The shelter processes about 1,200 adoptions a year. That means literally thousands of prospective adopters must have walked by Mischief's kennel during his 999 days at the shelter, looked into his expectant eyes, and thought: “Nope. Not him.”
“I've never seen a dog be overlooked for so long,” said Shannon Glendinning, the humane society's development director.
There could be several explanations. Although he has a playful disposition and no history of biting, Mischief looks like a pit bull. Pit bulls scare a lot of people.
Also, according to Glendinning, Mischief's kennel behavior was not the best. He tended to get overly excited when people came to visit him, which seems understandable, given how long he was living in captivity.
There were other theories, too. His fur is mostly black, which Glendinning thought might have discouraged some potential adopters. Glendinning said there was even some discussion about changing his somewhat-menacing name, although that idea was eventually rejected.
“The only thing he had left was his name,” Glendinning said. “He knew it. He reacted to it.”
Mischief never grew bitter. He has a great personality for those willing to take the time to get to know him. He loves playing in water so much an adoption flyer the humane society prepared listed his dream job as “deep sea diver” and his inspiration as “Jacques Cousteau,” the famed marine scientist.
The humane society staff did everything it could to find a home for Mischief. There were news reports published and broadcast about his plight, including one I wrote in October.
My column was published a few days before a party the shelter employees threw in honor of Mischief's ninth birthday. Glendinning said hundreds of people sent birthday cards and presents, but when it was over, Mischief was still alone.
“When his birthday came and went without him finding a forever home, it was very discouraging,” Glendinning said.
Mischief still got regular visits from Christa Stone, a radio personality at B 94.7 Fresh Country, but she has other animals at home and Mischief needed to be part of a one-pet household.
One day, Stone was playing with Mischief in the shelter's yard when Joseph Durbin drove up. Before Durbin reached the shelter's entrance, Stone called out to him and told him he needed to take Mischief home.
Durbin had been leading a lonely life. After finishing his shifts working at Recycling Services of Florida in Fort Pierce, he would usually do a little work around the 38-acre ranch where he's living, then turn in, shortly after dark.
The 62-year-old Navy veteran would occasionally grab a bite to eat somewhere after work, but for the most part, he avoided contact with other people. He had his reasons.
He spent 18 years in prison after being convicted of having sex with a teenager. His marriage and career were ruined. When he got out Dec. 22, 2022, he began the slow and painful process of trying to rebuild his life.
Even though he's living outside prison walls, conditions of his probation restrict what he can and can't do. He's not completely free. And regaining a life that others would consider “normal” may never happen.
Rather than turning to drugs or alcohol to drive away depression, Durbin decided to get a dog. When he arrived at the shelter, it was love at first sight.
“I wasn't two steps off the asphalt when I saw Christa being dragged around (by Mischief),” Durbin recalled. “She said, ‘Hey, you, this is the dog for you.' “
Durbin and Mischief formed an immediate bond.
“I was in prison for a very long time, so I know what it's like to be confined,” Durbin said, noting he was in prison longer than Mischief was at the shelter. “In dog years, he's got me by a few.”
Glendinning, who still gets emotional when talking about Mischief's journey, said shelter employees were in a state of disbelief when the announcement was made about Mischief's adoption. They lined up to say goodbye when Durbin took Mischief to his new home.
From the shelter's perspective, Durbin was a great match. He has a big yard and is willing to let Mischief sleep inside on the bed with him. And the most important factor is the love between the two.
“Mischief struck gold with this guy,” Glendinning said. “He loves him so much.”
On a recent visit to the ranch, I saw Mischief panting contentedly as he and his new owner wrestled around and played “Navy SEAL crawl,” which is a new trick Durbin taught him. Or maybe it's the other way around.
“I've figured out I'm his pet,” Durbin said. “That didn't take long.”
Durbin still has challenges ahead of him, but his life is brighter with Mischief in it.
“Now I've got someone to hang out with,” Durbin said. The bed-sharing protocol is still a work in progress, though.
“I've got to beat him to the bed,” Durbin said. “(Otherwise) I have no room. He's like a dadgum starfish.”
If you're like me, you probably imagined Mischief would end up with an owner with a different background. Maybe a teacher or a librarian or an internet guru, an introvert who spends a lot of time living inside his or her own head.
Sex offenders don't get a lot of sympathy from people in our society. If we know about their pasts, we tend to avoid and condemn them.
I won't defend what Durbin did. There can be no consensual sex with someone who isn't of legal age to consent.
But our criminal justice system is based on the concept that people can be rehabilitated after they've paid their debt to society. And if you follow a Judeo-Christian ethic, as I do, you believe in forgiveness, redemption and the potential for all of us to overcome our mistakes and become better people.
Mischief and Durbin were both living lonely and incomplete lives before they found each other. The two castoffs have come together to find happiness. If you can't find some poetic justice in that, I don't know that you'll find it anywhere.
This column reflects the opinion of Blake Fontenay. Contact him via email at blake.fontenay@tcpalm.com or at 772-232-5424.
