Today one of my favorite staff members left the shelter. I don't know all the circumstances, but I saw some of the signs, and suspect she was burnt out by the environment of the shelter, especially by the leadership there. It's ironic because the reason I took leave of absence from my career (business consultant for Accenture) which is what brought me to the shelter to begin with, was because of my own burn out from dealing with the hectic, day to day rigmarole that consulting is. Now, I see another person in an entirely different industry at a completely different stage in her career, burning out just as I was about to.
The sadness is that her heart was in the right place, her enthusiasm was spot on, and although she's relatively young (at least in comparison to me), she had so much to give to the shelter and wasn't entirely in a fair or fostering environment. Because she is gone, another staff member (or two) have to compromise their days off, have to come in again, and so am I to going to the shelter on a day I would not normally be there.
I cannot exactly explain the right combination of personality, energy, intuition, and maturity it takes to work at a shelter. Some are more compassionate, others more professional, and some...well...some aren't so great -- just like you'd find in any workplace. But she wasn't one of the 'not-greats' she was one of the 'will be greats' with the right mentoring, right grooming, and right leadership. Obviously she wasn't getting what she needed from this environment, despite her desire to help animals. I don't know all the circumstances, I just know she felt the need to escape, and all the animals she helped in a day just have one less person to care for them.
Today I walked Beetle, a large pit bull terrier mix with more energy than he can contain in a 3 x 3 kennel. I ran him up a hill, let him scamp in the field with as much slack as the leash and my legs would give him, and finally ran him in circles (literally) chasing another leash I had like a game a kitten might play chasing a string. Walking him back down the hill, I stopped him and gave cuddles, pets, praise, and acknowledgement he was important; Beetle matters to me. Back at the kennel I found him a squeaky bone to play with and for the first time in days, I saw a little relaxation on his very weary face.
I walked Beetle while I found a small gap in other things I was doing today. Now, with one less staff member at the shelter I don't know if I'll be able to walk him tomorrow, him or the other dogs that have been there so long they are showing signs of kennel-rage. Whether the leadership at the shelter valued the staff member that left is not in question - she would not have left if felt valued. Whether I valued her will be truly felt tomorrow when she's not there.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The good side of euthanasia???
Well, not every post here must be depressing. I am looking for and finding the occasional bright spot in these long days. While it might not seem bright by the title, let me help explain why it is.
Today a beautiful red dog was brought in with a large tumor under her right front leg. Seized from the owners, it appeared her right shoulder was dislocated because it had been displaced by the tumor so far from normal position. In the right chest were several wounds, at a glance appearing to be puncture or bit wounds, they were more likely pustules burst with the extreme pressure placed by the growing tumor under her skin.
I've certainly never seen a tumor this large, except on the Discovery Channel special about a third-world country where there is NO medical care for hundreds of miles. But today I saw the largest tumor I could have ever imagined -- if anyone wants to exert mental thought on that topic.
This tumor likely weighed three or four pounds, which on a dog that might have weighed 50lbs, is enormous. Of course, I hate that someone in our species allowed this tumor to reach the massive size it did, but I can't dwell on that. We are not the most intelligent species on the planet, sometimes we are just smart enough to be truly dangerous. But I can't waste mental energy on the idiots.
The kind hearted red dog allowed us to look at her, prod her to see if it was in fact a tumor and not some massive infection that might have been dealt with, and even licked me after I took her outside. She was calm and docile, despite being in obvious discomfort and likely pain. She was truly a beautiful soul who reminded me not to come down into the mire, but rather find a way to come through it.
At end of day red dog was humanely euthanized by two staff members, one of which held her head as she quietly went to sleep and finally felt no more pain. It was over in minutes, while I washed a litter of four puppies covered in fleas. The puppies had no idea what was occurring beyond their wash basin, although I was aware and glad we were able to do it.
