Two years ago, before the Eaton Fire changed my life, I met the Sydney-German Shepherd, half the Pyrenees and Capital.
Two days before I met him, after a year of care, I put down Lord Byron, a 15-year-old shepherd, who was rescued. I’m a shipwreck. My friend Bob finally put me in his car, la “let us hang out with the dog and stop tears.”
Half an hour later, we walked into the West German Shepherd Rescue, and a few feet away stood the tall, elegant dog. We look at each other. I was hit. I ran over, wrapping my arms around him, not letting go. A nervous staff member pulled me away because he was mostly an unknown person.
That week, Sydney arrived from the Apple Valley Shelter. He is a runner and an escape artist. Too many times. No owner. No label. No chips. A volunteer brought him to the city center for the safety of a shepherd’s murder-free shelter. That day, Sydney saved me and I took him home to Altadena.
Sydney knew very well, was afraid, and always turned around. He investigated my house and settled in a dark corridor and walked into a small doorway on three sides. I’m pretty sure he’s been hanging over him for the first few years.
Sydney escaped four times in a month. Three times he was recovered by the Good Samaritans. His final attempt may have killed both of us. As I rode his Maiden Lane in his car, he suddenly had his fixation on the squirrel, giving me a few precious seconds, jumped out of my neck and grabbed his knee, and my knee didn’t escape the peak hours on Altadena Drive at all.
If Sydney was human, then he might be considered the spectrum. He is sneaky, embarrassed by others, deeply unaware of his own beauty and power. From the moment we met, I realized that he had a special gift. He will also find it after the Eaton fire.
On January 7, Sydney and I, along with three women and four dogs from nearby, found myself rushing south frantically to Langham Huntington, the iconic Grand Hotel in Pasadena, to escape the fast-moving fireball. There are hundreds of queues. The front desk managed to find a room. The last room.
Exhausted, but grateful, only the clothes on our backs, nine of us stuffed into Room 401 all night. Syd and I chose the tiny vestibule so that he could sleep in a small closet away from the crowd. The rest were glued to the big screen TV, watching the orange fire quickly and furious throughout the night.
The next morning, Syd and I ran through the bustling coply hall full of beautiful figures, huge floral arrangements and dozens of fire victims. Sydney’s amazing presence caused a sensation, but he continued beside me and drove out of the sliding door.
Two young valets in smart suits and tweed hats ran over. After discovering Syd the night before, they have been looking for Syd. Sydney weighs 75 pounds, has fluffy locks and big ears, making his already handsome face even more expressive.
“What is that dog?” they asked.
“German/Pyrenees mix. Look at the huge furry feet and you’ll get it.”
Sydney and I are heading to see if our house survives. I promise we will be back soon.
The streets were full of first responders, but we slowly walked north until I saw our corners, the streets, our houses. I put on an N95 mask and gloves and entered through the broken front door. The roof was damaged, the ash covered the floor, everything smelled smoke, but the house was still there.
The wind rang out and sent out more damage, so we quickly collected dog food, medicine, some clothes, jackets and a bag for overnight. Syd caught Lambchop, his favorite toy, and we went back to the hotel at Takao.
The Langham Huntington Hotel in Pasadena.
In Langham, the same two valets, Rhandall and John, found Sydney and me. Their sit-ups, they scratch and love Syd. We exchanged stories and I told them how Syd and I found each other. Syd, who was once an introvert, could only handle it for a few minutes and then pulled me on.
By now, Peggy and her two golds have left Palm Springs and Sally is able to move back home. Agatha lost her house. She and her dog will move in with friends.
Our nine narrow rooms turned into Sydney and I, so we moved to Room 411, which was a comfortable space with four large windows. On the prompt, Sydney began to look up at the squirrel trees. I walked into the black and white marble bathroom and noticed two silver bowls and a cushioned pink dog bed next to the bathtub. I found Maria, the housekeeper on the fourth floor. She would fall for Sydney and hope he feels comfortable. We hugged her and she became part of our hotel family.
That night, Syd and I took the elevator down to the famous tea room. Syd is not used to elevators, let alone crowded, and every time it transfers, it has to be pulled in and then fall off like a cartoon character on the floor. As we headed for dinner, his move began with laughter and conversation with several guests.
It’s packed. Fashion International, tourists, a bunch of young, fashionable emerging people and the rest of us all wore yesterday’s outfits. Sydney dived in the middle of the room, posing unconsciously as if he was Cary Grant. Like a magnet, he attracts all kinds of interesting people who want to see him and hear what it feels like to be us.
Jess, the bartender who makes the mixed drinks, made me the perfect Arnold Palmer, which is many and has a bowl of water for Sydney.
Seid pressed his cold nose against my face at 6 a.m. every day, shaking his wetness, longing for a walk, not only seeing me. We choose different streets or paths every morning. He found a new scent, small animals and people, who inevitably stopped and asked, “Wow, what is that dog?”
We met many outstanding figures: Eric and Patrice from Sacramento, Nicole from Santa Monica, Miguel from Pasadena, and more. They all want to see Sydney, I am the beneficiary.
Sydney began looking for his valet queues, who usually traveled at high speeds like horse racing, picking up cars for a long list of guests. Rhandall and John always took a few minutes to catch and Tousle Syd.
Back inside, we would hang out on the coffee cart near the front desk, a temporary gathering place for temporary exchange of fire stories. Many of us come and go – all ages, careers and environments are united by trauma and confusion.
As time passed, Syd, who was once very shy, began to awkwardly lick and kiss the hands and faces of the gathered people, as if along an assembly line. I worry that it’s offensive, but within a few seconds people like it. Syd is developing this great gift, which is to perceive people’s needs and give back to them.
One afternoon, a doctor rushed past us. He was the first spokesperson at the conference and was late. He shouted, “Oh my god, what’s his name?” I shouted, “Sydney!” after Pollack and Poitier. (I’m in the entertainment industry.) He was at the end of the long corridor and said, “What the hell is it,” running back, wrapping his arms around Sydney.
This scene happened over and over again. Everyday chorus: “Can I hug your dog? What is he? Where did you get him?” During our long stay, people don’t have to worry about approaching or chasing the big dog. Singles, families who lost their homes, children whose schools were burned.
Soon, Syd welcomed outsiders into his new neighborhood with fun feet, legs of a hockey club, thick tail and ballerina-like movements. The dog who always avoids seems to understand that we all need contact, and he needs contact, too.
He quickly learned about the geography of the entire hotel and the majestic outdoor gardens. I lead his leadership. We met nurses, high-end bridal parties, countless fire lawyers, watched a 5-year-old birthday celebration and spoke with a couple in Romania.
He dragged me to the coffee shop to see Isabel and Wilson. In the evening, go to the lounge to find Jesse, Ernesto and Grace.
One night, as we drove back to the hotel from somewhere, he poked his head out and I heard the thrill of excitement when Sydney saw Rhandall and John in the circle. As they approached, Sydney raced back and forth in the backseat, jumping out with Lambchop and leaning over.
After more than two months we were finally cleaned up and we spent the 62nd night in that pink bed on the marble bathroom floor. The next morning we packed up and took the elevator for the last time. Sydney was a professional at that time. There is a bittersweet farewell.
When we got home, Sydney ran out of the back door, crossed the grass and the Jacaranda tree, hoping the squirrels.
Now, a few months later, I am amazed at how we bloom during our stay in Langham, Sydney. Every day, new friends come and some leave, but constantly is Syd, his presence, his sway, his ability to bring unexpected joy. A new Sydney emerged. I couldn’t help wondering if he dreamed of going back there.
Henderson is a special correspondent.
