Mine

Had Geralyn Pezanoski set out solely to document the people of New Orleans struggling to find their pets in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, the result would have undoubtedly been touching (though perhaps a bit flimsy). Instead, she uses her directorial debut to pull at the thread of post-storm racism and class issues from a new and extremely concerning angle.

Mine follows a handful of Katrina survivors who were forced to leave their dogs behind while evacuating New Orleans. To these survivors, the dogs are more than just pets—they are family members and extensions of themselves. In the process, the film shines a light on mechanisms in our society that keep the film’s subjects —mostly working class African-Americans— from a full emotional recovery.

Among the survivors is the surprisingly spry 87-year-old Malvin Cavalier, who was left with only his dog, Bandit, to care for when his wife passed away three years before the hurricane. Jessie James Pullins’ sees his Akita, J.J. (short for Jessie Jr.), as a mirror of his own life as a homeless man who slowly worked his way up the ladder of society.

As frustrating as these stories are, the real turmoil sets in when the obstinacy of those  sent to offer aid gets in the way of what should be an easy solution. After months of searching, most of the film’s subjects are able to locate the shelters or families who have taken their dogs in. However, the new owners refuse to return these companion animals for a variety of selfish and half-baked reasons.

It becomes apparent that these foster families fully understand that the law is on their side. Without legal representation (well outside of the financial limitations of the film’s subjects), the original owners have no chance to see their beloved pets again.

Even worse is the blatant lack of compassion shown to those whom, months earlier, were struggling to escape New Orleans with their lives. More than once the survivors are wrongly accused of abandoning their dogs during the storm.  At one point in the film, a worker from the shelter that placed Pullins’ akita J.J. in a new home even has the audacity to shout at a desperate Pullins, “Put yourself in my shoes! I run a non-profit humane society. I don’t get paid.”

One has to wonder whether these foster families have put up as much resistance had the original dog owners been financially able to pursue litigation. Or whether things might have played out differently were it not for society’s unfair misconceptions about black pet owners.

While the film’s message should be applauded, Mine suffers from some pacing issues. Several of the survivors’ stories feel like afterthoughts used only to pad the  81-minute documentary. Pezanoski also glosses over a contextually crucial look at the cruelty behind Pitbull fighting, an important aspect in understanding the  misconceptions many people hold about New Orleans dog owners.

But despite these issues, Mine cleverly uses the guise of an emotional, animal loving documentary to show just one more way in which the victims of Katrina have been neglected in the storm’s aftermath. More importantly, it asks  the difficult question, “When did America stop caring?”

Or, from a more cynical standpoint, “Did most of us ever truly care to begin with?”