Dallas Ainsman is in bad shape. The 32-year-old has been mauled by a Springer spaniel; his forehead has been ripped open, his nose has been bitten off and his right ear needs to be reattached.

It is not a pretty sight.

Dallas is rushed to the hospital by his grandmother, Rosalind Ainsman, so eager to save his life that he arrives in a plastic grocery bag. The surgeon on duty, Jill deBroff, carefully places Dallas on the operating table. She gently pokes and prods the battered body. She notices even more damage -- there's a hole in Dallas' right hand and he's covered with dried fecal matter. She's seen worse cases of abuse, but she is certain of one thing: Dallas will pull through.

Three days later, Dallas is still unconscious, but he looks much healthier. There's been an ear skin graft, the forehead has been stitched, the nose reattached. His tummy has been opened up and his innards restuffed. The fecal matter (and stench) is gone. The only thing left to do is shed Dallas of the dirt that remains deeply embedded in his skin.

Jill calls Rosalind to break the good news. "I'll bring Dallas by in a day or two," she says. "He'll be happy to see you."

Another day, another life saved. It's the 13th Jill has saved since she opened her Butler Street hospital in Lawrenceville in December. "Dr. Jill" is the founder and owner of The Teddy Bear Hospital of Pittsburgh, the city's only such operation.

Jill takes me on a tour of the operating room. A green-topped desk serves as the operating table. There are spools of threads and ribbons in dozens of colors, vials of needles, containers of push pins and jars of buttons on shelves and racks. A Harry London candy tin holds hundreds of buttons that serve as eyes for the various stuffed animals she restores, revives and brings to "new life."

When Jill shows me the work she's performed on Dallas, she holds him gently, as if he were a newborn baby who just happens to have matted brown fur, yellow and orange plastic glued-on eyes, battered ears and veins made out of plastic thread. When I ask her about the surgery, she covers Dallas' ears with her hands. "He can hear us," she says with such sincerity that she doesn't come across as loony as she could.

She tells me that Dallas belongs to Cheryl Beckas, whose mother decided to surprise her daughter with a belated 40th birthday gift by getting her favorite teddy restored.

Jill has cleaned his body with a nontoxic, eco-friendly spray. The odor of the Springer spaniel's scatological "souvenirs" has been replaced by a light fresh lime smell.

When Jill lifts Dallas to show me his stitches, dirt falls to the table. "He'll need another vacuuming" she says with the sincerity expected of a real doctor discussing a serious case. She's a bit less serious -- yet honest -- when she says that she offers a "health insurance discount."

Born in Pittsburgh, Jill moved back last summer after having spent nine years in Mill Valley, Calif. She worked as a paralegal in her dad's office (located next door to the hospital) and still keeps an active hand in music promotion. One of her friends, violinist Brian Miller ("he never travels without his teddy bear Rufus") is coming to town, and will be dropping his beloved bear off for some work.

Even though she still has a doll her mother gave her as a little girl, Jill's childhood chums remain a vintage Steiff rabbit and the 15-inch Snoopy with whom she sleeps every night.

Mentioning the beagle slows down her energy. Ten years ago, she recalls, she bought another Snoopy to cut open so she could restuff her bed mate.

After all these years, Jill still feels terrible about what she did -- "I don't like cutting up stuffed animals for parts because" -- her hands go back over Dallas' eyes -- "I am ruining their spirit."

Not everything is so traumatic: On most afternoons, local kids drop by and Jill gives them free teddy bears so they can have a best friend. On an average day, two to three bears find new homes. (The hospital is within her shop, Babies & Bears, 4304 Butler St., 412-687-2868.)

Again she grows quiet. Dallas is lying on his back. She carefully picks him up. This time her hands are nowhere near his ears.

"I restore memories -- that's my job," she says with a smile.

I look closely and see -- or did I? -- Dallas grinning and bearing the good news.