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Wagging, Panting and Parading for Mardi Gras
2006
By P.J. Huffstutter Los Angeles Times
<font color="orange"> Parade watchers yell for beads while a pile of debris sits in a parking lot at the Knights of Nemsis Mardi Gras parade in Chalmette, La., Sunday. The parade rolled through one of the areas of St. Bernard Parish that was heavily damaged by Hurricane Katrina. </font>
NEW ORLEANS -- Sadi and Stella sat in a corner of Louis Armstrong Park, a pair of perfect canine ladies waiting for their annual walk with the Mystic Krewe of Barkus Mardi Gras parade.
Like true Southern belles, the girls had endured tail-teasing and fur-fluffing to get their costumes just so for the annual pooch parade.
After much debate, their owner had decided to deck out the Labradors in the season’s finest Hurricane Katrina fashion: Neon-orange life preservers strapped snugly around their sausage-round bodies. Signs hung around their necks, “Follow the Water Line Home.”
Over 14 years, the Mystic Krewe of Barkus has evolved from a bar prank to one of the largest and most eclectic processions of the carnival season. So it was early Sunday afternoon, as a river of barking, yipping and howling dogs wound through the narrow road along Vieux Carre.
“There are a lot of strange and wacky things you see during Mardi Gras, but this is clearly the top dog,” said Melissa Hymel, 29, who owns Sadi and Stella. “It’s silly, but after everything we’ve all been through, it feels good to laugh.”
Originally just a few friends and a pack of parading pooches, Barkus now attracts more than 1,100 registered dog participants and as many as 4,000 people, said Charlotte Bass-Lilly, who sits on the Barkus board of directors.
Attendees paid a fee to join the parade, and proceeds were to be divided among animal-rescue groups in Louisiana and Mississippi. Last year, the Krewe raised about $75,000, Bass-Lilly said.
Barkus has its own royalty and an annual theme.
“We were going to go with ‘A Street Dog Named Desire: Meaner Than Katrina,’ but we decided that we didn’t want to have anything to do with the storm,” Bass-Lilly said.
Instead, the group opted for “The Wizard of Pawz: There’s No Place Like Home.” Scores of dogs were dressed up as “Wizard of Oz” characters: A golden retriever wearing a shaggy lion’s mane sniffed at a fuzzy male poodle decked out in red-glitter shoes, a gingham dress and blond braids pinned to his fur.
“Who knew gingham was such a good look?” deadpanned Janice Huff, a retired teacher who turned a lawn-fertilizer cart into a float for Moonbeam, her Pomeranian.
<font color="blue"> The parade’s king was a shepherd mix named Amigo, who had been rescued by a wealthy patron in the Bahamas and now splits his time between a home in East Hampton, N.Y., and a beach house in the Caribbean.
</font>
Queen Patches had been plucked from the streets of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Rescue workers found her -- they believe she’s a dachshund-cocker spaniel mix -- hungry, spooked and lonely. After months passed, no one had claimed her and she was added to an online database of Katrina animal refugees.
Glenda Swetman, a dermatologist doing research at Tulane University, came across the listing for Patches while looking for a friend’s dog. It was love at first sight.
On Sunday, clad in a sparkling crown, Patches pranced and preened as hundreds of other dogs followed in procession.
As some animals stopped for friendly pats from spectators lining the sidewalks, their owners shared stories of how they themselves had fared over the past six months.
“My husband and I are living in a smaller place, and it was tough finding a rental that would accept dogs,” said Jennifer Traughber, 33, a psychologist. “We found a place big enough to keep our pug, Bugsy. But we have to keep our German shepherd with family in Kentucky. There’s just no room.”
Emily Roberson, a researcher at Xavier University, nodded in understanding.
She had dressed her brindle-colored pit bull, Trap Jack, as a flying monkey. The black fabric wings bounced with each step and a small cap kept drooping over his eyes.
Trap Jack, munching on Milk Bones, didn’t seem to mind.
“At least we have our animals,” said Roberson, 22, recounting the story of a co-worker who lost her cat when she was evacuated by helicopter. . “She’s been hysterical. It breaks my heart.”
