As far back as I can recall,my daughter has had a special connection with animals. I remember a visit to a petting zoo, when I said, “Look at the cow,” and from her three-year-old vantage point she observed, “That’s a bull.” Or the time at a farm when a goat jumped a fence and everyone ran away from it—and she, age five, ran toward it. She had more of an affinity for animals than I would ever have. My attention was focused on the two-legged variety as I dealt with people in a fastpaced, dog-eat-dog world.
So on the day after Thanksgiving—Black Friday, when most people were sleeping late, eating leftovers or catching up on their reading—here we were at the animal shelter. Since I’d taken off work to recover from the pinched nerve that had forced me to slow down, it had become our “mother-daughter” activity.
I smiled, musing on the irony, because I had thought that having a daughter would mean dance recitals, shopping at the mall and visits to the nail salon with my little girl. My 12-year-old has exceeded my expectations, but not with ballet slippers or dolls.We had dogs: a life-sized stuffed Rottweiler; small plastic dogs; dog banks, posters and robots; encyclopedias that were dog-eared.When she was eight, we finally broke down and got a real dog, our Shih Tzu, Scooby.
Holding a writing pad and a library book, I look around, smiling once again at the small wooden sign above the front door: “Pets welcome, children must be leashed.” My daughter and I are here every Friday, photographing the new arrivals and posting them on the shelter’s Internet site. She thought of the job herself, inspired by the hours she spends on Petfinder.com, e-mailing the right dog to people she just “knows” need that dog to complete their lives. She has unbridled optimism, and is convinced that there is a home for every dog and that there should be a dog in every home.
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I take in what will probably be one of the last warm days of late fall on the busiest shopping day of the year, almost as important as Thanksgiving itself in our consumer-driven society. As cars pull up, the shelter’s residents bark loudly in anticipation, eyes bright, tails wagging furiously. It almost sounds as though they’re saying, “Pick me!”
A family arrives in a silver minivan. An alpha mom, obedient dad and three boys about eight, 10 and 14 is my guess —shopping for a pet? All eyes are on the family as they walk past the pens and enter the building. Then they retreat to the car. As Mom retrieves a small pet carrier, Dad lights a cigarette, scratches himself and makes a call on his cell phone. Mom exits about 10 minutes later with her carrier purring, changing the course of a cat’s life forever.
More shoppers arrive. They move like Terriers in search of prey—swift and single-minded. Some are regular browsers, as far as I can tell; some are first-timers; others are bargainhunters, hoping to snare the occasional pedigree. Volunteers help themselves to leashes hanging on the walls. I hear them sigh with relief when they see that their favorite dogs are still there to be walked. Or is it a sigh of sadness that they haven’t been adopted yet?
A middle-aged couple stops to admire and pet Sheba, a brown-and-black mix sitting next to another volunteer’s mom, who is very attached to the gentle, two-year-old female. She once confided to me that she wished she could take Sheba home, but could not because of her five cats and blind father. She herself looks like a Persian cat, I think, with her dark hair, sable eyes and sleek movements. It occurs to me that I have probably been spending way too much time here.
Sheba wags her tail, jumps and kisses the man gently. The wife bends over and pets Sheba—Please, I think, please take her! The wife seems torn and sad, and her husband smiles weakly; then they return to their luxury SUV and leave.My silent prayer for Sheba’s future is not answered. After they drive off, I find out that they had recently lost their 19-yearold son and were looking to add something to their lives. I swallow hard. At that moment, I feel a pang for all the dogs who need people and for all the people who need dogs.
The stories go on. There is the family with four carrottopped toddlers looking at rabbits, while Grandma, who resembles a Mastiff, looks at dogs. I overhear them say that they are in search of that “just right” smaller dog to make their family complete.No luck for the Irish Setter,who would match their children’s hair perfectly. Not today.
A young woman dressed in a tweed blazer and jeans spends two hours trying to find a dog, to no avail. I wonder if she also takes such agonizing time to decide on the men in her life. She is looking for a companion to provide her with company, unconditional love and lifelong commitment. She is just not sure which one. Not today.
Volunteers keep walking in—some are regulars, taking their favorite charges out for a walk or run; others pull up with carloads of worn blankets, sheets, towels and half-empty bags of dry dog food. I see goodness, hope, sadness, joy, doubt and determination in the battered station wagons and rusty pickups that come bearing gifts.
The sun is beginning to set. I call to my bright-eyed daughter, who lovingly finishes brushing an old white Malamute mix. Time to go home and say a prayer that Spotty finds his perfect family or is still here when we come the next time. But first, we must go to the store and get dog food.
Update: Six months after this was written, Sheba was reunited with her original family. Her real name was Sandy, and we found out from the shelter that she was the hapless victim of a divorce, left there by a woman unbeknownst to her ex-husband or children. Sheba’s family spotted her photo on the Internet, and they were joyfully reunited.