I am not posting this just so people get upset, but maybe if more people knew, they woudl do something about it. Maybe if people get angry or sad when they read this, they will DO SOMETHING...ANYTHING. Even just pass along and educate others. There is no good reason MILLIONS (between 4-6) of animals are killed in US shelters every year.
I will warn you not to read on if it will upset you.
Lorie
*********************************************************************
Helter Shelter
A grim tale of the needle and the damage done
In their words
BY TY PHILLIPS
BEE STAFF WRITER
Last Updated: June 11, 2006, 05:30:22 AM PDT
It is early morning at the Stanislaus County Animal Shelter. And for
you, the animal care specialist, the day opens in minor chords.
You walk to the computer and print out the list of dogs that fill
dozens of the agency's kennels. You sit there with your coffee,
highlighting in yellow marker the ones that have been here for five
days. They've all got a story.
Someone stopped loving him. No one ever loved her. He got too big. She
started chewing on sprinklers. He bit a child. Her owner is out of
town, and the house sitter noticed the dog got out but didn't bother
to call the shelter. Whatever happened, it doesn't matter now: Their
time is up.
You move to the first noisy cage. As you open the door, a few dogs try
to escape, while others cram themselves into the far corners to avoid
you. Everyone on the outside says the animals have no idea what's
coming, but you've seen too much proof to the contrary. Yes, on some
sad level, they know.
You squeeze into the cage and slip your leash, your noose, around the
neck of one. You lead him back to the gate and open it just enough for
you to squeeze through. You pull his head closer to the gate, and get
ready. Then you jerk him out quickly and slam the door so the others
don't get out. He's scared and whimpering, looking around frantically,
but he does what he's told and follows you, faithfully, to the end of
the line.
The killing room is a large, cold place with a small row of metal
cages along one of the concrete walls. There's a large,
stainless-steel table in one corner, holding syringes, needles and
bottles of tranquilizer and Fatal Plus, a solution of sodium
pentobarbital that usually kills within seconds.
As a co-worker readies the syringe, you're kneeling, holding the dog
still, cuffing one leg with your hand. Sometimes you have to fight
them. Sometimes the battle is so fierce, you resort to forcing them
between a gate hinged on a wall, immobilizing them long enough so you
can get the needle in.
But not this time. This one's calm. He trusts you. He even gives you
his paw: He's obviously someone's pet. So you stroke his head softly
as the co-worker finds a vein. Then, just like that, he melts in your
arms. You grab his paw again and drag his limp body to a corner.
One by one, you lay them out on the cement floor. One by one. Though
county records show roughly 15,000 animals are killed each year at the
shelter, it's a number, like eternity, that defies comprehension. But
when one considers the solitary act of each animal death, and the
people who do the dirty work, the number 15,000 comes into better
focus. One death is a tragedy; anything more than that is just a
statistic.
On this morning, and every morning, there will be about 15 to 20 of
these canine executions, not counting the ones that come in throughout
the day that are injured or unadoptable. As you walk to the cages to
retrieve another, the anger swells inside you. Because you know most
of this daily ritual easily could be avoided. Spay and neuter, people,
you say to yourself.
Spay and neuter!
Time runs out on a mother pit bull and her puppies. When she showed up
here last week, your only hope was that she wouldn't give birth before
her five days were up. But she did.
You hardly could stand to watch her care for her pups, licking them,
dragging them around to protect them. Finally, you gave in and fed her
treats, telling her, "That's a good girl."
Because, sadly, you knew all her efforts were in vain. This day always
comes. Once you've got them all gathered in the room, you put her down
first. Because you've learned the babies cry when they're injected,
and that only adds stress to the mother.
One by one. One after another. You stack the singles into piles. You
load the piles into 55-gallon barrels. You push the barrels into the
walk-in freezer, where rows and rows of barrels fill completely about
twice a week. The barrels are emptied into trucks. It's like a factory
here. And they call this a shelter?
The stench of death permanently haunts the air: It's a dull fragrance
you won't forget the rest of your life. Someday years from now, you'll
be served food at a restaurant, and something will trigger the memory
of that awful smell. Just like that, the meal will be over. You wash
your hands incessantly; trouble is, what you're trying to clean
doesn't go away with soap and water. That would take a psychologist,
better than the one you have.
