Editor's note: The state of Louisiana ruled that animal rescues based out of the Lamar-Dixon temporary animal shelter must end on Friday, September 30. The Louisiana SPCA, in its new warehouse facility in Algiers, will take up the slack on animal rescues in New Orleans, along with HSUS assistance. The HSUS's Rebecca Simmons helped feed and water animals, and chronicled one rescue team's experiences on Tuesday, September 27, three days before the state deadline.

By Rebecca Simmons 

6 a.m.

In the humid, pre-dawn darkness, nearly 100 volunteers have gathered outside the command center at the Lamar-Dixon temporary shelter in Gonzales, Louisiana, a facility that thousands of rescued animals from the New Orleans area—dogs, cats, turtles, rabbits, chickens, and countless other critters—have passed through since Katrina struck the Gulf Coast on August 29.

Jane Garrison and David Meyer—volunteers-turned co-commanders of the search, rescue and feeding operations for companion animals in New Orleans—brief us on the day's agenda. Garrison reminds us that we are guests in New Orleans, invited by the residents of the city.

I pair up with Lainy Small, a volunteer from Poulsbo, Washington, who cashed in her vacation time and her savings to spend two weeks as a volunteer at Lamar-Dixon. Most of the teams heading into New Orleans today have been given addresses of individuals who had previously called and requested an animal rescue. But aside from these holed-up pets, there are also hundreds, maybe thousands, of animals roaming the city.

Many of these loose animals are skittish and difficult, if not impossible, for rescue teams to catch. Over the past several weeks hundreds of food and watering stations have been set up around the city to accommodate these animals. Since neither Small nor I are professional animals handlers, Garrison assigns us to set up dozens more of stations throughout a section of the city bordered by the French Quarter.

6:30 a.m.

We gather supplies to load up Small's rental car: dry and canned pet food, spray paint to mark where and when we leave food and water, cat carriers, and water bowls. Before heading out we stop to talk with a few other teams, including a group from the Department of Animal Control Services in Riverside County, California, which made the long journey to help rescue trapped animals.

8:30 a.m.

New Orleans is only about an hour's drive from Gonzales, but traffic is heavy in spots—particularly now that officials are allowing certain residents and business owners back into the city. As we inch closer to the Big Easy, I notice a storage unit facility that has been ripped in half.

9:45 a.m.

A line of cars forms at each exit into the city as New Orleans police decide who can and who can't enter. After checking our credentials, we are waved past the checkpoint.

10 a.m.

Our first stop is the triage center near New Orleans's City Park—one of many triage centers throughout the city where teams can drop off animals they've rescued. The animals who arrive here receive veterinary care and then wait in an air-conditioned tractor-trailer until they are transported back to Lamar-Dixon at the end of the day.  

The triage center has taken in eight animals already this morning—a number that will rise dramatically as the day progresses. A friendly pit bull is being treated for an open sore on his head. Across the street a brick building lies in pieces, as if a giant sledgehammer has come crashing down on it.

10:15 a.m.

Once in our designated section, we begin driving up and down the streets, stopping anytime we see stray animals or spray-painted messages indicating that food and water was left for animals in the past. We set up dozens of stations, cutting open bags of pet food and filling up large pans of water and placing them out of the reach of wind and rain.

11:30 a.m.

We pull up to a convenience store where a spray-painted message indicates that a cat is inside and food and water were left several days ago. We squeeze through a section of the front door where the glass has been broken. The floor is caked with rotting food, mud, and mold. Thousands of flies have taken the place of looters but, after a brief search of the store, we can't find a cat. We assume the animal, with easy access to the outdoors, has probably left, but decide to leave food and water just in case.

But as we return from the car with food and water, a kitten appears. Although the tiny cat is desperate to avoid us, she is extremely skinny and obviously in need of veterinary attention. We coo at her as she hides underneath the moldy shelves, and receive hisses in response. After nearly 15 minutes, we coax her out with a can of cat food and manage to lower her into a carrier. She peers out at us, and  meows weakly.