Wagging, Panting and Parading for Mardi Gras
2006
By P.J. Huffstutter Los Angeles Times
<font color="orange"> Parade watchers yell for beads while a pile of debris sits in a parking lot at the Knights of Nemsis Mardi Gras parade in Chalmette, La., Sunday. The parade rolled through one of the areas of St. Bernard Parish that was heavily damaged by Hurricane Katrina. </font>
NEW ORLEANS -- Sadi and Stella sat in a corner of Louis Armstrong Park, a pair of perfect canine ladies waiting for their annual walk with the Mystic Krewe of Barkus Mardi Gras parade.
Like true Southern belles, the girls had endured tail-teasing and fur-fluffing to get their costumes just so for the annual pooch parade.
After much debate, their owner had decided to deck out the Labradors in the season’s finest Hurricane Katrina fashion: Neon-orange life preservers strapped snugly around their sausage-round bodies. Signs hung around their necks, “Follow the Water Line Home.”
Over 14 years, the Mystic Krewe of Barkus has evolved from a bar prank to one of the largest and most eclectic processions of the carnival season. So it was early Sunday afternoon, as a river of barking, yipping and howling dogs wound through the narrow road along Vieux Carre.
“There are a lot of strange and wacky things you see during Mardi Gras, but this is clearly the top dog,” said Melissa Hymel, 29, who owns Sadi and Stella. “It’s silly, but after everything we’ve all been through, it feels good to laugh.”
Originally just a few friends and a pack of parading pooches, Barkus now attracts more than 1,100 registered dog participants and as many as 4,000 people, said Charlotte Bass-Lilly, who sits on the Barkus board of directors.
Attendees paid a fee to join the parade, and proceeds were to be divided among animal-rescue groups in Louisiana and Mississippi. Last year, the Krewe raised about $75,000, Bass-Lilly said.
Barkus has its own royalty and an annual theme.
“We were going to go with ‘A Street Dog Named Desire: Meaner Than Katrina,’ but we decided that we didn’t want to have anything to do with the storm,” Bass-Lilly said.
Instead, the group opted for “The Wizard of Pawz: There’s No Place Like Home.” Scores of dogs were dressed up as “Wizard of Oz” characters: A golden retriever wearing a shaggy lion’s mane sniffed at a fuzzy male poodle decked out in red-glitter shoes, a gingham dress and blond braids pinned to his fur.
“Who knew gingham was such a good look?” deadpanned Janice Huff, a retired teacher who turned a lawn-fertilizer cart into a float for Moonbeam, her Pomeranian.
<font color="blue"> The parade’s king was a shepherd mix named Amigo, who had been rescued by a wealthy patron in the Bahamas and now splits his time between a home in East Hampton, N.Y., and a beach house in the Caribbean.
</font>
Queen Patches had been plucked from the streets of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Rescue workers found her -- they believe she’s a dachshund-cocker spaniel mix -- hungry, spooked and lonely. After months passed, no one had claimed her and she was added to an online database of Katrina animal refugees.
Glenda Swetman, a dermatologist doing research at Tulane University, came across the listing for Patches while looking for a friend’s dog. It was love at first sight.
On Sunday, clad in a sparkling crown, Patches pranced and preened as hundreds of other dogs followed in procession.
As some animals stopped for friendly pats from spectators lining the sidewalks, their owners shared stories of how they themselves had fared over the past six months.
“My husband and I are living in a smaller place, and it was tough finding a rental that would accept dogs,” said Jennifer Traughber, 33, a psychologist. “We found a place big enough to keep our pug, Bugsy. But we have to keep our German shepherd with family in Kentucky. There’s just no room.”
Emily Roberson, a researcher at Xavier University, nodded in understanding.
She had dressed her brindle-colored pit bull, Trap Jack, as a flying monkey. The black fabric wings bounced with each step and a small cap kept drooping over his eyes.
Trap Jack, munching on Milk Bones, didn’t seem to mind.
“At least we have our animals,” said Roberson, 22, recounting the story of a co-worker who lost her cat when she was evacuated by helicopter. . “She’s been hysterical. It breaks my heart.”