Thursday, October 13, 2011

I still remember my trip gone awry to the animal shelter, clear as day, more than a year later. When I stepped through the same doors last weekend, it wasn’t just the doors that were the same, it was the same staff, same smells, same din, same bustle. What was different was the added layer of despair.

This was partly because it was late afternoon, a mere 40 minutes before closing time, and there’s this sense of melancholy when that hour nears. I also noticed a lot more whining from a few of the dogs, which was a first in my trips to the pound. Now, I’ve heard whining before from the family dogs–for food, for an imminent walk–but this seemed more urgent, more desperate. In the very first kennel, there was a beautiful Retriever-Chow mix who tried to offer a paw to shake and then, deterred by the chainlink fence, pressed her golden flank against the wire instead, all the while whining. It was heartwrenching. You couldn’t have staged this shit. There I was, wishing I could speak dog, and all I could do was lock eyes with her and think about what I’d say: “I don’t know how you ended up here, or why the situation’s like this. But I am so, so sorry.”

I’m going back this weekend. Because I arrived at the shelter so late on Sunday, interactions weren’t allowed anymore, and I’ve got to spend some time with these dogs. This is also the perfect reason to really whip my abode into shape. I’ve been cleaning my townhouse slowly, over these past few weeks, but this was a wake-up call, a rallying cry to make my abode ready for two- and four-legged visitors alike.