Asked whether Armando's stories are true, LaFarge says, "It doesn't matter. He is telling his truth. He's come to believe that this is his reality. More important, the gap between what he is able to communicate and what he probably feels is huge. That's where he's a time bomb." She adds, "Armando will abuse people at the drop of a hat. When he harmed the dog, it wasn't because the dog didn't count; it was because his rage entitles him to do whatever violent thing he feels he can get away with."
LaFarge's interest in troubled or marginalized clients has been one constant in an uncommonly diverse career. "All the threads of my working life have led to the job I have now," she says. Another psychiatrist once said to her, " 'What you like doing is communicating across a barrier,' " she remembers. "That really is exactly right. Whatever the barrier, whether it's between the therapist and the substance abuser, between the living and the dying, or one species and another -- I'm drawn to that."
When Nim was living with her family, one of LaFarge's children became seriously ill and had to be hospitalized for four months. To this day, LaFarge accuses herself of being so absorbed with Nim that she neglected her daughter. But her intimate experience of the hospital wards, and the families coping with terminal illnesses, led her to a deeper investigation of the process of dying. In 1983, while teaching a class at Brown University called, simply, "Cancer," she began an experimental therapy workshop for a group of terminally ill children at the Rhode Island Hospital in Providence. She decided to capture the children's battles with cancer on video. In a series of emotionally wrenching discussions about death, the children conveyed an extraordinary depth of insight into the medical treatment they had received and their own family pathologies. One teenager took over her video, directing a documentary on her own death. The tapes were shown on 60 Minutes that year.
Five years later, LaFarge left Rhode Island and accepted a position running a street-level drug-rehabilitation clinic in downtown Newark. "We got used to hearing gunshots outside," she recalls. "My clients walked me to my car at night." While at the clinic, she ran safer-sex workshops for addicts, a radical project then as now. "To change high-risk sexual behaviors, you had to offer something, so I offered them better erections -- stiffer penises in exchange for wearing a condom," she offers by way of explanation.
An interest in sexual dysfunction eventually led LaFarge to the Park Avenue practice of the prominent sex therapist Dr. Helen Singer Kaplan, where she became an associate in 1990. "That's where I began to have conscious feelings about the human-animal bond," she says. "Frequently, these women would come in and say, 'If I could just kick my husband out of the bed and sleep with the dog, I wouldn't have a sexual problem.' They were not talking about genital contact, they were saying that there was a level of intimacy that they were able to reach with their dogs that they could not reach with their husbands. And that's why they were not orgasmic. I must have heard this from dozens of women."
When Kaplan died in 1995, LaFarge maintained a private practice for a few years but soon realized that she wanted to work with, or at least around, animals. When she applied for a position as director of counseling services at the ASPCA in 1998, the intervention program was not in the job description. But within a year of her arrival, the agency was on the verge of a transformation under the new leadership of Dr. Larry Hawk, a veterinarian from Michigan who came to the ASPCA from Pet Smart. Hawk's goal is to modernize the $30 million agency; to that end, he is expanding the humane-law enforcement division, which investigates charges of animal cruelty, seizes injured animals, and is empowered to make arrests throughout the city and New York State. (HLE officers, as they are called, are responsible for 50 percent of the arrests of LaFarge's intervention clients.) He has opened up the ASPCA's new Center for Behavioral Therapy, has started a free program to spay and neuter pit bulls and pit-bull mixes, and is working on expanding the ASPCA's small shelter, currently home to dozens of dogs and cats -- all up for adoption. A fortyish executive with a casual, welcoming demeanor, Hawk is enthusiastic about LaFarge's innovations. "Developing programs around the link is the future for animal welfare," he says. "Whenever I am around Dr. LaFarge, I learn something new."
The intervention program is new not only to the ASPCA but to the various agencies that constitute New York's complex judicial system. The program's first client was 17-year-old Tommy Dunbar (not his real name), arrested in Brooklyn for allowing two pit bulls to starve -- one eventually cannibalized the other -- in his backyard. Ironically, he was first sent to the ASPCA to clean kennels in what LaFarge describes as "a totally ineffective community-service program." She suggested to the district attorney that the ASPCA could do more by actually offering treatment. The idea was immediately embraced. Dunbar was ordered to go through twelve one-on-one sessions with LaFarge, and the program was officially born. There are currently nineteen men and three women who either have passed through or are in treatment. Only two have dropped out of the intervention, one of whom (an alcoholic who beat his pit bull to death with a barbell) was subsequently arrested for drunk driving. The fact that he had not completed the program helped to put him in jail.
