See Spot Hang

By Robin Roth

(originally appeared in Willamette Week in April 1997)

"He's an evil man," says Kristin Beck.

A "monster," says Janet Kyle Zeider."He is a real dangerous risk," says Michael Gadd. "He" is Stephen King. Although he's not the novelist of stories about deranged clowns and rabid dogs, the tales told about the Milwaukie man are almost as twisted and bloody as those penned by his namesake. Why does King earn such enmity? Is he a kidnapper? An international terrorist? A civil-liberties lawyer?

Stephen King is a dog trainer. He has become Public Enemy No. 1 among dozens of pet owners and animal-rights activists in the Portland area. Controversy has swirled around King for the past several years, but it might finally be coming to a head. Multnomah County Animal Control is winding up an investigation of allegations that King abuses dogs. Last week, the Washington County district attorney's office began looking into a claim that King assaulted a Beaverton woman who criticized his strong-arm training techniques.

In his defense, King rattles off the names of satisfied customers. People like Lynn Hamilton, who says King worked wonders with her skittish Spaniel mix. "Now," she says, "I can take my dog anywhere." If anyone is a victim, King says, it's him, not the dogs he trains. In November 1996, King reported three anonymous death threats-left on his car and in his mailbox-to the Milwaukie police. "I am forced into a position ofhaving to be paranoid of people," he says. "I have a loaded 40-caliber that I take everywhere because of the death threats." (If so, he seems to be breaking the law: the Clackamas County sheriff's office says King does not have a concealed-weapons permit.)

King blames many of his problems on overzealous animal advocates. To a degree, he is right. Twenty years ago, when "animal rights" was considered an oxymoron, King's training methods probably would have garnered little attention. The new sensitivity toward animals, and the anger generated toward him, baffles King. "Has anyone stopped and questioned that this is just about a dog trainer?" he says. "I am not making foreign policy here."

Society, however, seems more interested in dogs than diplomacy. A recent survey in The Oregonian found that three of the local TV news stations devoted more time to stories about animals than politics, the environment and social issues combined.

The focus on Fido may be particularly acute in Portland, where several animal-rights groups have headquarters. Many of these groups, he says, tend to bark first and ask questions later, if at all. King complains, and rightly so, that some of the worst-and most inaccurate-allegations against him come from people who have never met him, nor bothered to find out if the horror stories they tell about him hold any more credence than the plot of Pet Sematary.

But King's detractors cannot all be dismissed as rabid lunatics on the animal liberation fringe. They include people like Beck, his former assistant, and Gadd, a Lake Grove veterinarian-people who know him, and the dogs he's trained, all too well. They also include prominent public figures, such as former Washington County Commissioner Lucille Warren, former U.S. Attorney Charles Turner and internationally renowned animal trainer Brian Kilcommons.

Stephen Barry King doesn't seem the devil his adversaries claim him to be. Indeed, the thirtysomething man, who has appeared on AM Northwest, can be amiably chatty. King says he's lived in Oregon practically his whole life. He's been married twice and has a son from his first marriage. When first interviewed for this article early this year, King was living in Milwaukie, in a house he said has been in his family for years.

It's unclear where King is living now. His house in Milwaukie seems uninhabited, and King has not returned calls from Willamette Week for the past three weeks. He apparently is still in the area, however, conducting training sessions in Washington County as recently as mid-March. King describes himself as an animal lover (he says he's unable to watch the hunting scene in Bambi) who bought his first dog at age 15 and has been training canines ever since. He claims to have trained guard dogs for bankers in Costa Rica and the Contras in Nicaragua.

Locally, King is best known for his work with Pookie. Two years ago, Multnomah County Animal Control hired King to evaluate the Rottweiler mix put on death row for biting a child who had been teasing him ("Death Row Dog," Willamette Week, Oct. 25, 1995). King's evaluation helped spare Pookie's life. King stayed on at the shelter as a volunteer trainer, he says, working with other dogs slated to die. "I was out at animal control many times a week for nothing," he says, "because I wanted them to be adopted." He also says he raised money for the shelter by donating proceeds from training sessions he held with county animal-control staffers.

