From rescued to rescuer: Sydney helps Eaton fire evacuees heal
Two days before I met him, I'd put down Lord Byron, my 15-year-old shepherd rescue, after nursing him for a year. I was a wreck. My friend Bob finally put me in his car, a la 'let's just hang out with dogs and stop the tears.'
A half hour later, we walked into Westside German Shepherd Rescue where, a few feet away, stood this tall, elegant beast of a dog. We looked at each other. I was struck. I ran over, wrapped my arms around him and wouldn't let go. A nervous staffer pulled me away because he was mostly an unknown.
That week, Sydney had arrived from the Apple Valley shelter. He was a runner and escape artist. Too many times. No owner. No tags. No chip. A volunteer brought him to safety in downtown's longstanding no-kill refuge for shepherds. That day, Sydney rescued me, and I took him home to Altadena.
Sydney was aloof, scared, always turning away. He surveyed my house and settled into a small, three-sided doorway in a dark hallway. I was pretty sure he'd been caged his first few years.
Within a month, Sydney escaped four more times. Three times he was recovered by Good Samaritans. His final attempt could have killed us both. As I careened after him in my car up Maiden Lane, his abrupt fixation on a squirrel gave me a few precious seconds to jump out, grab him by the neck, skin both my knees, and barely escape the rush hour traffic on Altadena Drive.
If Sydney were a human, he might be considered a bit on the spectrum. He's stealthy, awkward around others and profoundly unaware of his beauty and power. From the moment we met, I recognized he had a special gift. In the aftermath of the Eaton fire, in an odd way, he would discover it too.
On Jan. 7 , Sydney and I, along with three women and four dogs from the neighborhood, found ourselves frantically driving south to Pasadena's iconic, grand hotel — the Langham Huntington — to escape the fast-moving fireball. There were hundreds in line. The front desk managed to find a room. The last room.
Exhausted, but grateful and with only the clothes on our backs, the nine of us crammed into Room 401 for the night. Syd and I chose the tiny vestibule so he could sleep in the small, dark closet, away from the crowd. The rest were glued to the big screen TV and watched the orange fire line spread fast and furious throughout the night.
Early the next morning, Syd and I ran through the bustling lobby filled with pretty people, giant floral arrangements, and dozens of fire victims. Sydney's striking presence caused a stir, but he continued next to me, then out the sliding door.
Two young valets wearing smart suits and tweed caps ran over. They'd been searching for Syd after spotting him the night before. Sydney weighs 75 pounds, with shaggy locks and has large ears that make his already handsome face even more expressive.
'What is that dog?' they asked.
'A German/Pyrenees mix. Check out the giant furry feet and you'll get it.'
Sydney and I were heading out to see if our house had survived. I promised we'd be back soon.
The streets were crowded with first responders, but we slowly made our way north until I could see our corner, our street, our house. I put on an N95 mask and gloves and entered through a broken front door. The roof was damaged, soot covered the floors and everything smelled of smoke, but the house was still there.
The winds picked up, signaling more destruction, so we quickly gathered dog food, meds, a few clothes, jacket and an overnight bag. Syd grabbed Lambchop, his favorite toy, and we high-tailed back to the hotel.
At the Langham, the same two valets, Rhandall and John, found Sydney and me. On their haunches, they scratched and loved up Syd. We swapped stories and I told them how Syd and I found each other. Syd, ever the introvert, could only handle a few minutes, then pulled me to move on.
By now, Peggy and her two goldens had left for Palm Springs and Sally was able to move back home. Agatha had lost her house; she and her dogs would move in with friends.
Our cramped room of nine turned into just Sydney and me, so we moved to Room 411, a cozy space with four big picture windows. On cue, Sydney began looking up into the trees for squirrels. I walked into the black-and-white marble bathroom and noticed, next to the tub, two silver bowls and a cushy, hot pink dog bed. I found Maria, the fourth-floor housekeeper. She'd fallen for Sydney and wanted him to be comfortable. We hugged and she became part of our hotel family.
That evening, Syd and I took the elevator down to the famous tea room. Syd, unaccustomed to elevators, let alone crowded ones, had to be pulled in, then splat like a cartoon character on the floor each time there was a shift down. His act delivered laughs and conversation starters with several guests as we headed for dinner.