An hour into it, you're nearing the last of the morning's kill. Next
up is an adorable pop-eyed Chihuahua you had thought someone might
claim. Or adopt. You start for her, but then you make a grave mistake:
You look into her eyes. In a flash, your mind acknowledges that this
is a living, breathing thing. Damn dog, now she's under your skin.
Suddenly, you can't bring yourself to do it. Not this one. Your back
yard already brims with the dogs and cats you've personally spared
over the years, and there's simply no more room. So, you sneak her off
the list and move her to another kennel. Your day off is tomorrow, and
you just put it out of your mind. That's all you can do.
Now, through the bars, you spot the big mongrel. You squeeze into the
cage, and he moves away. He's scared and hungry; he's not the alpha
male in this lot, so he hasn't eaten in five days. And who knows what
he went through before he ended up here? So you kneel and call to him
in a pleasant voice. Now he's wagging his tail because he thinks
you're going to rescue him from this awful place.
You get him outside and pet him to try to keep him calm. But he's
excited, jumping up and down, because you helped him out of the chaos.
You're his friend now; he'll follow you anywhere. So you lead him
toward the room and he trots along happily.
But halfway there, something shifts in him. You figure he's starting
to smell that stench coming from the freezer. Yes, on some level, they
know. He starts jerking his neck back, using his front legs to try to
pull you back. The more you fight him, the more he realizes he should
fight. So you drag him the rest of the way.
Once you get him into the room, he's still fighting pretty hard. Your
arms are getting tired. To get him to the table, you both trip over
piles of dead dogs that now cover the floor. Finally, you get him
stopped. The soft talk helps a little, and you're able to hold him
still enough for the co-worker to find a vein. Once it's in, you let
go. He moves away, woozy. They don't always die immediately. He
wanders over to the corpse of another dog, and sniffs it a little
before collapsing onto the floor.
Spay and neuter, people!
Leaving the room, you remember something you wanted to tell a
co-worker. She's working alone in the cat room, putting down several
dozen to start her day. You open the door, but the scene makes you
forget what you wanted to say. There she is, sitting in a corner,
crying, surrounded by dozens of dead cats that litter the floor. You
make eye contact and get ready to say something, but she waves you
off. It's a quick shake of the head that says, "I'm fine; just leave
me alone." So you do. For those who do this for a living, it's mostly
business as usual, life goes on. But there are occasional meltdowns.
Not to mention divorce, denial, alcoholism, nightmares,
antidepressants and all sorts of other ugly side effects.
Walking away from the cat room, a simple question forms in your head,
one that plagues you often throughout your days here: Does anybody
care about animals? Anyone at all?
Inside, you know there are thousands of people, just like you, who
cherish their pets and treat them like family. Or even royalty.
Working here, you rarely see those folks. They take care of their
animals.
Instead, you get the people who — before business hours — drop off a
cardboard box of mangled kittens that were used to train pit bulls to
fight dirty. Usually, they just toss the dead alongside the road
somewhere, but for some reason, someone brought these in. You open the
box to discover all but one are dead, and the only one alive is using
its front legs to crawl toward you because its back legs are crushed.
Or you get the people whose hobby is trapping feral cats and bringing
them to the shelter. Once you asked about strange lines etched into
the stick they use to hold the trap shut, hoping you were wrong. But,
yes, like notches in a gun, that's how they track how many cats
they've captured. It's a game to them.
Or you get the man who brings in three kittens in an ice chest he
placed in his trunk. In the middle of summer. When you open the lid,
most of the horror has played out. You look up and scold him, asking
him what he was thinking. And he shrugs. Not like it matters, he says,
they didn't belong to anyone.
Or you get the people who pull up in a moving van to drop off their
family pet, saying that they can't take the dog with them and that
they were unable to find the animal a home. They drive away, conscious
clear, leaving the dirty work for you. Like you're some kind of
sin-eater.
And to think, you took this job because you wanted to save animals.
Standing there at the kennels, lost in the flashbacks, you ask
yourself again: Does anybody care?
Anyone at all?
A friendly face pops into your mind. Yes, there is one, you finally
remember, trying to cheer yourself up. That poor young woman from the
west side, the one who's been coming by twice a week for the last six
months, looking for her beloved red Doberman pinscher. She keeps
asking you, "How long should I keep looking?" And you keep telling
her, "As long as your heart needs to." Who are you to take away hope?
