I am privileged to be owned by formerly homeless dogs, both now and in the past. At eighteen, I found a stray puppy of no particular breed. On a mid winter twilight just after a snowstorm, I took a less traveled route home from the drugstore after buying my father his evening newspaper. In the middle of the barely shoveled sidewalk stood a puppy that looked like a fox that mysteriously seemed to be waiting for me. I bent down to pat her, and she let me. There were no tags on her red collar and she was cold. I had always wanted a dog named Jeff, but my mother refused to let me have any pet except parakeets and simple fish.
“Hi Jeff,” I said to the puppy and tapped my coat for her to follow. She did and I was very happy. Even my mother liked her after a search for her owners found nothing, and tales on the street the next day where I found her told about a puppy being thrown out of a passing car. Jeff turned out to be a female, but the name stayed. So did she until her 14th birthday. By then I was married and had young children. We buried her in a solemn ceremony in the back yard. For years after I stood at her grave and cried when no one was looking. It was a perfect match, a perfect adoption. In the saddest of times, Jeff comforted me. In the happiest times she jumped like a kangaroo in shared glee. She was a gift to three generations of my family. Even my grandfather, who thought that dogs were “dirty” grew to love her. When he died, Jeff licked away my tears.
Weeks after Jeff died, I felt that universal “hole in my heart,” followed by a sudden feeling that I “must” get to the Animal Rescue League of Boston.
I didn’t know why, but it felt like an emergency as I drove there and rushed in. Walking between the rows of caged dogs that waited for either a home or execution, I saw a truly funny looking mixed breed pup, all white with a brown eye patch. He looked so wise and sad that it startled me. The attendant opened the cage, and the dog sprang into my arms. I was adopted. He looked like the dog in “Lady and the Tramp,” and I said, “Hi Tramp.”
I took him home. The next day he woke up coughing and very ill. The vet said, “He has puppy bronchitis. If you didn’t adopt him yesterday, the shelter would have destroyed him today.” Antibiotics, a vaporizer, soft blankets and love helped him recover. He lived to be fifteen years old. I held him as the vet ended his suffering and wept.
A few weeks later my youngest daughter, Sara, who was born after Tramp adopted me, cried, “Mommy, we are dogless!” Another shelter trip while Sara was in school, and Brownie the sweet mutt adopted me. She’s 13 now, fifty pounds, a silk black coat, white vest, golden trim, one white paw, and full of vitality.
When Brownie was 4, I was newly divorced, and Sara and I were sad. Her older sister was married, and her older brother was at graduate school. To soothe ourselves, each week we visited one of the many shelters near us to play with the dogs.
Late one December afternoon, a gentle gold lab and beagle mix puppy sat in her cage looking downward and wretched. We walked by, stopped, then stepped back. Hannah looked up and, with one look, adopted us with her eyes. Sara held her in the back seat as we drove home. It felt so good.
Years of days after that have been sweeter because of Brownie and Hannah, even the bad days, sad days, sick days, angry days, heart breaking days. Brownie was a stray and was brought to the shelter after the legal ten days at the dog pound. Unknown owners gave up Hannah and took a risk because she would have been destroyed if not adopted.
Shelters are filled with wonderful dogs and cats. Animals that may be dangerous are not put up for adoption. Brownie and Hannah are safe, but countless other dogs (and cats) languish in shelters, cramped in cages with little social contact, waiting for either a forever home or euthanasia. Other animals are fortunate enough to be in no-kill shelters. Some are superb, like Best Friends in southern Utah (bestfriends.org). Others are adequate or minimal. Human volunteers bless all shelters. But they can only visit.
At night the lights go out and these social, feeling, potential blessings to humans are alone and waiting. Unfortunately, even some no-kill shelters must destroy dogs and cats to make room for the endless flow of new ones. Fortunately, there are new programs between shelters, and dedicated volunteers transport the animals to less crowded facilities to save lives (Humane Society of the United States). Still, thousands are killed. Some of the dead are adult dogs, trained and appreciative, who would have been loving companions. All were destroyed for one reason or another as they waited for someone to come to take them home.
Sometimes I think it may be a pleasure to add a third dog to the house. If that day comes, the new one will be only from a shelter, or from a rescue organization for specific breeds (petfinder.com is an excellent source). On one of our shelter visiting trips, Sara and I wanted to buy the silly poster in the waiting area of the MSPCA, but none were for sale. It showed a bright-eyed dog that clearly had the genes of many breeds. The caption: “Can’t decide what kind of dog to get? Why not get them all and adopt me!” Oh yes, I surely will!
