Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Kennel by kennel, in one drab cell after another, stories were being written by animals who altogether lacked opposable thumbs and communicated mainly by barking. But the stories were nonetheless gripping, far outpacing that Da Vinci Code garbage, and when all was said and done, it was the same story–the same theme, really–for every dog: uncertainty. Large paws, small paws, all clicking to a tentative beat.

To be clear, though, the facilities were on the level with the humane society, maybe even a notch or two nicer, and with its colored roof and paved parking lot, it could have passed for a school or a church, were it not for the barbed wire fences. It was a gorgeous Sunday as well, 80 degrees in mid-November, sunny, the kind of weather that could only conceivably feel better in 1080p resolution. Few could complain. Few on the outside, at least, because the building interior was overwhelmingly blue, gray, and beige. The paint job, let’s be honest here, mattered little to these inmates, though.

This wasn’t my first kill shelter, but it was the first kill shelter I’ve visited in such close time proximity to a humane society, and the difference was stark. The largest change was in the general demeanor of the dogs, who were more subdued, more deferential. There was one jumper and a few of the puppies were sleeping, if I recall correctly, but by and large each dog, no matter the breed or size, would walk up to the chain-link, head slightly bowed at times, tail wagging hopefully. Heartbreaking, in a word, and this will only make it more difficult to choose.

The humane society dogs were comparatively more entitled, or as entitled as any surrendered pet can possibly be, and I know it’s ridiculous to say so. There was simply more napping, a lot less desperation, and a take-it-or-leave-it vibe. And with three squares, the occasional walk, and no looming threat of execution, who can blame them? Dogs can sense death, I believe, especially that of their peers. When my family dog passed away, I mistakenly placed his freshly made urn in the living room, much to the chagrin of the new dog. There was a lot of wretched whining until I relocated the remains to the garage before burial. Perhaps it’s a sixth sense, or maybe death itself commands a certain smell, but dogs know. They know.

And what I know is I’m setting up shop at this shelter. This is where the search ends, and the final stretch is falling into place. Time frame, full plan, the works. More on Thursday.