Mostly, though, he works with dog owners, in group and individual training sessions at public parks or the owners' homes. "People call me because I can get the job done and back it up with a happy clientele," he says. Canine obedience, he says, is all about firmness and trust. "Sure, the dog has to do what I say," he says, "but at the same time, we are partners having fun." "It is a lot of fun," says Hamilton, who recently greeted King in a Hillsboro park along with Sam, her Spaniel mix. King frolicked with Sam and Calvin, a Jack Russell terrier he rescued from abuse. Using hand signals, praise and leash tugs, King masterfully moved the dogs in canine choreography. It's not as easy as King makes it seem, Hamilton says, but "Stephen shows you how."

No one knows how many dog trainers there are in the metro area (more than 30 advertise in the Yellow Pages), but it seems to be a thriving business. As the human population grows, so does the pet population. As in other states, dog training in Oregon is unregulated. "We certify barbers and beauticians," says Turner, the former federal prosecutor, "so we should certify someone in an area of great sensitivity, like an animal trainer." Pamela Frasch, a Portland lawyer with the Animal Legal Defense Fund, is trying to do just that. She's working with the Oregon Animal Welfare Alliance, a statewide coalition of more than 25 humane societies, animal-control agencies and other groups to push for animal-training certification. Frasch, who says she first met King while he was "lynching" a dog in Washington Park, is convinced that if such safeguards were in place, he would be out of business.    

King's current problems can, to a large degree, be traced to the summer of 1991. At the recommendation of her family veterinarian, Janet Kyle Zeider signed up for the weekly group training sessions King offered at the Tigard Armory, paying $95 for the eight-week course. She and Izzi, her standard Schnauzer puppy, stayed for only four sessions. Zeider says that during the fourth session, King became increasingly agitated and ended up attacking a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy. "I hear this dog screaming and he's got both hands on the leash and is jerking the dog hard to the right and the left and holding it up in the air. The dog was fighting for its life, biting at the choke chain, trying to get free. I will never forget it."

Janet Kyle Zeider says that during a training session six years ago, King became frustrated with her schnauzer, Izzi. "We were going to teach our dogs how to lie down, but poor Izzi wasn't fast enough," she says. "He took her leash away from me, held it close to her collar, and smashed her face down on the concrete floor."

Zeider did not return the next night, but Kristin Beck, King's former assistant, was there. Beck knew King better than most people did. The young Portland woman worked for King off and on for a year and a half and lived briefly with his family in 1991. She says that during the sixth session at the the Armory, King again lost his temper while working with the Bernese puppy. "He beat the dog so bad that it shit all over itself," she says. "It was bleeding all over the armory." Teddi Gill, a trainer with Cascade Obedience, was setting up for her own training session the morning after the incident Beck describes. "There was blood and feces all over the place," she says. Armory manager John Kilby, who recalls mopping blood off the floor, characterizes King as the harshest trainer he has seen at the site. Familiar with King's explosive outbursts, Beck says she wasn't sure what he would do next. "I was scared. I wanted to tell all those people to get the hell out of there," Beck says. "Some walked out, but others were too scared to." Beck says she eventually told the people to leave. King, she says, was furious. "He walked outside the armory and threw me against the wall," she says. Beck says she never returned to work and hasn't spoken with King since. She left the country for several years.

Beck was through with her former boss, but Zeider had just begun what would become a six-year crusade to expose King. First, she called the Oregon Humane Society, who advised her to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. At the advice of her dog's breeder, Zeider then called County Commissioner Warren, who referred her to Animal Control and Janet Oatney. Unhappy with the county's response (or lack of it), Zeider finally sought the help of the law. Early last year, she contacted Turner and Frasch, who were working to curb abusive trainers. In June 1996, Frasch and Zeider placed an ad in The Oregonian asking for those with similar experiences with King to come forward. More than 30 people did. "It was then," says Zeider, "we started tracking down the victims."

Casey Blanchard says her family's Sheltie puppy, Chelsea, was so traumatized by King's training techniques that the family had to give her away.

Casey Blanchard was one of those who responded to the ad. Blanchard, a Gresham homemaker, had a Sheltie puppy, Chelsea, who was barking and chewing. "Chelsea was just a baby, but I wanted her to be a good dog," Blanchard says. She called King in the spring of 1995. "He completely screwed her up," she says, bursting into tears. "He put his choke collar on her and a leather leash and choked her. All four of her feet came off the ground. He choked her about 16 times within five minutes so she was cowering from him. She wanted nothing to do with him and his leash and when she went for his leg, he hung her. 'She's a wicked one,' he says. 'She's got a lot of spirit, but we'll break it.' He broke her spirit, all right. He ruined her. When he left, she sat in a corner for two whole days and didn't even move." Blanchard says she was forced to give Chelsea away to a group that takes abused dogs.