It was packed. A mix of chic internationals, tourists, a group of young, trendy up-and-comers, and the rest of us wearing yesterday's attire. Sydney plopped down in the middle of the room, unconsciously posing, as if he were Cary Grant. Like a magnet, he drew all kinds of interesting people who wanted to meet him and hear what it was like to be us.
Jess, the bartender who makes mixing drinks look like art, made me the perfect Arnold Palmer, the first of many, and served up a bowl of water for Sydney.
Syd pressed his cold nose on my face at 6 a.m. every day, shaking his tushy, desperate for a walk and to see more than just me. We picked a different street or path each morning. He discovered a new world of smells, critters, and people who would, inevitably, stop and ask, 'Wow, what is that dog?'
We met many standouts: Eric and Patrice from Sacramento, Nicole from Santa Monica, Miguel from Pasadena, among them. They all wanted to meet Sydney, and I was the beneficiary.
Sydney began to look for his valet cohorts who were usually speeding like racehorses to fetch cars for the long line of guests. Rhandall and John always took a few minutes to grab and tousle Syd.
Back inside, we'd hang around the coffee cart near the front desk, a makeshift meeting place for swapping fire stories. There were lots of us coming and going — all ages, occupations, and circumstances, united by trauma and confusion.
As time went on, the once-shy Syd began awkwardly licking and kissing the hands and faces of people gathered, as if moving down an assembly line. I worried it was off-putting but, within seconds, people loved it. Syd was developing this remarkable gift of sensing people's needs and giving back to them.
One afternoon, a doctor sprinted past us. He was the first speaker at a convention and was late. He yelled, 'Oh my God, what's his name?' I yelled back, 'Sydney!' after Pollack and Poitier. (I'm in the entertainment industry.) Near the end of the long corridor, he said, 'What the hell,' ran back, wrapped his arms around Sydney.
This scene happened over and over again. A daily chorus of, 'Can I hug your dog? What is he? Where did you get him?' Throughout our long stay, people approached or chased this big dog without fear. Singles, families who lost homes, kids whose schools burned down.
Pretty soon, Syd, with his funny feet, hockey stick legs, thick swishy tail, and ballerina-like moves, pranced down hallways and welcomed outsiders into his new neighborhood. The dog who always shied away seemed to understand we all needed contact, and so did he.
He quickly learned the geography of the entire hotel and majestic outdoor gardens. I took his lead. We met nurses, an upscale bridal party, a myriad of fire attorneys, watched a 5-year-old's birthday celebration, and talked with a couple from Romania.
He dragged me to the coffee shop to see Isabelle and Wilson. At night, to the lounge to find Jess, Ernesto, and Grace.
One evening, while we drove back to the hotel from somewhere, he poked his head out the window, and I heard this loud, painful cry of excitement when Sydney saw Rhandall and John in the circle drive. When they approached, this time Sydney raced back and forth in the backseat, jumped out with Lambchop, and leaned into them.
After a little more than two months, we were finally cleared to move back home, and Sydney and Lambchop spent their 62nd night on that hot pink bed on the marble bathroom floor. The next morning, we packed our things and took one last ride down the elevator. Sydney was a pro by then. There were bittersweet goodbyes.
When we got home, Sydney ran out the back door, raced through the grass and around the jacaranda tree, hoping for squirrels.
Now, months later, I marvel at how, during our stay at the Langham, Sydney bloomed. Every day, new people came, some people left, but the constant was Syd, his presence, his waggle, his ability to give unexpected joy. A new Sydney had emerged. I can't help but wonder if he dreams of being back there.
Henderson is a special correspondent.