And now, come to think of it, you did notice a nice-looking Doberman
in the back kennels this morning. Nah, couldn't be, you think. He
disappeared six months ago. But, needing a miracle, you go and check
anyway. You look him over for a while. There is some red in his coat,
but you're not certain.
Cautiously, you have someone call the woman. Be sure to tell her we're
not sure, you say, but let her know we might have her dog. An hour
later, the woman is scurrying through the hall toward the back
kennels. You can barely keep up with her.
I think I hear him, she keeps saying excitedly. She keeps calling out
his name. All you hear is what you always hear: the deafening din of
scores of barking dogs. When you get to the back kennels, a lowered
metal guillotine door is keeping everything outside. So you raise the
door, and 80 pounds of frenetic dog come bounding inside, wildly
running around the cage. You think to yourself, how would he even know
she was coming? Yes, on some level, they always know.
Just like that, this huge dog plasters itself against the chain-link
fence, licking the fingers of a woman who's pressing herself against
the fence, too. The scene is reminiscent of lovers on a beach. It's
him, it's him, she keeps saying. All the while, this enormous dog is
emitting the strangest high-pitched yipping you've ever heard, almost
like a puppy.
Overcome with emotion, the woman sinks to the cement gutter and starts
sobbing into her hands. You sit next to her to offer some comfort.
Then, before you know it, you're right beside her, bawling
uncontrollably. She's crying because her life is complete again. And
you're crying because, after working this job, your life never will be
the same. Because for every animal that leaves with its owner, half a
dozen are hauled off in garbage trucks.
No, you think, wiping away the tears, this is no place for an animal
lover.
*********************************************************************
HOW COULD YOU? By Jim Willis, 2001
When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh.
You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple
of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was
“bad,” you’d shake your finger at me and ask “How could you?” -- but then
you’d relent and roll me over for a belly-rub.
My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were
terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of
nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams,
and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long
walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the
cone because “ice cream is bad for dogs” you said), and I took long naps in
the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.
Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and
more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted
you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad
decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in
love. She, now your wife, is not a “dog person” --still I welcomed her
into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy
because you were happy.
Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was
fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother
them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent
most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I
wanted to love them, but I became a “prisoner of love.” As they began to
grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up
on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me
kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch --
because your touch was now so infrequent -- and I would’ve defended them
with my life if need be. I would sneak into their beds and listen to their
worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car
in the driveway.
There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you
produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me.
These past few years, you just answered “yes” and changed the subject. I
had gone from being “your dog” to “just a dog,” and you resented every
expenditure on my behalf.
Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they
will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You’ve made the
right decision for your “family,” but there was a time when I was your only
family. I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal
shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled
out the paperwork and said “I know you will find a good home for her.”
They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities
facing a middle-aged dog, even one with “papers.”
You had to pry your son’s fingers loose from my collar as he screamed “No,
Daddy! Please don’t let them take my dog!” And I worried for him, and what
lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love
and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a good-bye
pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar
and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.
After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your
upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home.
They shook their heads and asked “How could you?”
They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules
allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At
first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was
you that you had changed your mind -- that this was all a bad dream...or I
hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me.
When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of
happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and
waited. I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day,
and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room.
A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears,
and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to
come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run
out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden
which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew
your every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a
tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to
comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle
into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my
body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured “How
could you?” Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said “I’m so
sorry.” She hugged me, and hurriedly explain ed it was her job to make
sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn’t be ignored or abused or
abandoned, or have to fend for myself -- a place of love and light so very
different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried
to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my “How could you?” was not
directed at her. It was directed at you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking
of you. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your
life continue to show you so much loyalty.
A Note from the Author:
If “How Could You?” brought tears to your eyes as you read it, as it did to
mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the millions
of formerly “owned” pets who die each year in American & Canadian animal
shelters. Please use this to help educate, on your websites, in
newsletters, on animal shelter and vet office bulletin boards. Tell the
public that the decision to add a pet to the family is an important one for
life, that animals deserve our love and sensible care, that finding another
appropriate home for your animal is your responsibility and any local
humane society or animal welfare league can offer you good advice, and that
all life is precious. Please do your part to stop the killing, and
encourage all spay & neuter campaigns in order to prevent unwanted animals.
