Homeless Pets Deserve Much Better

That’s a good girl. You were thirsty, weren’t you?”

The man sets the bowl of water down in front of the puppy. She’s resting in a white cardboard box in the holding zone at SpokAnimal Care. This is the section of the facility where lost animals are held before being picked up by grateful owners, and abandoned animals are prepared for adoption. The little German shepherd mix is one of the latter. Tiny, with the milky, blue eyes of fresh things, she can’t have been parted long from her mother. Now she’s SpokAnimal’s responsibility.

Kent, the man who gave the puppy water, speaks gently to all the other animals, too, reassuring them that they are safe now, that things will be alright. He has the direct, tired eyes of someone who fully understands that things are often not alright, but that every living creature needs the reassurance that they can be.

Just outside this holding area are the cats that wait to be adopted. In another section of the building are the dogs, hoping for the same happy fate. True to their respective natures, they “wait” differently.

The oldest cats eye their prospective new “owners” with disdain or boredom or resignation. The younger cats meow and curl their paws out from between the bars of their cages, attempting to snag shirts and affections. The kittens yowl and leap like tiny tigers, then collapse into the semi-coma sleep of the very young.

The overall effect is that of a highly civilized, but powerless group (the cats), making a play for the protection of a less civilized, but highly powerful group (us).

The dogs, of course, are another story. They bark. All of them, all at once, all the time.

“Pick me!” the little dog yaps.

“No, me!” the huge dog bellows.

“Pick anybody, but get us out of here!” they all urge in unison.

One is chosen. After much deliberation, a family selects a golden lab.

Having maintained her dignity throughout the entire examination period, the dog, upon release from her pen, lets out the triumphant whoop of the recently rescued. The response of those left behind is the sound of all hell breaking loose, of all canine hearts breaking. Then, the kennel is momentarily quiet.

“Maybe tomorrow,” the young, eligible ones pant.

“Maybe never,” the old, maimed ones sigh.

Anthropomorphic? Maybe. I prefer to call it empathy. Something the people at SpokAnimal Care and other like-minded organizations have in spades. And the drama of life and death that these people witness daily tells us more about human nature than it tells of animal. After all, we are the caretakers of these creatures, the ones upon whom their fates depend.

“I think her back is broken,” Kent says, tenderly patting the puppy’s head.

I crouch down on my knees beside the box and look into the puppy’s face. Her eyes have not lived long enough to reflect anything but possibility. Even the expression of pain seems beyond her, something that she will live into, if she lives.

“The people who called it in said they found her like that,” Kent says.

Something in his expression tells me that he wants to believe this, but doesn’t quite. His expression says he’s heard every story in the book and still wants to believe in the happy ending. Me, too.

“What will happen to her?” I ask.

Kent explains that the officer who brought the puppy in is a veterinary technician. The tech will call a veterinarian and discuss the pup’s injuries with the doctor. If they determine that the dog can be helped, it will be.

I leave my name and number with Kent, asking him to call me when he knows something. I am well aware of the fact that I don’t need another thing in my life to take care of. Before leaving, I make sure Kent can read the numbers I’ve scrawled down.

Later in the afternoon, Kent calls. The puppy’s injuries were severe, he says. The only thing they could do to help her was to end her pain. And so, they did.

Tonight, as I listen to my own two dogs snort and wheeze their way to sleep, I think of the grateful golden lab who’s settling into her second chance. And I think of the blue-eyed puppy who never had one.

writer. Her email address is kcorspence@aol.com.