Darlene and Gary Dick tried to take King to court after he allegedly helicoptered their golden retriever

Darlene and Gary Dick, who also responded to the ad, say they had a similarly gruesome experience. After a recommendation by the PetSmart Vet Clinic in Tigard, the Dicks hired King to train Spencer, their 4 1/2-month-old golden retriever, in March 1996. King was rough with the dog during the evaluation, according to the Dicks, but he assured the couple his training techniques were normal and would curb the dog's aggressiveness. "Spencer always hid from Stephen every lesson when he arrived," the Dicks wrote in a report sent to Frasch. "He dragged him out of the kennel and across the lawn. King began to hang him in the air, his back feet off the ground almost a foot. Spencer was yelping and making strangling sounds and fighting desperately to get away.* Stephen then dropped him on the ground and held him down with his foot on Spencer's shoulder, still strangling the dog with the choke collar."

After a month, the Dicks decided they'd had enough. They quit Spencer's lessons and decided to take legal action against King under a new Oregon statute. In 1995, Frasch and Turner, along with Clatsop County District Attorney Josh Marquis, had championed a law that made certain types of animal cruelty a Class C felony, rather than a misdemeanor, in Oregon. As a result of the law-considered one of the nation's toughest-animal abusers, who once faced a maximum fine of $5,000 and a year in jail, now can be hit with a $100,000 fine and five-year sentence.

Kevin Kelly, Washington County deputy district attorney, investigated the Dicks' complaint but did not bring charges against King. For King, it was vindication. "This whole group went to the Washington County DA and they dropped it like a hot potato for no evidence," he says. Kelly disagrees. The problem, he says, is that the veterinarian who treated Spencer wouldn't state that King caused the dog's injuries.

"The fact that charges were not brought doesn't mean the incident didn't occur," Kelly says. "I would definitely have prosecuted him if I had the chance." Turner, now in private practice, acknowledges the problem with the law he helped pass. Veterinarians often don't want to link injuries with abuse. This year, Turner is backing a bill to require veterinarians to report evidence of animal abuse, which would make prosecution much easier. Turner says it's a logical extension of how we detect abuse in humans: "Not too many years ago," he says, "physicians didn't have to report child abuse."    

King says he would have welcomed chance to clear his name and defend his training techniques. In weekly 90-minute classes, King-using only a 6-foot leash and choke collar-says he teaches the dogs to be independent thinkers by praising desirable behavior and correcting undesirable behavior. King says the "correction and praise" technique he uses is "the oldest method of dog training on the planet." He may be right, but critics, including other trainers, take issue with one of the "correction" techniques King uses. Known as "airplaning" or "helicoptering," this technique involves suspending dogs off the ground for several seconds and, in some cases, swinging them around to keep them from biting the person holding the leash.

King says he uses the technique only as a last resort. "If a dog is being helicoptered, it's because I have to be safe and there is no other option," he says. "I am not being a Hitler heel-clicking jerk-off. I never correct a dog if I'm upset, but if a dog is aggressive I'll kick its ass with a leash and a collar."

Hanging a puppy from a choke chain may seem cruel, King says, but ultimately the lessons he teaches help dogs lead better lives. Dogs that can't be controlled by their owners, he says, end up hurting people, other animals or themselves. "Who defines abuse?" King says. "If a dog is yelping and screaming, it does not mean it's abused. People only think of hitting as abuse, but what about all the hidden abuse, when dogs develop habits which will ultimately kill them? Isn't it more abusive to let your dog get hit by a car? Am I going to confine him his whole life because he's too big of a pain in the rear? Keep him in the utility room because he jumps on the guests? It's just as abusive to never correct."

King chalks up criticism of his methods to "massive political correctness" and the active animal-rights movement in Oregon. "I have been doing this all my adult life and have never encountered anything like what has been going on here in Portland," he says. "How far are we going to take animal liberation?" King asks. "Set them all free and where will they end up? Roadkill. They can go out and scrape them off the road. This is just called responsible dog ownership. I am showing them a solution to problems without killing the dogs."