Now the city's social agencies and the judicial system are beginning to work together, cross-referencing victims and offenders. "We had to knock loudly on the doors of the domestic-violence and child-abuse justice systems," says Dr. Randall Lockwood, vice-president of the Humane Society of the United States and a psychologist who pioneered research into the human-animal bond. "But in the end, we are all dealing with the same perpetrators."
LaFarge remembers the day she got a particularly chilling call from the Homicide Division of the Domestic Violence Unit in the Bronx. A woman whose husband had attacked her with a machete refused to go to a shelter for protection because she had no place to put her dog, whom her husband, on another occasion, had dipped in bleach, poisoned, and beaten. He had also gone after her children -- one of whom had been pushed out a window and was hospitalized in a psychiatric ward. Her husband was back on the street because she had been too frightened to file a police report. The ASPCA agreed to pick up the dog, a tiny teacup Maltese covered with red sores. Only after the owner saw her dog taken to safety was she willing to leave her apartment.
Back at the ASPCA, LaFarge greeted the little white dog, named Precious, when he arrived. The dog took an immediate liking to the therapist. "I said, 'Well, it's a shame to make him cope with a cage. I'll just take him home.' " She's caring for Precious until he can be safely returned to his owner, or placed in a permanent home. The dog practically never leaves LaFarge's side and is sometimes present during therapy sessions. "I like to see the interaction with an animal when it's appropriate," she explains.
A few months into his treatment, Armando is sitting in LaFarge's office with Arianne Santiago, who he says is his half-sister. In an earlier session, Armando had told LaFarge that he was one of a set of triplets, and that his sister had killed herself (his brother, he claims, is still alive). The therapist was unaware of any other siblings. Today, he announces that he is changing his name to Mitch T. D. Hansen, which he says is the name that his biological father gave him. Arianne, dressed in black with heavy goth makeup, nods her approval of this change while scarfing down chocolates from a bowl on LaFarge's desk.
They explain to LaFarge that they only recently found each other. "It's a funny story," Arianne says with a shrill laugh. "He was a blind date!" Armando seems to be developing an interest in women. "After a while, we were talking and there were all these similarities," continues Arianne -- they were both into vampires and liked the same music and accessories. "Then he mentioned his dad's name," Arianne says slyly. "I didn't know my dad very well. I only met him once or twice. But I said, 'Wait a minute. That's my father! If I'm dating my brother, this is going to really suck!' "
There is a palpable chemistry between the siblings. LaFarge asks if they've had sex. "We did when we first met," says Armando, giggling. "But we don't anymore. She has a boyfriend. I might kiss her, but I won't go any further." Armando is no longer homeless; that's the good news. He is living with Arianne, her boyfriend, and their cat -- named Strife -- in exchange for housekeeping services. "We are inseparable," Armando adds, bubbling over with pleasure at having connected with his sister. That's also the bad news. LaFarge doubts that Armando and his sister can keep their hands to themselves. Now he has to not only control his rage but worry about the incest taboo, too.
LaFarge has begun to wrestle with the problem that the intervention program is much more ambitious than she initially realized. "The people who can be helped the most are the ones who anchor their lives to the therapist," she says. "You can't just drop them." LaFarge hasn't terminated anyone who wants to continue, but there are only so many hours in the day. "It was naïve to think we could stop at short-term therapy," she says. "Look at the kids in Littleton, Colorado. They had broken into a car and subsequently done really well in a juvenile alternative-sentencing program." Then they blew away their classmates. "If we're going to help, we have to give ourselves to these clients," she adds. "I don't want to read about Armando in the newspaper."
Unlike Armando, some clients may be beyond the program's reach. Joey Cohen (not his real name) was perhaps LaFarge's most frightening client. "He just went through the motions to satisfy the court," she says. Joey came from a wealthy family and somehow got a mail-order bride from China. She arrived with her daughter and her daughter's shar-pei. One afternoon, the daughter walked in on Joey sodomizing the dog. She called the police and had him arrested. The wife and daughter fled. The dog was taken to the ASPCA's clinic, where Dr. Robert Reisman, one of the A's eleven full-time veterinarians, adapted a human rape kit on the spot in an attempt to collect evidence of human sperm from the dog. Because sexual crimes against dogs are surprisingly common -- and illegal in New York -- Reisman is now working on creating a canine rape kit, so that forensic evidence of sexual abuse can be collected and standardized.