Learning about Shelter Dogs and what they go through has been hard at the least and infuriating at best, but it is the reality of pet over-population in Kansas City, and likely many, many more cities and towns in this developed country. Should we have given red dog a better life -- Hell YES! But were we at least able to give her a peaceful death, thank the heavens.
Whether you believe in heaven, hell, reincarnation, or an abyss, today you'd known that a release from this world was the best, most wonderful thing that could have happened. Tomorrow I'll focus on getting pictures of the puppies posted to the website so hopefully they can be adopted and have the life red dog had deserved.
Today a beautiful red dog was brought in with a large tumor under her right front leg. Seized from the owners, it appeared her right shoulder was dislocated because it had been displaced by the tumor so far from normal position. In the right chest were several wounds, at a glance appearing to be puncture or bit wounds, they were more likely pustules burst with the extreme pressure placed by the growing tumor under her skin.
I've certainly never seen a tumor this large, except on the Discovery Channel special about a third-world country where there is NO medical care for hundreds of miles. But today I saw the largest tumor I could have ever imagined -- if anyone wants to exert mental thought on that topic.
This tumor likely weighed three or four pounds, which on a dog that might have weighed 50lbs, is enormous. Of course, I hate that someone in our species allowed this tumor to reach the massive size it did, but I can't dwell on that. We are not the most intelligent species on the planet, sometimes we are just smart enough to be truly dangerous. But I can't waste mental energy on the idiots.
The kind hearted red dog allowed us to look at her, prod her to see if it was in fact a tumor and not some massive infection that might have been dealt with, and even licked me after I took her outside. She was calm and docile, despite being in obvious discomfort and likely pain. She was truly a beautiful soul who reminded me not to come down into the mire, but rather find a way to come through it.
At end of day red dog was humanely euthanized by two staff members, one of which held her head as she quietly went to sleep and finally felt no more pain. It was over in minutes, while I washed a litter of four puppies covered in fleas. The puppies had no idea what was occurring beyond their wash basin, although I was aware and glad we were able to do it.
Learning about Shelter Dogs and what they go through has been hard at the least and infuriating at best, but it is the reality of pet over-population in Kansas City, and likely many, many more cities and towns in this developed country. Should we have given red dog a better life -- Hell YES! But were we at least able to give her a peaceful death, thank the heavens.
Whether you believe in heaven, hell, reincarnation, or an abyss, today you'd known that a release from this world was the best, most wonderful thing that could have happened. Tomorrow I'll focus on getting pictures of the puppies posted to the website so hopefully they can be adopted and have the life red dog had deserved.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Long Nails, No Name; O Baby
When Animal Control Officers (ACO) bring animals into the shelter, they are placed in kennels in the garage they call 'tanks.' When the staff starts each day, those working intake (right now one person) go out to see how many animals they are, their general condition and concerns (bite dog, killed another dog, hit by a car), and begin to process them into the shelter.
To make room for the new animals, a shuffle-game must first occur in the front or main kennel area to fill empty kennels, moving dogs toward the front row. Some kennels are empty because of euthanizations, but others are because of adoptions from the weekend, and on a rare occasions a owner comes to find their own pet and a reunion happens.
One of the large, older dogs brought in by ACO was reported to have long nails. When we inspect him, the nails are so long they've started to curve around, causing obvious discomfort for the dog when he walked, making it hard for him to step straight because the long nails force his digits to turn and twist in what must have been like an athlete stepping on a sprained ankle. We note the long nails, a need for clipping, and add it to the list of grooming cases the shelter has. We go back and address the other animals still in tanks, waiting and needing to be moved.
As this day moves on, I'm preoccupied by several euthanizations. Overwhelmed by my own grief, I'm not as much help as I could have been, I stepped away more than once to cry alone behind the garage where my sobs would not be heard and would need no explanation.
Going back inside, Karla asks if I can help her make rounds and administer medicines on the main kennel floor. So happy to be able to do anything of benefit, I smile and breath and follow along. We go row by row checking on the most in need. Kennel cough is horrible, and obvious when someone has it bad. Emaciation is treated as much as possible with food and water and when we know it will help, deworming medicine. Cuts and wounds are dealt with some externally, but often antibiotics are given. All get ear rubs and 'good baby' and treats, if they'll take them. All get some attention, some acknowledgement we see their pain.