----
Please pass this on to everyone, not to hurt them or make them sad, but
it could save maybe, even one, unwanted pet.
Remember...They love UNCONDITIONALLY.
I will warn you not to read on if it will upset you.
Lorie
*********************************************************************
Helter Shelter
A grim tale of the needle and the damage done
In their words
BY TY PHILLIPS
BEE STAFF WRITER
Last Updated: June 11, 2006, 05:30:22 AM PDT
It is early morning at the Stanislaus County Animal Shelter. And for
you, the animal care specialist, the day opens in minor chords.
You walk to the computer and print out the list of dogs that fill
dozens of the agency's kennels. You sit there with your coffee,
highlighting in yellow marker the ones that have been here for five
days. They've all got a story.
Someone stopped loving him. No one ever loved her. He got too big. She
started chewing on sprinklers. He bit a child. Her owner is out of
town, and the house sitter noticed the dog got out but didn't bother
to call the shelter. Whatever happened, it doesn't matter now: Their
time is up.
You move to the first noisy cage. As you open the door, a few dogs try
to escape, while others cram themselves into the far corners to avoid
you. Everyone on the outside says the animals have no idea what's
coming, but you've seen too much proof to the contrary. Yes, on some
sad level, they know.
You squeeze into the cage and slip your leash, your noose, around the
neck of one. You lead him back to the gate and open it just enough for
you to squeeze through. You pull his head closer to the gate, and get
ready. Then you jerk him out quickly and slam the door so the others
don't get out. He's scared and whimpering, looking around frantically,
but he does what he's told and follows you, faithfully, to the end of
the line.
The killing room is a large, cold place with a small row of metal
cages along one of the concrete walls. There's a large,
stainless-steel table in one corner, holding syringes, needles and
bottles of tranquilizer and Fatal Plus, a solution of sodium
pentobarbital that usually kills within seconds.
As a co-worker readies the syringe, you're kneeling, holding the dog
still, cuffing one leg with your hand. Sometimes you have to fight
them. Sometimes the battle is so fierce, you resort to forcing them
between a gate hinged on a wall, immobilizing them long enough so you
can get the needle in.
But not this time. This one's calm. He trusts you. He even gives you
his paw: He's obviously someone's pet. So you stroke his head softly
as the co-worker finds a vein. Then, just like that, he melts in your
arms. You grab his paw again and drag his limp body to a corner.
One by one, you lay them out on the cement floor. One by one. Though
county records show roughly 15,000 animals are killed each year at the
shelter, it's a number, like eternity, that defies comprehension. But
when one considers the solitary act of each animal death, and the
people who do the dirty work, the number 15,000 comes into better
focus. One death is a tragedy; anything more than that is just a
statistic.
On this morning, and every morning, there will be about 15 to 20 of
these canine executions, not counting the ones that come in throughout
the day that are injured or unadoptable. As you walk to the cages to
retrieve another, the anger swells inside you. Because you know most
of this daily ritual easily could be avoided. Spay and neuter, people,
you say to yourself.
Spay and neuter!
Time runs out on a mother pit bull and her puppies. When she showed up
here last week, your only hope was that she wouldn't give birth before
her five days were up. But she did.
You hardly could stand to watch her care for her pups, licking them,
dragging them around to protect them. Finally, you gave in and fed her
treats, telling her, "That's a good girl."
Because, sadly, you knew all her efforts were in vain. This day always
comes. Once you've got them all gathered in the room, you put her down
first. Because you've learned the babies cry when they're injected,
and that only adds stress to the mother.
One by one. One after another. You stack the singles into piles. You
load the piles into 55-gallon barrels. You push the barrels into the
walk-in freezer, where rows and rows of barrels fill completely about
twice a week. The barrels are emptied into trucks. It's like a factory
here. And they call this a shelter?
The stench of death permanently haunts the air: It's a dull fragrance
you won't forget the rest of your life. Someday years from now, you'll
be served food at a restaurant, and something will trigger the memory
of that awful smell. Just like that, the meal will be over. You wash
your hands incessantly; trouble is, what you're trying to clean
doesn't go away with soap and water. That would take a psychologist,
better than the one you have.
An hour into it, you're nearing the last of the morning's kill. Next
up is an adorable pop-eyed Chihuahua you had thought someone might
claim. Or adopt. You start for her, but then you make a grave mistake:
You look into her eyes. In a flash, your mind acknowledges that this
is a living, breathing thing. Damn dog, now she's under your skin.
