Four Feet Tall and Rising (24 page)

hortywood had never been a full-time
job for either me or Allison. For the most part, it had been the equivalent of bonus cash. It was money we couldn’t rely on, but appreciated when it showed up. Before my injury, my primary paychecks came from performing, but for Allison, she made her money in Orange County real estate.

By the time I got back to Los Angeles in 2007, the city was in the grip of a real estate frenzy at the same time that Shortywood was really taking off. We now had about two hundred Little People around the world on our talent roster, and job calls were happening every week. Allison was living with her boyfriend down in Orange County, and her real estate job had become more than a backup—it was lucrative. She kept trying to do both, but it was just too much work and travel. We talked it through, and it dawned on me: Allison was leaving Shortywood.

Allison and I had built the company together. I’d relied
on her heavily to keep the business from falling apart while I was on the road, and she’d been a great partner. She was a hard worker and always responsible. It was hard to lose her. She wasn’t gonna be easy to replace, but there was no way I could handle everything by myself. With my dancing and acting career completely kaput, Shortywood was my bread and butter. It was my sole source of income. It had to be a success. I had no backup plan. And now there was overhead. All those costumes that lived in Allison’s house had to live somewhere. I rented an office in Hollywood, and Shortywood went from being a two-page website with a cell phone to a full-fledged management office. I had my own desk. I could put my feet up on it if I damn well pleased. Finally, after decades of dreaming about being a boss, I was the boss!

Only sixty percent of my time was spent managing talent. The other forty percent of my day was spent operating a pit bull rescue. Essentially, I functioned like a transport system for pit bulls, picking them up from rescue shelters, pounds, abandoned buildings, or running wild on the streets, and finding them homes. I was resolved not to become a boarding facility for any reason. I wasn’t gonna repeat the mistakes I made in Vegas, but I still wanted to be of service to these dogs.

Pit bulls were back on the front page of the news. Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick was arrested for owning and operating a competitive dogfighting ring called the Bad Newz Kennels, which fought dogs across several state lines. Police had removed over sixty dogs from his property in Virginia, where they found bloodstains on the walls of a
room, and a bloodstained carpet. The house was actually customized for dog fights. It had a high fence to keep people from seeing what was going on, and a bunch of sheds where the dogs were trained, or where injured dogs were left. Vick had executed eight dogs himself, by hanging, drowning, and slamming one dog’s body to the ground. He was also a registered dog breeder.

Oh my God, was I pissed. Michael Vick may have grown up in the projects, but once he went to college, he should’ve learned his lesson. And once he became an NFL superstar, he should’ve known that killing dogs was wrong. There was no excuse for it. He deserved to lose everything he’d worked so hard to accomplish. All the endorsement deals and the admiration of his fans, I was glad to watch it all crumble down around his feet. The media wouldn’t let the story go, and as hard as it was to hear the details, Michael Vick’s downfall was shining a light on a major problem for pits. The cruelty was astounding. It shocked the public out of their ignorance. For that, I was happy. For those sixty-plus dogs that had suffered, I wanted Vick in jail.

For me to say Vick needed to do time, I had to be steaming mad. And by doing time, I meant they should throw him in the hole. No TV, no radio, no special food requests, no gym access, no day for day. If you’re gonna punish somebody, then punish them and enforce the education programs. Make them mandatory. Guys need to be taught right from wrong so they will understand what they’ve done and not do it again. Sitting around all day, working an easy job, and having all your meals
provided for you doesn’t teach you nothing. Believe me, I know. All you learn is how to be a smarter, better criminal. We’d be better off as a society if most of these guys had to do service as punishment instead of time. They’d learn more and have to work harder to pay their debts. Could Michael Vick come out of prison a changed man? Yes, he could. I was walking proof that reform is possible. Would he be a forgiven man? Not by Shorty.

Vick’s actions caused a huge spike in phone calls to my office, of people reporting pit bulls and bait dogs being used in fights. Suddenly, people felt more empowered to speak up on behalf of injured dogs, even if they weren’t willing to adopt the dogs themselves. We were so overloaded with calls, I couldn’t juggle both jobs and keep Shortywood profitable, so I asked Sebastian if he’d help me out in the office. He’d been going on gigs for me for years and he wasn’t one of the Little fucks who complained all the time. If I booked him, he showed up and did the work. Maybe it was his high school years as a wrestler that gave him the discipline and work ethic I respected. Whatever, we got along. I also knew he was a better organizer than I was. Anal-retentive is a better term. Seb always did things by the book. He seemed like the right choice.

Seb came on board working as my second in command. Once I handled the financial part of a deal, Seb would take over and handle the logistical details, making sure things ran smoothly. He also brought Ronald, my old roommate from the Radio City Tour, into the mix. He and Ronald had become good friends over the years. Ronald functioned as our booking
assistant, confirming the talent, arranging travel for out-of-town events, organizing the costumes, hair, and makeup. He still drove me crazy with his lateness, but Seb stayed on top of him and made sure the work got done.

I hired a receptionist as well, a girl named Ashley Brooks. Her girlfriend, Kacie, normally worked for me at the desk, but Kacie was busier and busier with stunt-double work, so Ashley filled in. She was new to the business. She’d done her first gig for Shortywood in Salt Lake City, playing Snow White—with the Seven Dwarves—for a computer company. She was so spunky. I had to calm her down. She wasn’t a diva. She didn’t care if she had to wear a costume for a job. She never complained that the work was “degrading” like Ronald did. She’d just jump in and get it done.

The only problem was that she was scared to death of the dogs. I told her, “Dogs come with the job. Take your pick.” There was really no way to avoid it. Bebi, Mussolini, Geisha, and Hercules were always with me. Bebi and Mussolini actually lived at the office, since the landlord of my Hollywood apartment would allow me to keep only two dogs, Geisha and Hercules, at home. It wasn’t an ideal situation by any means. I wanted all my dogs with me at all times, but for now, it was the compromise I had to make. Ashley was fragile at first, but after a while, she’d get knocked down by a dog and she’d just jump right back up, ready to go.