Noon

Back at the triage center, Nick Shaw, a veterinarian from Canada, takes a look at the kitten and tells us that she's dehydrated and hungry, but otherwise okay. As he examines her, she begins to relax and actually starts to purr. We fill out an intake form giving the address where we found her and say goodbye. We plan to visit her the next morning at Lamar-Dixon.

12:30 p.m.

It's extremely hot, with temperatures in the low 90s. After setting up a few more feeding stations we take a break. We fish bottles of Gatorade out of the cooler and snack on PowerBars. Cory Smith, the manager of animal sheltering for The HSUS and Adam Parascandola, the director of humane law enforcement for Washington (D.C.) Humane Society, pull up behind us. They're checking out a report of a cat in a vet hospital, where we happen to be parked. Small and I join them and, as we walk toward the building, the cat's cries grow louder. Parascandola pries the bars off the window, and we crawl inside. We load the cat—in surprisingly good shape—into a carrier and head back out.

1:15 p.m.

I ask Smith if we can join she and Parascandola to watch them work. She agrees, and we follow their truck to a house in the lower Ninth Ward, a neighborhood that has been devastated by flooding twice—once during Katrina and again during Rita.

We walk toward the house, and the smell—a mixture of mud, death, and mold—is overpowering. The water marks on the walls are close to the ceiling. Thick patches of mold pock the walls, and several inches of slippery sludge coat the floor. A clock hangs on the wall, its hands frozen at 10. Amazingly, there are paw prints in the mud, indicating that a dog survived the flood. But even after Smith and Parascandola thoroughly search the house and backyard, no dog can be found. Maybe he made it out, and has been picked up by another rescue team. It's the best we can hope for.

2 p.m.

The next address on Smith and Parascandola's list is not far away, in an equally devastated neighborhood. It's eerily silent as Smith and Parascandola knock on the doors and windows, then decide to check the backyard before breaking into the home. On a small, second-floor balcony entrance, a German Shepherd cowers. Smith throws him treats while Parascandola slowly moves up the stairway, gently whispering to the emaciated dog. He carefully slips a leash over the dog's head, and when the animal won't (or can't) get up, Parascandola carries the dog down the stairs. The emaciated dog doesn't even make a sound as he's loaded into the truck, but after some more treats and some water he begins to relax. I wonder if he knows we're trying to help.

3 p.m.

After saying goodbye to Smith and Parascandola, Small and I spend the next two hours setting up nearly 40 food and water stations throughout our section. There aren't many people around, but we stop to ask everyone—residents returning to their homes or businesses, work crews, military police, and FEMA staff—if they've seen any animals around.

One of the residents we stop to talk to is a woman who ignored the evacuation order, and refused to leave. She has three dogs and one goat. She tells us that she would have died rather than leave her pets. We give her several bags of dog food—hard to come by in a city where few businesses remain open. As we leave, I reflect on how lucky this woman is, even without many of life's necessities.

5 p.m.

We decide to head back to Lamar-Dixon. There is a 6 p.m. curfew in New Orleans, and we want to make sure that we have plenty of time to make our way out of the city. As we drive out, we pass the Superdome. It's strange to see, with our own eyes, the wind-strafed structure that has dominated news reports.

7 p.m.

We arrive back at Lamar-Dixon, tired and hungry. We wander over to the intake center, where animals are unloaded and given an ID number. They're then scanned for microchips, checked out by a vet, and given food, water, and a clean crate to sleep in. A copy of each animal's record is given to a crew of database volunteers who work through the night to upload the information onto www.petfinder.com, where owners can search for their pets.

The totals for the day from all rescuers in New Orleans: four birds, 135 cats, 189 dogs and 12 other animals. Think about that: 340 animals rescued from the horrible conditions in New Orleans. It's simply an amazing number given that the city was evacuated nearly four weeks ago, then hit by a hurricane, flooded, and flooded again when Rita came ashore.

What's more amazing is the dedication and courage of the volunteers—and the extraordinary resiliance of these incredible animals.

Rebecca Simmons is the Outreach Communications Coordinator for Companion Animals at The HSUS.