Joey pleaded guilty to the cruelty charges and was sentenced to the intervention program. But the psychotherapy had little positive effect. "Joey is not sexually attracted to dogs," LaFarge explains. "He's sexually out of control. He was so overstimulated by my attention, and the door being closed during the therapy, that he was at risk of being sexually out of control with me." Before his treatment with LaFarge even began, Joey moved on to humans, masturbating in front of a woman sitting in a parked car. He was arrested, but the woman failed to show up in court. The case was dismissed. Today, Joey is a free man.
LaFarge doesn't keep track of Joey, in part because she doesn't think it would do any good. "I called him once and he was convinced that I was calling because I missed him," she says ruefully. During their conversation, she was aware that he was masturbating. "It's only a matter of time until something else happens," says LaFarge. But there's nothing more she can do.
When asked if she thinks any of her clients have the potential to become serial killers, LaFarge replies, "Many of them do. The scary thing is, you never know which ones."
In the fall, Armando tells LaFarge that he is planning a move to California. A relative has offered him free room and board. His sister wants to go with him. Armando has finished the intervention program, gone back to court, and done everything required to close this chapter of his life. LaFarge is willing to keep the therapeutic relationship going, and certainly wants to do everything she can to prevent him from slipping through the cracks again. "Armando is not a criminal. He's not exactly a solid citizen either, but he has a social intelligence," she says with cautious optimism. "Armando has a chance at a reasonable life."
Right before the new year, LaFarge gets a call from Armando, who, it seems, has not moved to California. "He sounds terrible," she says. "He's very depressed." She arranges an immediate appointment.
Armando arrives at her office with a buddy, a quiet young man in a duckbill cap and baggy chinos. Armando -- who still refers to himself as Mitch -- looks tired and different. His hair is a rainbow of colors, crinkled like confetti. "I went to California, to Florida, to Philadelphia, and then to Ireland for Thanksgiving," he tells LaFarge, who gives him an interested but quizzical look. His travel plans, apparently, were arranged by his grandmother, who still has custody of his daughter. "She lives in Ireland but moved to New York to spend time with me," he claims. "I still have a long way to go before I can gain custody. But this will be our first Christmas together," he adds enthusiastically.
When LaFarge asks about his sister, Armando says, "Her boyfriend is my roommate now. We got together and threw her out." He has a list of complaints against his lost-and-found sister. "She was cheating on her boyfriend anyway, and she maxed out my credit cards," he says. But Armando kept the cat, briefly. "Strife always slept with me, anyway," he says (Strife is now at the ASPCA for evaluation). Armando tells LaFarge that he is working three jobs, although he just lost the one he really liked, at La Nouvelle Justine, an S&M dinner club for sexual tourists in the East Village. He becomes most animated when he mentions a girl he just met over the Internet named Cheri. "I really like her. I did the biggest no-no," he says, implying that they've already had sex. Armando, an unreconstructed romantic, imagines making a new family with Cheri and bringing home his daughter to a fantasy house that has painted dolphins frolicking all over the kitchen ceiling. "When I die, I want to be reincarnated as a dolphin," he says wistfully. In the meantime, he plans to go back to school.
LaFarge inquires about his recent depression. "It began with the death of my foster brother. He came to New York to visit me and died in a car accident, and I drank for a week," he says matter-of-factly. "Then I called you. I felt better right away. You're the only counselor I've met who listens -- who I haven't thrown a chair at."
LaFarge ends the session apologizing that she's late for a meeting. Armando grabs some chocolate for the road, gives her a hug, and says, "I'll call soon." LaFarge goes to get Sophie, her new dog, who has been playing in a nearby office. (Precious has recently been adopted into a new home.) A stray transferred from the Center for Animal Care and Control, the city's municipal pound on East 110th Street, to the ASPCA's shelter, Sophie is maybe twelve weeks old, a tan-and-white Eskimo-mix pup with a long nose. At first glance, she looks adorable. But Sophie, it turns out, is a biter -- a puppy who was so vicious that she was deemed unadoptable and scheduled for euthanasia. "Watch your fingers," LaFarge warns as she cradles the dog in her arms. Sophie owes her life to the therapist, who, needless to say, is determined to turn the little dog around. "The behaviorists are already amazed," LaFarge says in a rare moment of immodesty. Sophie looks at LaFarge and snarls.
[end]
Carl
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