Coming to long nails, he had a number but no name yet because he'd just been brought in. I hate when they don't have a name, because at one point in their lives they probably did, or should have. Every dog and cat should have a name.
Calling him 'O Baby' it's all I can say as Karla is shocked to see the length of his nails, but dilligently starts to work on them with clippers hardly big enough to do the job. O Baby patiently allows us to clip away, although you can tell it's not without pain. We take off inches of nail clippings and create a pile on the floor. He looks away as we work, showing he's not pleased with the procedure but we all know it's only because of being long overdue.
Maybe an hour later I come to visit this row again, and O Baby is standing up now, more alert, and looking around. I believe we did that. By trimming his long nails, we made it easier for O Baby to stand up and be a dog again. I felt such a happy thought pass through me; I finally helped make a difference, it may be small by some measure, but to O Baby it was amazing.
As I stood and marveled at O Baby, a small old man comes to stand by me and say "That's the best dog." Of course I agree, but quickly realize this is O Baby's owner, this is his man. As he explains, kids were teasing his two dogs and one bit back and one ran away, but both were here at the shelter now and he's so happy to see them. O Baby is the smartest dog, best dog, a good old dog, and many further accolades his owner, his pet-parent proudly proclaimed to me. O Baby was going right back home today, riding in a two seat convertible, with a look on his face which lead me to believe maybe to him this was just one arduous grooming appointment rather than a literal brush with the end of his dog days.
I agreed with the owner that losing the nail clippers was not a good reason to allow them to grow that long, and it shouldn't happen again. But honestly, I just wanted to kiss this old man on the head that he did love dogs, he loved his dogs, and although not the model pet-parent, he was still a parent and had come to take them home. As I write this, I think O Baby is laying happily at the foot of a recliner somewhere, belly fed, and breathing in tandem with his much beloved old man.
To make room for the new animals, a shuffle-game must first occur in the front or main kennel area to fill empty kennels, moving dogs toward the front row. Some kennels are empty because of euthanizations, but others are because of adoptions from the weekend, and on a rare occasions a owner comes to find their own pet and a reunion happens.
One of the large, older dogs brought in by ACO was reported to have long nails. When we inspect him, the nails are so long they've started to curve around, causing obvious discomfort for the dog when he walked, making it hard for him to step straight because the long nails force his digits to turn and twist in what must have been like an athlete stepping on a sprained ankle. We note the long nails, a need for clipping, and add it to the list of grooming cases the shelter has. We go back and address the other animals still in tanks, waiting and needing to be moved.
As this day moves on, I'm preoccupied by several euthanizations. Overwhelmed by my own grief, I'm not as much help as I could have been, I stepped away more than once to cry alone behind the garage where my sobs would not be heard and would need no explanation.
Going back inside, Karla asks if I can help her make rounds and administer medicines on the main kennel floor. So happy to be able to do anything of benefit, I smile and breath and follow along. We go row by row checking on the most in need. Kennel cough is horrible, and obvious when someone has it bad. Emaciation is treated as much as possible with food and water and when we know it will help, deworming medicine. Cuts and wounds are dealt with some externally, but often antibiotics are given. All get ear rubs and 'good baby' and treats, if they'll take them. All get some attention, some acknowledgement we see their pain.
Coming to long nails, he had a number but no name yet because he'd just been brought in. I hate when they don't have a name, because at one point in their lives they probably did, or should have. Every dog and cat should have a name.
Calling him 'O Baby' it's all I can say as Karla is shocked to see the length of his nails, but dilligently starts to work on them with clippers hardly big enough to do the job. O Baby patiently allows us to clip away, although you can tell it's not without pain. We take off inches of nail clippings and create a pile on the floor. He looks away as we work, showing he's not pleased with the procedure but we all know it's only because of being long overdue.