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Balliana warns this trend is dangerous: lower prices make it harder for ethical breeders to invest the time, care, and expertise that these complex animals require. 'This should never be about volume,' she says. 'The well-being of the dog must always come first.' Balliana has lived with Czechoslovakian wolfdogs since 2005 and has been breeding them since 2017, after years of collaboration with both Italian and international breeders. A trainer and show handler, she first encountered the breed as an eighteen-year-old visitor at a dog show, and was instantly captivated by its wolf-like appearance, atavistic behavior, and natural indocility. 'I fell in love at first sight,' she says. After years of study and saving, she purchased her first dog—an infertile female—and never looked back. 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In North America, meanwhile, wolfdogs can be 'very easily' purchased, according to Alyx Harris, operations manager at the Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary in Alberta, Canada. On the continent, tens of thousands of wolfdogs live in captivity—far more than its wild wolf population. Currently, Harris's sanctuary has 56 wolfdogs, most of them rescued from former owners and breeders. 'The fact that you can go out and get a wolfdog with no permitting… is a bit crazy,' she says. While many North American states and provinces ban wolfdog importation and ownership, neither the U.S. nor Canada restrict the breed under federal law. Sofia Imberti, 29, spends time with her three Czechoslovakian wolfdogs in the mountains close to her home in northern Italy. Imberti works early morning and night shifts at a textile factory, rising at 4 a.m. to make time for her dogs. Drawn to the breed for its wild appearance and primitive nature, she values the way it preserves behavioral traits close to its wolf ancestors. 'They belong in nature,' she says, 'and that's where I feel at home, too.' The dogs' independence and sensitivity mirror her own rhythms. With over 40,000 followers on Instagram, Imberti now uses social media to educate others about the breed—its beauty, its challenges, and the deep responsibility it requires. She hopes one day to turn that platform into a full-time pursuit, allowing her to spend more time with her animals while making a positive impact on how the breed is understood. Harris and others in the wolfdog business say owners are drawn to these breeds for their impressive size and ferocious reputation and are often taken with the idea of domesticating something powerful, wild, and free. 'The bond is with an animal that won't be your pet, but will be your friend,' says Moira Schein, a caretaker at Mission:Wolf, a wolfdog sanctuary in Colorado. But many owners don't fully appreciate what they are getting into when they buy a wolfdog puppy, says Mike Gaarde, refuge director at Mission:Wolf. 'Around two to three years old, that's when we get the phone call. Twice a week, we get calls from people hoping we can rescue their animals,' he says. 'We have to turn down thousands of dogs.' While Harris stressed that most wolfdogs are actually 'instinctually very shy, timid animals,' in captivity, their wilder nature can make them dangerous pets. 'They like to be in big open spaces,' she says. 'They don't want to be in your house; that's terrifying for them. Even walking on the leash, you are taking away their ability to flee.' Sofia Imberti, 29, spends time with her three Czechoslovakian wolfdogs in the mountains close to her home in northern Italy. Imberti works early morning and night shifts at a textile factory, rising at 4 a.m. to make time for her dogs. Drawn to the breed for its wild appearance and primitive nature, she values the way it preserves behavioral traits close to its wolf ancestors. 'They belong in nature,' she says, 'and that's where I feel at home, too.' The dogs' independence and sensitivity mirror her own rhythms. With over 40,000 followers on Instagram, Imberti now uses social media to educate others about the breed—its beauty, its challenges, and the deep responsibility it requires. She hopes one day to turn that platform into a full-time pursuit, allowing her to spend more time with her animals while making a positive impact on how the breed is understood. Worse, Harris says, unlike other breeds, wolfdogs often 'lack an affinity toward humans.' Even when well trained, they will often seek out opportunities to assert themselves as leader of the pack. 'They don't want to be pets,' she says. Camatta's wolfdog has picked up a wolf's scent in the Cesari works with a Czechoslovakian wolfdog in northern Italy in February 2025. Initially drawn to the breed for its striking resemblance to the wolf, Cesari soon became captivated by its complex behavior and subtle communication. Specializing in canine education, she helps owners better understand their dogs—especially wolfdogs—by teaching them how to read body language and respond appropriately to everyday behavioral challenges. Cesari also trains dogs in scent-based disciplines such as mantrailing, which harnesses the animal's powerful sense of smell to follow human or canine scent trails, both for recreation and real-world search operations. In addition, she is preparing for certification in HRDD (Human Remains Detection Dog) work, aiming to