Suddenly, you can't bring yourself to do it. Not this one. Your back
yard already brims with the dogs and cats you've personally spared
over the years, and there's simply no more room. So, you sneak her off
the list and move her to another kennel. Your day off is tomorrow, and
you just put it out of your mind. That's all you can do.
Now, through the bars, you spot the big mongrel. You squeeze into the
cage, and he moves away. He's scared and hungry; he's not the alpha
male in this lot, so he hasn't eaten in five days. And who knows what
he went through before he ended up here? So you kneel and call to him
in a pleasant voice. Now he's wagging his tail because he thinks
you're going to rescue him from this awful place.
You get him outside and pet him to try to keep him calm. But he's
excited, jumping up and down, because you helped him out of the chaos.
You're his friend now; he'll follow you anywhere. So you lead him
toward the room and he trots along happily.
But halfway there, something shifts in him. You figure he's starting
to smell that stench coming from the freezer. Yes, on some level, they
know. He starts jerking his neck back, using his front legs to try to
pull you back. The more you fight him, the more he realizes he should
fight. So you drag him the rest of the way.
Once you get him into the room, he's still fighting pretty hard. Your
arms are getting tired. To get him to the table, you both trip over
piles of dead dogs that now cover the floor. Finally, you get him
stopped. The soft talk helps a little, and you're able to hold him
still enough for the co-worker to find a vein. Once it's in, you let
go. He moves away, woozy. They don't always die immediately. He
wanders over to the corpse of another dog, and sniffs it a little
before collapsing onto the floor.
Spay and neuter, people!
Leaving the room, you remember something you wanted to tell a
co-worker. She's working alone in the cat room, putting down several
dozen to start her day. You open the door, but the scene makes you
forget what you wanted to say. There she is, sitting in a corner,
crying, surrounded by dozens of dead cats that litter the floor. You
make eye contact and get ready to say something, but she waves you
off. It's a quick shake of the head that says, "I'm fine; just leave
me alone." So you do. For those who do this for a living, it's mostly
business as usual, life goes on. But there are occasional meltdowns.
Not to mention divorce, denial, alcoholism, nightmares,
antidepressants and all sorts of other ugly side effects.
Walking away from the cat room, a simple question forms in your head,
one that plagues you often throughout your days here: Does anybody
care about animals? Anyone at all?
Inside, you know there are thousands of people, just like you, who
cherish their pets and treat them like family. Or even royalty.
Working here, you rarely see those folks. They take care of their
animals.
Instead, you get the people who — before business hours — drop off a
cardboard box of mangled kittens that were used to train pit bulls to
fight dirty. Usually, they just toss the dead alongside the road
somewhere, but for some reason, someone brought these in. You open the
box to discover all but one are dead, and the only one alive is using
its front legs to crawl toward you because its back legs are crushed.
Or you get the people whose hobby is trapping feral cats and bringing
them to the shelter. Once you asked about strange lines etched into
the stick they use to hold the trap shut, hoping you were wrong. But,
yes, like notches in a gun, that's how they track how many cats
they've captured. It's a game to them.
Or you get the man who brings in three kittens in an ice chest he
placed in his trunk. In the middle of summer. When you open the lid,
most of the horror has played out. You look up and scold him, asking
him what he was thinking. And he shrugs. Not like it matters, he says,
they didn't belong to anyone.
Or you get the people who pull up in a moving van to drop off their
family pet, saying that they can't take the dog with them and that
they were unable to find the animal a home. They drive away, conscious
clear, leaving the dirty work for you. Like you're some kind of
sin-eater.
And to think, you took this job because you wanted to save animals.
Standing there at the kennels, lost in the flashbacks, you ask
yourself again: Does anybody care?
Anyone at all?
A friendly face pops into your mind. Yes, there is one, you finally
remember, trying to cheer yourself up. That poor young woman from the
west side, the one who's been coming by twice a week for the last six
months, looking for her beloved red Doberman pinscher. She keeps
asking you, "How long should I keep looking?" And you keep telling
her, "As long as your heart needs to." Who are you to take away hope?