Maybe an hour later I come to visit this row again, and O Baby is standing up now, more alert, and looking around. I believe we did that. By trimming his long nails, we made it easier for O Baby to stand up and be a dog again. I felt such a happy thought pass through me; I finally helped make a difference, it may be small by some measure, but to O Baby it was amazing.
As I stood and marveled at O Baby, a small old man comes to stand by me and say "That's the best dog." Of course I agree, but quickly realize this is O Baby's owner, this is his man. As he explains, kids were teasing his two dogs and one bit back and one ran away, but both were here at the shelter now and he's so happy to see them. O Baby is the smartest dog, best dog, a good old dog, and many further accolades his owner, his pet-parent proudly proclaimed to me. O Baby was going right back home today, riding in a two seat convertible, with a look on his face which lead me to believe maybe to him this was just one arduous grooming appointment rather than a literal brush with the end of his dog days.
I agreed with the owner that losing the nail clippers was not a good reason to allow them to grow that long, and it shouldn't happen again. But honestly, I just wanted to kiss this old man on the head that he did love dogs, he loved his dogs, and although not the model pet-parent, he was still a parent and had come to take them home. As I write this, I think O Baby is laying happily at the foot of a recliner somewhere, belly fed, and breathing in tandem with his much beloved old man.
2 dogs, 3 kittens, and 4 cats
If you'd stepped into the room, the three kittens in my arms would have brought a tender smile to your face. You'd think they were all happily snoozing, laying half on one another, warm and soft. A black long haired, a white with gray spots, and a gray stripped kitten were all probably the same litter. Trapped by a homeowner fearing they were or would become feral, they were brought to the shelter. With a quick injection to each, painlessly, they fell asleep. Heads dropping quickly -- heavily, muscles relaxed, breathing softened and hearts stopped. My role was to hold them as they went, let them know that despite the fact this shelter had killed them -- humanely euthanized them -- it was to save them from a fate of living and dying with worms, at the claws of a predator, or hit by a car or shot by some kid with a gun.
My first day working intake I shadowed Aimee and watched as she dealt with the dogs placed in 'tanks' overnight by animal control officers (ACO), cats and dogs surrendered by their owners with many excuses and justifications, strays brought in by good Samaritans, and two dogs who were on their way to rescues until for no apparent reason, separately, they both attacked other animals and caused injuries so bad they could no longer be released to a rescue. Not all of them were put down, just the numbers listed at top. One dog, a pit bull who had been adopted only to be brought back four days later with concerns over a lack of appetite, vomiting, and bleeding. She had Parvo, a particularly heinous virus. I know it was far more kind to help her die quickly rather than a slow internal bleed to death. Another large German Shepherd brought in by his owner with the complaint he had suddenly collapsed and would not get up. He had mud caked in his collar, dirt throughout his coat that appears never to have been bathed, scars around his mouth and general signs of neglect; skin and bones. He took 20 minutes to give in to the injection. I think he might have felt better, letting go of all the pain he'd been holding for so long.
The four cats all went quietly. Two took additional injections because of their size, but I believe they felt no pain. Showed no signs of discomfort, only a dire need to sleep, so deeply, which they could not resist. Holding a cat, petting the kittens, would have been macabre had it not been so peaceful, so simple. Their soft, soft fur being petted for the last times. Walking with Bonnie, taking each to the back garage, she performed three final tests to confirm their deaths. Somehow the pain I felt was eased to know it was really over for each. The dismay that a vibrant, anxious kitten 20 minutes ago was now a soft body of fur lying on a table released the hold sorrow had on me, on my imagination, when I could know there was no doubt now, it was dead; it was over.
I cried more in the garage, where no one but Bonnie would see me. Others don't cry any more, but that doesn't mean they don't know the sorrow. Many of them smoke, and I wonder if that really helps, if that's how they deal.
