Tuesday, August 18, 2009

An amendment, if I may, to my earlier portrayal of dog shelters, where I basically likened them to prisons. Certainly there are parallels insofar as both have inmates, long rows of cells, and ample fencing. But the gen pop in the kennels is, by and large, truly innocent. They honestly didn’t do it. They were simply in the wrong place, wrong time, and were it not for an ill turn of fortune, matters would’ve been different, better, with a real home in the picture. Really, then, the shelter is more like an orphanage. With cages. Another amendment may be forthcoming. Be on the lookout.

Two weekends ago, on a Saturday morning at an ungodly hour, I visited the local Humane Society and left empty-handed, resolved that I would do this thing right. I was far from disappointed, though: 90 solid minutes were clocked into the shelter, pre-approval for adoption was in the bag, and I had resisted any impulsive decisions. Every kennel had been canvassed, a short list devised, narrowed down with input from the staff, and then they trotted out the recommended dog. We just didn’t click.

I wasn’t going to force it because, as much as I may seem to be planning this whole endeavor, that first step will still ride on what my gut tells me. The planning is for the road thereafter. I’m trying to strike a balance between the intuitive and the deliberate. I’ll be going again this weekend. Clean slate, no expectations on the one hand, and on the other hand, a realization that choosing a dog would be a decade-long commitment, if not longer. She’s got to be property vetted. You see what I did there.