apply her skills in forensic contexts. These fields, she says, are particularly well-suited to the highly sensitive and olfactory-driven nature of the Czechoslovakian wolfdog. Alessio Camatta, a Czechoslovakian wolfdog breeder, works to protect the genetic integrity of the breed at his facility in northern Italy in February 2025. What began as a personal search for a more rustic and resilient companion after the early loss of his German shepherd evolved into a scientific commitment to responsible breeding. Using a zootechnical approach, Camatta aims to balance biological health—such as minimizing inbreeding and preserving genetic diversity—with the breed's distinctive physical and behavioral traits. Alongside his colleague Erica, he focuses on the critical first weeks of a puppy's life, shaping temperament through structured stimulation and individualized care. Nutrition is also guided by scientific principles, in collaboration with specialists in animal dietetics. Driving down the gravel logging roads that crisscross the forests near Slovenia's border with Italy, Tilen Hvala keeps a sharp eye out for the telltale signs of wolves. In 2023, Hvala became one of just a handful of researchers across the continent to successfully trap and collar a wolf— in this case, six-month-old Jakob, whose movements were tracked by the Slovenian Forest Service as part of the Life Wolfalps EU Project. Just over a hundred wolves live in the small European country today, a major victory after facing near-extinction in the 1990s. 'Sometimes I wonder, when I'm driving on this kind of road, how many times they are just looking out of the trees,' says Hvala, a biologist with the Slovenian Forest Service. Sure enough, we soon come upon a wolf pack's resting place from the night before—matted leaves surrounded by scat and bones just a few hundred feet from a logging road. Tracking data is instrumental to better understanding how the area's wolf packs behave and use the landscape. It can also reveal where hybridization occurs. 'If you have high mortality rates, unstable packs and, at the same time, a lot of dogs in the environment, shit happens,' says Miha Krofel, a Slovenian wolf researcher working with the EU project. Most wild hybridization occurs in areas where wolf packs are disrupted, usually by hunting or poaching, and female wolves go searching for a new breeding partner. Federica Merisio, a longtime enthusiast of the Czechoslovakian wolfdog, shares a quiet moment with her dogs Fides and Verbena—known as Pippi—at home in northern Italy. For the past ten years, Merisio has been immersed in the world of this extraordinary breed, realizing her dream of owning her first wolfdog nine years ago. What draws her in is not just their striking appearance, but their interior world—their sharp intelligence, emotional clarity, and instinct-driven behavior. 'They are victims of their own instinct,' she says. 'But that's their greatest wonder.' Merisio believes that to truly understand a wolfdog, you must learn to observe—reading the smallest shifts in body language and energy. 'You can't just watch them,' she says. 'You have to feel them vibrate in your bones.' Living with the breed is a lifelong challenge in emotional and behavioral attunement—'too wolfish to be dogs, too dogish to be wolves.' With her two females, she continues to train in utility and defense work, a practice that strengthens their bond and mutual trust. 'Having a Czechoslovakian wolfdog means embracing not only its wild appearance,' Merisio says, 'but also falling in love with the instincts that make it so unique—and never wanting to live without them.' It was such circumstances that likely produced Slovenia's first recorded hybrid, a large, black animal that entered the country near the Italian border in 2021. In response, Slovenia took no chances, killing the animal and its offspring, save one that escaped back over the border. In neighboring Italy and Croatia—where escaped, feral, and unmanaged dogs are a much more common phenomenon—wild hybridization is a much more serious problem. In some parts of Italy, more than 70 percent of wolves have dog DNA, according to research by Sapienza University in Rome. In Dalmatia, a narrow strip of land on Croatia's Adriatic coastline, the rate is as much as 80 percent, says Tomaz Skrbinsek, a researcher at the University of Ljubljana in Slovenia. There, a so-called 'hybrid swarm' has formed after wolves colonized war-torn areas vacated in the 1990s and encountered abandoned strays. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Czechoslovakian wolf dogs retain subtle body language and movement patterns that often confuse domestic dogs. Unlike most companion breeds, wolfdogs tend to move with quiet confidence, make prolonged eye contact, and communicate in ways closer to their wild ancestors—signals that are frequently misread as threatening. 'They walk differently, they look differently,' says breeder Alessio Camatta. 'Other dogs don't know how to interpret them, and that can lead to trouble.' As a result, wolfdogs are sometimes met with fear or aggression in public spaces, making socialization and early conditioning critical. For owners, it means constant awareness—and sometimes, physical risk. Camatta and others warn that without proper training and understanding, these misunderstood signals can turn everyday walks into confrontations. In places like Dalmatia, where hybrids are not yet being tracked with radio collars, Skrbinsek worries hybridization could lead to animals that are more comfortable with humans and urban environments. That, in turn, could erode support for protecting wolves from hunting and encouraging their return. 