Weed

The Hi Lo Café in Weed, California, has an immense menu and they make their own Bear Claws. Like the town itself though, the food has wandered far from its original source and purpose, leaving a flat taste in the mouth. Many of Weed’s 19th century buildings are empty, and the few occupied include crystal shops, thrift stores and a surprising number of animal rescue groups.

The entire area of Siskiyou County, including the city of Shasta, seems especially dedicated to rescuing or capturing, rehabilitating and neutering abandoned and neglected animals. The placement rate for these saved pups is proportionately high. In fact, some dogs are transported from San Francisco to Siskiyou because their chances of adoption are much better here. A friend told me that these orphans are even more popular in Portland where potential adopters sign up to take the overflow shipped from Shasta.

So a pretty high consciousness about responsible pet stewardship flavors the area, but towns like Weed have their share of underemployed, drug-stunned and nearly homeless people who keep some of these dogs. And most of them are pit bulls, many bred hard and for money.

I was watching a man with three pit bulls walk past the picture window in the café. Whether I ignored him or looked hard at him—either way—would signify the expected contempt. But I wanted to see this man, see his dogs.

Walking wearily, he let the dogs amble along at their own pace. They all looked a little confused—the dogs only a little more disoriented. Later, at the corner, we met up. We said hi and he looked at us, wary at first. His expression relaxed as we stayed and talked—How old were his dogs? Were they related? Though middle-aged, his face seemed young and bland. What seemed truer, though, as I looked, was that his expression seemed more abraded, smoothed into acceptance. It made him look wistful.

“They’re friendly,” he told us as the big, soft muscled pits sniffed us. Two looked up and they each had a blue and brown eye.

“Thems his last two sons,” he said, pointing to the older, lumpier fellow, as they wove through their leashes with ordinary doggie eagerness, glad for a scratch and used to kindness.

“I got eighty-eight pups out of him before he quit. I kept these last two.” He looked proud and sad. As if he, too, was finally finished after all the work.