Many of King's clients are grateful, even if they were leery at first. Kris Elliott says she'd have a crazy puppy on her hands if it weren't for King. "It was horrible to watch the first time he worked with her," Elliott says of Phoebe, her bichon frise, who started lessons with King at just 3 months. "I knew I wanted to do it right instead of having a dog out-of-control. Sometimes I have to use the choke chain when she doesn't mind. But we have a dog that survived that and it didn't break her any. I have a dog now that I can trust."

Dog trainers, however, say dogs should also trust their owners. "King produces dogs that are fearful of people," says Mary Lee Nitschke, psychology professor at Linfield College and director of training at the Animal School, one of Portland's oldest dog-training centers. Nitschke, who says she's been hearing complaints about King for years, says trainers can correct improper behavior without hanging a dog, by withholding praise and attention. "There's no scientific basis for King's form of punishment," Nitschke says. "It's abusive. It's unnecessary."

Helicoptering is unacceptable, says internationally renowned animal trainer Brian Kilcommons, director of training and animal behavior at the Center for Animal Care and Control in New York City and a consultant to the Tufts School of Veterinary Medicine. "Any credible trainer in the country with a thriving practice will immediately dismiss this as cruelty," he says. "There is a difference between teaching and punishing."

That line often blurred with King, his former assistant says. "He has the potential to be an excellent trainer, but you better watch out if he's having a bad day," Beck says. "He's a Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde." Beck says that although King's promotional materials claim he never strikes a dog, he often did. "When I was living at his house, he was training a dog that wouldn't stop barking, so he punched it in the face," Beck says; she described similar incidents in which he would "pummel" dogs with his fists. King's critics note that his problems aren't confined to interactions with animals. Tales of his violent temper are widespread. "He has threatened my clients' life and home," says Michael Gadd, a Lake Grove veterinarian who says he's treated two dogs abused by King.

Police records show that between 1989 and 1991, King had several run-ins with local police: complaints of menacing, a family disturbance, an altercation with a neighbor, a restraining order filed by his ex-wife. The most serious incident took place on April 9, 1991, when King was living in Sherwood. Because the police report was five years old, it was destroyed in January, but according to a summary card maintained by the Washington County sheriff's office, King called a crisis hotline only to be told that no one could assist him at the moment. According to the sheriff's records, King "got angry and threatened to shoot people." King's ex-wife, Brenda Carruthers, declined to be interviewed, but Beck was at King's house that day, as were the pregnant Carruthers and her daughter from a previous marriage, Beck says. "He was on the phone with the suicide hotline saying he was going to kill all of us," Beck says. "By the time it was over, the SWAT team had surrounded him with guns." King grabbed Beck and used her as a "human shield." "I was scared of him after that," she says.

Last month, apparently, King had another altercation. Loretta Bullis says that on March 15, King was in front of her Beaverton apartment complex, training a neighbor's dog. When King hung the dog from the leash, Bullis says, she called the police and eventually confronted King. He swore at her, she says, and then struck her on the arm. She says she filed assault charges with the Washington County Sheriff's Department. Sheriff's officials confirm that there was a disturbance involving King, but would not comment on the specifics of their investigation. Deputy District Attorney Marcy Shannon, who received the case last week, says no charges have been filed against King. She, too, refused to disclose details of the incident or comment on the case, other than to say that "it's a serious matter."

King doesn't deny he's had a few run-ins with the law, but he claims they're not as serious as critics portray them nor do they reflect on his professional skills. "These people have the audacity to say I am a wife abuser," he says. "What does that have to do with dogs?"

King's recent troubles in Washington County could jeopardize his relationship with officials in Multnomah County. Critics have complained that King used his volunteer activities at the county shelter to promote his business. The county, for example, included King's name on its list of recommended trainers. (Other agencies, such as Washington County Animal Control, refuse to recommend specific trainers.) In September, after months of complaints by Frasch, Zeider and others, the county suspended King's volunteer activities at the shelter and removed him from their recommended-trainer list. Shelter director Hank Miggens appointed a citizens committee, headed by Dale Dunning of the Oregon Humane Society, to investigate the complaints. In March, Dunning said he didn't expect the probe to be finished that month. But on Monday, John Rowton, community information specialist for Multnomah County Animal Control, said, "To my knowledge, there's been nothing finalized by the committee yet, and I don't know what status that investigation is in."