Delta the Magnificent

Passing the bio bags didn’t bother me. Bio bags were used to collect human remains which were given to coroners tasked with getting DNA samples and identifying the dead. We had dozens of body bags that were of no use; the largest identifiable piece I found was part of a foot in a well-polished Gucci loafer.

As a former search and rescue climber, I was assigned to a hastily formed team consisting of policemen, firemen, and steelworkers. My day job in finance disappeared along with my firm in the Second Tower. Divine Intervention kept me out of the office on the morning of the 11th. As a result, I did God’s work solving a biological puzzle consisting of pieces of the dead in order to bring bereaved loved ones closure.

Fueled on an endless supply of Red Cross coffee and gallows humor borne from an omnipresent fear of mortality, the dogs helped me get through the day. “Delta,” a Golden Lab mix that was now mostly unrecognizable with all the soot matted in her coat, was my partner.

Rescue dogs were as professional as anyone else working in Hell. Probably more so. It took a week before they got protective paw booties. I had cut or burned through several pairs of gloves; my boots begged for mercy. Dogs with longer coats were patted down and doused with water when they smoldered. Delta never whined or barked in complaint. The dogs were our equals; in many cases, our superiors.

Watching Delta's nose twitch I realized how much the smell haunted me. The acrid, burning plastic-soaked in gasoline stench, which permeated our paper ventilators. Flashbacks to my youth and army battles with plastic soldiers whose untimely demise was via “flamethrower”- a can of my mother’s hairspray and a lighter.

It was ridiculous to say the air carried the stench of death. Sense of smell was illusory at best at Ground Zero, which had become Hell on Earth. Smoldering ash consisting of concrete and steel hissed and smoked. Pockets of fires lapped at our legs as we walked the banks of the River Styx searching for souls buried in the mud. Few remnants of humanity were found in the mundane; torn business cards, melted name tags, and cracked desktop picture frames with blackened photos. Still, Delta soldiered on, seemingly oblivious to it all.

The heat was suffocating. When you removed your mask you gasped like a fish out of water as your lungs were engulfed by a searing liquid-fire chemical elixir. Tears weren’t shed in protest; they had been expended days prior. Delta was so much closer to the ground I couldn't imagine the foul poisons her body absorbed.

In between shifts, we were served an obscene amount of food. New York City had become Jewish grandmothers overnight. Guilt and suffering were assuaged through endless meals. Every chain and family-owned restaurant delivered to Ground Zero. It was an embarrassment of riches given generations of restaurants for several blocks had disappeared into the ether.

Supply ships on the Hudson delivered industrial dog food bags. The moment Delta saw the 100-pound bags being carried, she circled and yipped along with the others like excited puppies. Twice a day we watched their metamorphosis: co-worker to puppy, and back.

While the dogs ate, we created makeshift dining tables out of piles of debris. Conversations were stilted; locker room humor prevailed.

A box of exquisitely wrapped sandwiches with shimmering gold foil caught the attention of some of the guys. Like seeing a lightning bug out of season; it registered and disappeared.

I recognized the “DB” monogram on the foil. I knew who made them.

Delta raised her head and sniffed the air as the sandwiches were greedily unwrapped and devoured like locusts descending upon a field. One ironworker eyed his sandwich warily. I called him “Fritz” because of the ring of German Iron Crosses around his neck. Tattoos like that garnered attention.

“Take your time,” I offered. “Please savor it.”

He eyed me and the sandwich with suspicion. Delta did her best to get his attention to let him know she would happily relieve him of it. He grabbed a second after his first bite.

“It’s focaccia,” I explained. “With pate, and pear jelly. It’s from Daniel Boulud.”

The name drop of one of the most famous chefs in the world went unacknowledged.

Sandwiches were chased with black coffee. I longed for a glass of sauterne and ached to lie back and stare at a flawless blue sky. I wanted to throw a ball into the ocean and have Delta chase it until we both dropped onto the sand and napped.

I wanted my former life back.

As we geared up, Fritz turned to me.

“We should go to Danielle’s Balloons when this is over.”

But that was never going to happen. Instead, we spent the following week sifting through smoldering rubble for traces of the dead, eventually split up and replaced by professional disaster recovery teams from around the world.

My time with Delta was over almost as quickly as it had started. I cried when I said goodbye, knowing I would never see her again. I wondered if dogs carried the magnitude of those days with them? I prayed for her sake it was forgotten immediately, but secretly hoped on some level she was as touched as I was for our time together as partners.

Delta would forever be the first and last partner who licked me when we went our separate ways.