'If you have these behaviors, these traits, in a wild animal that is wolf-like, that could spell disaster for wolf conservation,' he says. What is a wolf, really? Hybrids also raise difficult ethical questions, such as how to define what makes a 'natural' wolf. With millennia of crossbreeding between wolves, domestic dogs, and other canids like jackals, there is no standard definition for how much foreign DNA makes a wolf no longer a wolf. Some conservationists view any mixture as a symbol of 'pollution' in a once pure species. 'It's us humans that have caused that,' says Luigi Boitani, a zoologist at the Sapienza University of Rome and one of Europe's main experts on hybridization. 'It's like an extinction. It's our responsibility to do something.' But it's not known if hybridization really does produce worrying behaviors, such as fearlessness around people, or if hybrids crowd out gray wolves from their native habitat. Sara Meloni reveals the fresh puncture wounds from a recent dog attack, alongside tattoos of wolfdogs inked across her skin. Just days earlier, she and her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, were attacked by a Labrador—one of several incidents she encountered in recent months. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Era doesn't move like most domestic dogs. Her head is often held high, her posture confident but composed, and her movements are measured—more observant than playful, more intentional than reactive. 'She walks through the world differently,' Meloni says. 'With a presence that says she knows exactly who she is—and that unsettles other dogs.' While this quiet confidence can provoke fear or aggression in unfamiliar animals, it also reflects the depth of their bond. The tattoos on Meloni's legs are more than symbols of admiration—they are markers of a shared journey built on trust, mutual respect, and an unwavering sense of loyalty to an animal that, in walking bravely beside her, has helped her become more of herself. Sara Meloni and her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, photographed together in Costa di Mezzate, Italy, in February 2025. For the past five years, the two have moved through life as a tightly bonded pair—one human, one animal, both shaped by each other. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Era is sensitive, intelligent, and instinct-driven, requiring trust rather than training, presence rather than control. 'She changed me,' Meloni says. 'Not for myself, but for her.' Their relationship is built on mutual respect, where emotional safety flows both ways. Era's quiet confidence is mirrored in Sara's stillness; their connection is visible not just in touch, but in the space between them—a recognition of two beings who have chosen each other completely. 'It is really critical that we get this knowledge,' says Krofel, the Slovenian scientist. Without it, he says, it's hard to convince policymakers to cull hybrid wolves, or implement other measures to prevent their spread. For now, without a clear definition of what makes a hybrid, strange paradoxes have arisen. In Italy, a 96 percent wolf hybrid can be returned to its owner, but a similar hybrid in the wild, exhibiting all the behaviors of a wolf, may well be selected for a cull. These paradoxes bother researchers, too, many of whom advocate for an end to the wolfdog trade worldwide. 'I would personally ban the market, the production of this breed,' says Salvatori. For Boitani, breeding new hybrid pets simply 'doesn't make sense.' 'Humans already made the dog [through interbreeding] 10,000 years ago. Why do you want to do it again? Really, it's like playing God.' But wolfdog advocates assert the animals still have a right to live. 'These animals didn't choose to be bred,' says Harris, of the Canadian sanctuary. 'I don't think trying to cull them all is a very fair way to go about it.' At least for now, wolfdog advocates and conservationists agree on one thing—humans must improve how they handle both domesticated and wild wolfdogs. 'Education will be the key,' says Gaarde. 'What we don't understand we try to control,' he says, 'and what we can't control, we try to destroy.' Sara Meloni walks with her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, through the streets of northern Italy in February 2025. With 30 percent wolf DNA, the breed moves differently—calm, focused, and highly attuned to its surroundings. 'When you build a real relationship with them, you become part of their pack,' Meloni says. 'And that bond gives them the confidence to be fully themselves.' But that confidence, expressed through subtle, wolf-like body language, often triggers misunderstandings with other dogs. In recent months, Meloni and Era have been attacked several times, including one incident that left her with bite wounds while trying to protect her dog. Still, she remains committed to the quiet strength of their connection. 'She doesn't just walk beside me—she walks with purpose,' Meloni says. 'Because she knows who she is. And she knows I do too.'
