GONZALES, Louisiana - Last Wednesday night, Doug Willson from Springfield, Missouri, was anticipating a relaxing trip to St. Louis, where his wife Ida, a dental hygienist, was signed up for a periodontics continuing education seminar. Packed and ready to go, he envisioned a lazy four-day getaway—channel surfing from his hotel bed while Ida attended classes, followed by evenings of fine dining in the big city.

Willson had no idea that a week later, he would be working 14-hour shifts scrubbing cages and litter pans in the sticky heat of the Deep South. Or trading a cushy mattress and box springs for a small cot in an open hall. He had no notion of what was to come until the next morning, when his wife turned to him and said, "We're going to Louisiana."

Exorcising the Demons

For two weeks, Willson was haunted by images of Hurricane Katrina's animal victims. By Thursday morning, she couldn't take it anymore. The Willsons loaded their car and drove ten hours to the Lamar-Dixon Expo Center in Gonzales, the central staging area for The HSUS's rescue, sheltering, and reunion efforts in Louisiana.

Their impulsive decision has been followed by four days of manual labor in grueling heat and humidity, but neither regrets the change in plans.

"You come here and you realize you weren't the only one deeply worried about the animals," Willson says.

Amidst the chaos of barking dogs, shy cats, and never-ending chores, she seems serene and purposeful as she navigates the long aisles of the converted horse barns that shelter the rescued animals. She points to jumbled piles of donated pet food, treats, toys, and cleaning supplies on wooden pallets outside Barn 1. They're an everyday reminder to her that people care. She finds the modest donations from the "moms and pops"—packages with three rolls of paper towels and a bottle of dish soap, for example—particularly touching.

Doug Willson, a good-natured joker who cheerfully scrubs soiled kennels and litter pans, relishes the moments when owners and their pets are brought together after weeks of separation. Earlier this morning, he witnessed a man reunited with his two hound-shepherd mixes.

"They were just plain old dogs, but they were gold to him."

Like Ida Willson, Kristi Craig couldn't forget the pictures of dogs and cats struggling to survive in Katrina's aftermath. And the stories of New Orleans' displaced residents triggered painful memories of the time, eight years ago, when she lost everything she owned in a house flood. After two sleepless weeks, the self-employed caterer from Colorado decided to stop "wasting all this adrenaline." A 24-hour road trip landed her in Gonzales, where she promptly put her compassion into action.

On her second day as a volunteer, a burly police officer arrived at Lamar-Dixon in search of his cat—a "real loud mouth," he told Craig. He had almost completed the walk down one aisle when a distinctive meow brought him running to a stall in the opposite row. Peering down at one of its feline residents, he asked, "Gator, is that you?"—then wrapped his arms around the plastic carrier and began to sob.

"I've never seen so many grown men cry over their pets," Craig said with a laugh.

And even though her pop tent is pitched in a field that has more gravel than grass, she hasn't had a sleepless night since.

The Woodstock of Animal Rescue

Hurricane Katrina's emotional impact on people living far from the disaster area is obvious in the number of volunteers who have poured into the Lamar-Dixon site—often spending precious vacation time and paying their own travel expenses to get there. They hail from states as far away as Alaska and even several Canadian provinces, and their stories share a common theme. By rescuing and caring for lost and abandoned animals, they're able to contribute to the relief efforts and exorcise some of their personal pain of bearing witness to such widespread human and animal misery.

Living conditions at Lamar-Dixon are spartan by most standards. Nearby hotels are booked through the end of the year, so many volunteers sleep in their cars or in tents. For those who manage to make an early meal, the dining area holds about a dozen plastic or canvas chairs. The rest make do with wooden pallets, drink coolers, and upturned buckets, or sit cross legged on the bare ground. They wash off the sweat and grime of a hard day's work in makeshift showers at the end of a barn, where bathing suits are recommended since the black plastic sheets that serve as shower curtains provide less than perfect privacy.

Conditions for volunteers are improving: last week brought the addition of a massive FEMA air-conditioned tent with 50 cots. And tables, chairs, and portable shower facilities are promised for later this week.

Even so, Lamar-Dixon could easily qualify as the summer camp from hell for anyone without a deep love of animals and a drive to be of service in this catastrophe. But Craig proclaims it the Woodstock of Animal Rescue—where the highs come from witnessing joyful reunions between people and their pets and providing fresh water and two squares a day to dehydrated, often emaciated animals who have overcome tremendous odds to survive.

Peace, love, and happiness, indeed.

Julie Falconer is an editor in The HSUS Publications Department