And now, come to think of it, you did notice a nice-looking Doberman
in the back kennels this morning. Nah, couldn't be, you think. He
disappeared six months ago. But, needing a miracle, you go and check
anyway. You look him over for a while. There is some red in his coat,
but you're not certain.
Cautiously, you have someone call the woman. Be sure to tell her we're
not sure, you say, but let her know we might have her dog. An hour
later, the woman is scurrying through the hall toward the back
kennels. You can barely keep up with her.
I think I hear him, she keeps saying excitedly. She keeps calling out
his name. All you hear is what you always hear: the deafening din of
scores of barking dogs. When you get to the back kennels, a lowered
metal guillotine door is keeping everything outside. So you raise the
door, and 80 pounds of frenetic dog come bounding inside, wildly
running around the cage. You think to yourself, how would he even know
she was coming? Yes, on some level, they always know.
Just like that, this huge dog plasters itself against the chain-link
fence, licking the fingers of a woman who's pressing herself against
the fence, too. The scene is reminiscent of lovers on a beach. It's
him, it's him, she keeps saying. All the while, this enormous dog is
emitting the strangest high-pitched yipping you've ever heard, almost
like a puppy.
Overcome with emotion, the woman sinks to the cement gutter and starts
sobbing into her hands. You sit next to her to offer some comfort.
Then, before you know it, you're right beside her, bawling
uncontrollably. She's crying because her life is complete again. And
you're crying because, after working this job, your life never will be
the same. Because for every animal that leaves with its owner, half a
dozen are hauled off in garbage trucks.
No, you think, wiping away the tears, this is no place for an animal
lover.
*********************************************************************
HOW COULD YOU? By Jim Willis, 2001
When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh.
You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple
of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was
“bad,” you’d shake your finger at me and ask “How could you?” -- but then
you’d relent and roll me over for a belly-rub.
My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were
terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of
nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams,
and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long
walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the
cone because “ice cream is bad for dogs” you said), and I took long naps in
the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.
Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and
more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted
you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad
decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in
love. She, now your wife, is not a “dog person” --still I welcomed her
into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy
because you were happy.
Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was
fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother
them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent
most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I
wanted to love them, but I became a “prisoner of love.” As they began to
grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up
on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me
kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch --
because your touch was now so infrequent -- and I would’ve defended them
with my life if need be. I would sneak into their beds and listen to their
worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car
in the driveway.
There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you
produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me.
These past few years, you just answered “yes” and changed the subject. I
had gone from being “your dog” to “just a dog,” and you resented every
expenditure on my behalf.
Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they
will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You’ve made the
right decision for your “family,” but there was a time when I was your only
family. I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal
shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled
out the paperwork and said “I know you will find a good home for her.”
They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities
facing a middle-aged dog, even one with “papers.”
You had to pry your son’s fingers loose from my collar as he screamed “No,
Daddy! Please don’t let them take my dog!” And I worried for him, and what
lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love
and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a good-bye
pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar
and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.
After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your
upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home.
They shook their heads and asked “How could you?”
They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules
allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At
first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was
you that you had changed your mind -- that this was all a bad dream...or I
hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me.
When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of
happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and
waited. I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day,
and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room.
A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears,
and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to
come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run
out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden
which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew
your every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a
tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to
comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle
into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my
body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured “How
could you?” Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said “I’m so
sorry.” She hugged me, and hurriedly explain ed it was her job to make
sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn’t be ignored or abused or
abandoned, or have to fend for myself -- a place of love and light so very
different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried
to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my “How could you?” was not
directed at her. It was directed at you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking
of you. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your
life continue to show you so much loyalty.
A Note from the Author:
If “How Could You?” brought tears to your eyes as you read it, as it did to
mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the millions
of formerly “owned” pets who die each year in American & Canadian animal
shelters. Please use this to help educate, on your websites, in
newsletters, on animal shelter and vet office bulletin boards. Tell the
public that the decision to add a pet to the family is an important one for
life, that animals deserve our love and sensible care, that finding another
appropriate home for your animal is your responsibility and any local
humane society or animal welfare league can offer you good advice, and that
all life is precious. Please do your part to stop the killing, and
encourage all spay & neuter campaigns in order to prevent unwanted animals.
----
Please pass this on to everyone, not to hurt them or make them sad, but
it could save maybe, even one, unwanted pet.
Remember...They love UNCONDITIONALLY.