Los Angeles Times
10 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
From rescued to rescuer: Sydney helps Eaton fire evacuees heal
Two years ago, before the Eaton fire would change my life and his, I met Sydney —half German shepherd, half Great Pyrenees and enigma with a capital E. Two days before I met him, I'd put down Lord Byron, my 15-year-old shepherd rescue, after nursing him for a year. I was a wreck. My friend Bob finally put me in his car, a la 'let's just hang out with dogs and stop the tears.' A half hour later, we walked into Westside German Shepherd Rescue where, a few feet away, stood this tall, elegant beast of a dog. We looked at each other. I was struck. I ran over, wrapped my arms around him and wouldn't let go. A nervous staffer pulled me away because he was mostly an unknown. That week, Sydney had arrived from the Apple Valley shelter. He was a runner and escape artist. Too many times. No owner. No tags. No chip. A volunteer brought him to safety in downtown's longstanding no-kill refuge for shepherds. That day, Sydney rescued me, and I took him home to Altadena. Sydney was aloof, scared, always turning away. He surveyed my house and settled into a small, three-sided doorway in a dark hallway. I was pretty sure he'd been caged his first few years. Within a month, Sydney escaped four more times. Three times he was recovered by Good Samaritans. His final attempt could have killed us both. As I careened after him in my car up Maiden Lane, his abrupt fixation on a squirrel gave me a few precious seconds to jump out, grab him by the neck, skin both my knees, and barely escape the rush hour traffic on Altadena Drive. If Sydney were a human, he might be considered a bit on the spectrum. He's stealthy, awkward around others and profoundly unaware of his beauty and power. From the moment we met, I recognized he had a special gift. In the aftermath of the Eaton fire, in an odd way, he would discover it too. On Jan. 7 , Sydney and I, along with three women and four dogs from the neighborhood, found ourselves frantically driving south to Pasadena's iconic, grand hotel — the Langham Huntington — to escape the fast-moving fireball. There were hundreds in line. The front desk managed to find a room. The last room. Exhausted, but grateful and with only the clothes on our backs, the nine of us crammed into Room 401 for the night. Syd and I chose the tiny vestibule so he could sleep in the small, dark closet, away from the crowd. The rest were glued to the big screen TV and watched the orange fire line spread fast and furious throughout the night. Early the next morning, Syd and I ran through the bustling lobby filled with pretty people, giant floral arrangements, and dozens of fire victims. Sydney's striking presence caused a stir, but he continued next to me, then out the sliding door. Two young valets wearing smart suits and tweed caps ran over. They'd been searching for Syd after spotting him the night before. Sydney weighs 75 pounds, with shaggy locks and has large ears that make his already handsome face even more expressive. 'What is that dog?' they asked. 'A German/Pyrenees mix. Check out the giant furry feet and you'll get it.' Sydney and I were heading out to see if our house had survived. I promised we'd be back soon. The streets were crowded with first responders, but we slowly made our way north until I could see our corner, our street, our house. I put on an N95 mask and gloves and entered through a broken front door. The roof was damaged, soot covered the floors and everything smelled of smoke, but the house was still there. The winds picked up, signaling more destruction, so we quickly gathered dog food, meds, a few clothes, jacket and an overnight bag. Syd grabbed Lambchop, his favorite toy, and we high-tailed back to the hotel. At the Langham, the same two valets, Rhandall and John, found Sydney and me. On their haunches, they scratched and loved up Syd. We swapped stories and I told them how Syd and I found each other. Syd, ever the introvert, could only handle a few minutes, then pulled me to move on. By now, Peggy and her two goldens had left for Palm Springs and Sally was able to move back home. Agatha had lost her house; she and her dogs would move in with friends. Our cramped room of nine turned into just Sydney and me, so we moved to Room 411, a cozy space with four big picture windows. On cue, Sydney began looking up into the trees for squirrels. I walked into the black-and-white marble bathroom and noticed, next to the tub, two silver bowls