AGUA DULCE, Calif. - Tia Maria Torres is a patron saint of a lost cause - she rescues pit bulls, dogs so notorious that many shelters immediately slaughter them.

A pit bull bit off part of a mail carrier's nose last summer in Los Angeles. Another pit bull mauled a 2-year-old in La Habra, tearing into his face and scalp. It's also the type of dog that sleeps curled up by Torres' head, while another snores beneath her feet at night.

Torres provides sanctuary in Agua Dulce, 40 miles northeast of Los Angeles, for about 80 dogs at the Villalobos Rescue Center, one of the nation's largest pit bull rescue efforts.

She takes in dogs no one else wants. She teaches free obedience classes at city shelters. She pairs pit bulls with juvenile offenders in a program called Pets in the Hood. Courts across California send her problem dogs, telling the owner the animal either trains with Torres or dies.

In Los Angeles, it's like swimming against a tsunami. Of the 70,000 dogs at city shelters each year, about half are pit bulls or pit bull mixes, said Jackie David, spokeswoman for the Department of Administration of Animal Services, which runs the city's six animal shelters.

When possible, Torres finds homes. A Burbank-based German shepherd rescue group places 20 dogs a month; on average, Torres places one.

"We take the animals that people want to walk across the street from," said Torres. "I give priority to hard-luck cases."

These are dogs like Piglet, who was stabbed and then doused with battery acid. And Peanut, whose face resembled hamburger after being confiscated from a man suspected of staging dog fights. And Poppy, one of 39 emaciated dogs found chained to a barn in Bakersfield.

"Tia shows that these animals can be trained and can be good pets," said David. But rescuing pit bulls is controversial.

"The nicest thing you can do for those dogs is euthanasia," said Eric Sakach, director of the West Coast office of the Humane Society of the United States. "People who think you can rehabilitate these dogs are well-intentioned but naive."

Torres allows no barking in the kennels at Villalobos, which is just behind her home. If a dog barks, Torres barrels out of her office and yells, "Quiet!"

Most times, her voice is sufficient. If a dog doesn't respond promptly, she uses a hose to spray the offender.

Torres believes pit bulls suffer an undeservedly bad reputation. So the dogs at Villalobos receive obedience training. When she places a dog in a home, she wants to know it will be a good ambassador for the breed.

Since she began running Villalobos, Torres said, only one dog has been returned because it was too aggressive. Of the hundreds of dogs she has rescued, Torres has had a handful put to death for the same reason. And when she cannot place a dog, it remains with her for the rest of its life.

"Tia does the dirty work that no one else will do," said Cinimon Clark, a Los Angeles dog trainer who specializes in pit bulls and Neapolitan mastiffs. "Her dog runs are spotless, her dogs are quiet."

Torres' office is sprinkled with photographs of pit bulls in their adopted homes. Nothing is more gratifying than placing a pit bull in a good home, she says: "That's the ultimate, ultimate."

Tatanka was the first pit bull Torres rescued. She was 4 years old when she was found chained to a truck axle at the scene of a double homicide at an illegal drug lab in Lancaster.

Torres had gone to the animal shelter with a friend who was getting a collie. They spotted Tatanka and Torres asked to see the dog. It sprang free from the handler and charged Torres' daughter, who was sitting nearby on a bench.

Tatanka reached the little girl and began licking her face. Torres was hooked.

It was clear, Torres said, no one wanted pit bulls. So she stepped up. And since she rescued Tatanka 11 years ago, Torres' kennels have grown. So, too, have expenses. She spends $22,000 a year for kibble alone.

After the terrorist attacks Sept. 11, donations dried up. Torres was left with only one reliable sponsor, John Chambliss, president of the Simon Wolf Organization, a company that makes X-rated films.

When Torres started doing rescue work in the early 1990s, she began with wolves and wolf hybrids. The first came from her brother. Today, at the top of the hill behind her home, cages hold 20 wolves and wolf hybrids.

Torres' wolves and pit bulls are periodically used in films and videos. Her dog Duke has appeared in videos with Snoop Dogg and Jagged Edge, as well as a Nike commercial. Torres met Chambliss two years ago, when he needed a wolf as a background prop for a film.

Midway down the hill, three tigers pace in separate cages. Torres got them when a friend left town and had no other place to put them. And when a person has 20 wolves, how hard is it to tend three tigers? Not a big deal, apparently, although it requires 300 pounds of raw meat a week and the proper federal permits.

Torres credits the tigers and wolves with honing her skills as a trainer. After working with them, she said, pit bulls are a piece of cake.

Why bother with the hassle of a pit bull? They are loving, loyal and humorous, she said. Aggression toward humans, shyness and instability are not typical.

Problem pit bulls are a result of breeding and owners who don't understand how to handle these animals, Torres said.

Experts say problem pit bulls often come from backyard breeders raising fighting dogs. Some owners like having a pit bull snarling at the end of a chain, said Sakach of the Humane Society, which can be as effective at scaring people as carrying a gun.

And dog fighting, while illegal, flourishes. Winners can net tens of thousands of dollars. At the upper echelon, good candidates for fighting sell for $3,500.

Owners have several ways of preparing pit bulls to fight - such as administering steroids or putting hot pepper in the anus to make dogs more vicious. Losers are killed outright or mutilated and set loose.

A gray brindle named Jeffrey was discovered bleeding from slash wounds on a Los Angeles street. His nasal passages were severed and his vision was damaged. Despite blood loss and extensive injuries, Jeffrey wagged his tail at the animal control officer, who phoned Torres.

"You're looking at a breed that's so tortured, bashed and physically abused," said Torres. "Yet they are so forgiving; they don't hold a grudge. They're silly and goofy. These dogs are all heart. They don't even blink at putting their lives at risk."

Nora Zamichow is a reporter for the Los Angeles Times, a Tribune Publishing newspaper.