Tuesday, December 8, 2009

There in the animal shelter, on a chilly Sunday afternoon, I wondered whether any other terrible realizations would come to mind as a light-brown lab canvassed the floor of the visiting room, sniffing every inch for–what, a cake with a file in it? Secret instructions left by another dog on how to escape? Hope? Perhaps she simply craved more treats and thought the three I had given her were but a formality, a kind of perfunctory doggie-human handshake.

But whether I had three treats or thirty-three treats, she wasn’t the right dog for me, a fact the staff worker seemed eager to drive home. Why didn’t she regard me as the alpha dog, he wondered? Well, Cesar, maybe it’s because you work here and you’ve got a goddamn fanny pack full of treats, I suggested, only without the “Cesar” and the “goddamn.” To be clear, though, the staff here was far, far more attentive than the humane society, plus everybody had all their teeth and nobody tried to shoehorn me into a five- or six-pound breed.

There was a discussion about breeds, mind you, but we’ll need to wait until Thursday for those deep insights. For now, let’s return to the terrible realizations, one of which was a disappointing acknowledgment that New Year’s may be too aggressive a deadline. I want a rescue, sure, but I don’t want to be saddled with a rashly chosen rescue for 10-15 years. The really grim part, though, was when the staffer extolled the high turnover of the establishment and how waiting would only result in a larger selection. The churn, the heartbreaking coming and going of canine inmates, the very thing I was trying to plan against, may be exactly what I need.