops. The office reflects his energy, with vets, technicians, and animals quickly moving from room to room in a choreographed dance of veterinary efficiency.

“When he comes back from a trip to Africa, you can tell he’s excited to be back in the hospital, taking cases again,” says Keisha Adkins, a veterinarian on staff. She chose to work at Falls Road because of the fast pace and the range of cases. “You can build a career here.”

As he does the surgery, Dr. Hammond talks about some interesting cases he’s seen today, including a cat who was born allergic to its teeth (they all had to be removed), and a dog that severely fractured a hind leg in a car accident.

Suddenly, Dr. Hammond’s mouth and hands freeze. He’s misplaced the blade he’d been using during the surgery. He searches the operating table, then the floor, then, finally, inside Kelly. After a minutes-long search, he calls out to one of his technicians.

“We’re gonna need an x-ray!”

Dr. Hammond finishes the procedure and stitches up the dog’s wound as quickly and seamlessly as a Singer and carries Kelly into the x-ray room. Sure enough, the blade is in there. Back into the operating room, Hammond opens the stitches, removes the blade, and sews the dog up once again.

Clearly frustrated—perhaps doubly because a reporter is present—Dr. Hammond kicks a doorframe. “I’m not Superman,” he mutters.

It’s not clear if he’s speaking to himself or those around him, but it seems an apt reminder for a man who has achieved so much on the force of his confidence and will.

Cranfield says Hammond’s reputation as a tireless self-promoter is “somewhat warranted,” but “the business that he’s in, he has to be a self-promoter.” For MGVP, Hammond provides the kind of loud enthusiasm Cranfield and scientific colleagues struggle to muster.

A few minutes after the Kelly debacle (she recovered just fine, Hammond reports), the surgeon is back in his office, where he gets a call from one of the HBO producers. She brags about Big Love’s just-announced Golden Globe nominations before going over the schedule for shooting a pilot of Gorilla Doctors.

Hammond hangs up and smiles, clearly happy to prove the project is really happening. “I don’t think half the people will believe that my life is real.”