and a cushy, hot pink dog bed. I found Maria, the fourth-floor housekeeper. She'd fallen for Sydney and wanted him to be comfortable. We hugged and she became part of our hotel family. That evening, Syd and I took the elevator down to the famous tea room. Syd, unaccustomed to elevators, let alone crowded ones, had to be pulled in, then splat like a cartoon character on the floor each time there was a shift down. His act delivered laughs and conversation starters with several guests as we headed for dinner. It was packed. A mix of chic internationals, tourists, a group of young, trendy up-and-comers, and the rest of us wearing yesterday's attire. Sydney plopped down in the middle of the room, unconsciously posing, as if he were Cary Grant. Like a magnet, he drew all kinds of interesting people who wanted to meet him and hear what it was like to be us. Jess, the bartender who makes mixing drinks look like art, made me the perfect Arnold Palmer, the first of many, and served up a bowl of water for Sydney. Syd pressed his cold nose on my face at 6 a.m. every day, shaking his tushy, desperate for a walk and to see more than just me. We picked a different street or path each morning. He discovered a new world of smells, critters, and people who would, inevitably, stop and ask, 'Wow, what is that dog?' We met many standouts: Eric and Patrice from Sacramento, Nicole from Santa Monica, Miguel from Pasadena, among them. They all wanted to meet Sydney, and I was the beneficiary. Sydney began to look for his valet cohorts who were usually speeding like racehorses to fetch cars for the long line of guests. Rhandall and John always took a few minutes to grab and tousle Syd. Back inside, we'd hang around the coffee cart near the front desk, a makeshift meeting place for swapping fire stories. There were lots of us coming and going — all ages, occupations, and circumstances, united by trauma and confusion. As time went on, the once-shy Syd began awkwardly licking and kissing the hands and faces of people gathered, as if moving down an assembly line. I worried it was off-putting but, within seconds, people loved it. Syd was developing this remarkable gift of sensing people's needs and giving back to them. One afternoon, a doctor sprinted past us. He was the first speaker at a convention and was late. He yelled, 'Oh my God, what's his name?' I yelled back, 'Sydney!' after Pollack and Poitier. (I'm in the entertainment industry.) Near the end of the long corridor, he said, 'What the hell,' ran back, wrapped his arms around Sydney. This scene happened over and over again. A daily chorus of, 'Can I hug your dog? What is he? Where did you get him?' Throughout our long stay, people approached or chased this big dog without fear. Singles, families who lost homes, kids whose schools burned down. Pretty soon, Syd, with his funny feet, hockey stick legs, thick swishy tail, and ballerina-like moves, pranced down hallways and welcomed outsiders into his new neighborhood. The dog who always shied away seemed to understand we all needed contact, and so did he. He quickly learned the geography of the entire hotel and majestic outdoor gardens. I took his lead. We met nurses, an upscale bridal party, a myriad of fire attorneys, watched a 5-year-old's birthday celebration, and talked with a couple from Romania. He dragged me to the coffee shop to see Isabelle and Wilson. At night, to the lounge to find Jess, Ernesto, and Grace. One evening, while we drove back to the hotel from somewhere, he poked his head out the window, and I heard this loud, painful cry of excitement when Sydney saw Rhandall and John in the circle drive. When they approached, this time Sydney raced back and forth in the backseat, jumped out with Lambchop, and leaned into them. After a little more than two months, we were finally cleared to move back home, and Sydney and Lambchop spent their 62nd night on that hot pink bed on the marble bathroom floor. The next morning, we packed our things and took one last ride down the elevator. Sydney was a pro by then. There were bittersweet goodbyes. When we got home, Sydney ran out the back door, raced through the grass and around the jacaranda tree, hoping for squirrels. Now, months later, I marvel at how, during our stay at the Langham, Sydney bloomed. Every day, new people came, some people left, but the constant was Syd, his presence, his waggle, his ability to give unexpected joy. A new Sydney had emerged. I can't help but wonder if he dreams of being back there. Henderson is a special correspondent.