Following the deaths, the bodies were just that, empty carcasses. They didn't matter any longer, they were not being used by whatever had been in them previously, they could be destroyed now with less matter. What the kittens, cats, and dogs were did not exist now. You would no more call the body of a loved one the same AS the loved one, as you would do for these animals.
The dogs I did not hold, I was not in the room for. I only know it happened. I could not be in the room for them, with them, I was far too absorbed in my own pain for their passing to be of any help. The kittens, the cats, I could at least hold in their last moments.
We place their remains, all that remains of what had at one moment a living creature, in the incinerator with the other remains from roadkill, and from euthanizations performed earlier that day. I found a terrible peace for myself to know these bodies would not exist any longer, returning to an organic matter of sorts, ashes of what had been tissue and skin, sounds and personalities.
I don't know how many animals were taken into the shelter today, I should. I wish I could start today again and focus on those alive with a chance, a hope to be adopted. But I can only face tomorrow knowing that my energy should go to those still living, and while I of course will still feel for those who meet their end at this shelter, I can help them no more.
Tomorrow I will go in early and give flea baths to two little puppies seized from a home where they were neglected; starved. I bathed them today, but they will need another one. I can help them, I can do everything in my power so they are adopted, loved, cared for, and hopefully never return to this place again.
My first day working intake I shadowed Aimee and watched as she dealt with the dogs placed in 'tanks' overnight by animal control officers (ACO), cats and dogs surrendered by their owners with many excuses and justifications, strays brought in by good Samaritans, and two dogs who were on their way to rescues until for no apparent reason, separately, they both attacked other animals and caused injuries so bad they could no longer be released to a rescue. Not all of them were put down, just the numbers listed at top. One dog, a pit bull who had been adopted only to be brought back four days later with concerns over a lack of appetite, vomiting, and bleeding. She had Parvo, a particularly heinous virus. I know it was far more kind to help her die quickly rather than a slow internal bleed to death. Another large German Shepherd brought in by his owner with the complaint he had suddenly collapsed and would not get up. He had mud caked in his collar, dirt throughout his coat that appears never to have been bathed, scars around his mouth and general signs of neglect; skin and bones. He took 20 minutes to give in to the injection. I think he might have felt better, letting go of all the pain he'd been holding for so long.
The four cats all went quietly. Two took additional injections because of their size, but I believe they felt no pain. Showed no signs of discomfort, only a dire need to sleep, so deeply, which they could not resist. Holding a cat, petting the kittens, would have been macabre had it not been so peaceful, so simple. Their soft, soft fur being petted for the last times. Walking with Bonnie, taking each to the back garage, she performed three final tests to confirm their deaths. Somehow the pain I felt was eased to know it was really over for each. The dismay that a vibrant, anxious kitten 20 minutes ago was now a soft body of fur lying on a table released the hold sorrow had on me, on my imagination, when I could know there was no doubt now, it was dead; it was over.
I cried more in the garage, where no one but Bonnie would see me. Others don't cry any more, but that doesn't mean they don't know the sorrow. Many of them smoke, and I wonder if that really helps, if that's how they deal.
Following the deaths, the bodies were just that, empty carcasses. They didn't matter any longer, they were not being used by whatever had been in them previously, they could be destroyed now with less matter. What the kittens, cats, and dogs were did not exist now. You would no more call the body of a loved one the same AS the loved one, as you would do for these animals.
The dogs I did not hold, I was not in the room for. I only know it happened. I could not be in the room for them, with them, I was far too absorbed in my own pain for their passing to be of any help. The kittens, the cats, I could at least hold in their last moments.
We place their remains, all that remains of what had at one moment a living creature, in the incinerator with the other remains from roadkill, and from euthanizations performed earlier that day. I found a terrible peace for myself to know these bodies would not exist any longer, returning to an organic matter of sorts, ashes of what had been tissue and skin, sounds and personalities.
I don't know how many animals were taken into the shelter today, I should. I wish I could start today again and focus on those alive with a chance, a hope to be adopted. But I can only face tomorrow knowing that my energy should go to those still living, and while I of course will still feel for those who meet their end at this shelter, I can help them no more.
