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.
Sydney at the Langham Huntington Hotel in Pasadena.
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.