Tomorrow I will go in early and give flea baths to two little puppies seized from a home where they were neglected; starved. I bathed them today, but they will need another one. I can help them, I can do everything in my power so they are adopted, loved, cared for, and hopefully never return to this place again.
CHARMIN - Where Are You!
Please forward this and print the picture if you can. Charmin, a pit-bull terrier mix, already had a tough life as far as we could tell. Scared, skinny, and dirty I never got a chance to give him a bath before the unthinkable happened to him last Friday. Charmin, a lovable and goofy dog that was always so excited to take a walk, was STOLEN from the shelter by a would-be adoption candidate. The man asked to walk another pit-bull terrier, but was turned down because he had a five-year-old child in tow. "This dog isn't good with children." Although that man fussed that didn't matter (red flag) he then asked to walk Charmin. "Charmin is good with everyone."
Walking Charmin to the end of the long driveway for Halfway Home Pet Adoptions, and no one had noticed the woman he was with took the child, loaded her into their car, drove down the driveway and picked up the man and Charmin.
We absolutely fear the worst. 1) if this was Charmin's original owner who was avoiding paying the fees and fines, he would take Charmin back to the desperate conditions he would already have come from. 2) More likely this man was looking for a bait dog or a fighting dog; given Charmin's disposition we suspect he'll be used as bait to train or entice other fighting dogs in the illegal and inhumane act of dog-fighting.
I found out Charmin's disappearance on Friday was never even reported to the police as a theft because of a technicality. Unfortunately, none of the volunteers sharing this story believe the police would have been too interested because of the slim chance anything can be done. But I'm trying to do this much.
The shelter hasn't pulled Charmin's photo down yet, so please forward the link to others. I KNOW this is a longshot, but if anyone found Charmin the odds would be worth it!
http://halfwayhomepets.com/pet-details/?id=17260465
Walking Charmin to the end of the long driveway for Halfway Home Pet Adoptions, and no one had noticed the woman he was with took the child, loaded her into their car, drove down the driveway and picked up the man and Charmin.
We absolutely fear the worst. 1) if this was Charmin's original owner who was avoiding paying the fees and fines, he would take Charmin back to the desperate conditions he would already have come from. 2) More likely this man was looking for a bait dog or a fighting dog; given Charmin's disposition we suspect he'll be used as bait to train or entice other fighting dogs in the illegal and inhumane act of dog-fighting.
I found out Charmin's disappearance on Friday was never even reported to the police as a theft because of a technicality. Unfortunately, none of the volunteers sharing this story believe the police would have been too interested because of the slim chance anything can be done. But I'm trying to do this much.
The shelter hasn't pulled Charmin's photo down yet, so please forward the link to others. I KNOW this is a longshot, but if anyone found Charmin the odds would be worth it!
http://halfwayhomepets.com/pet-details/?id=17260465
Sunday, September 26, 2010
I cry; It's me.
I should preface this post with the fact I cry. Hallmark commercials, sappy movies, dog smiles all bring tears to my eyes. I believe this came mostly from taking and teaching yoga for many years. Once in tune with the energy all around us, it's easy to be moved by emotions. Today is a two-cry already, but both for such good sakes I need to share.
This morning husband, pup, and me piled in the mini (cooper) and drove to the shelter to meet Sierra and see if we could foster her with our own Denali. Both Labradors, both females, it felt like a good fit. Driving to the shelter on a day it is normally closed I expected to find only one person to meet me. Rather, I see ten to twelve volunteers and other staff there working to walk all the dogs before noon, when the nearby traffic from the Chiefs Game would preclude further effort. On a Sunday morning it was so pleasant a surprise to see many, many walking feet and paws working together for a better day.
Taking our pup to meet Sierra didn't go as well as we'd have liked, but that was the point of this meet-and-sniff, to see if the two pups would mesh or not. While they had moments of play together, our dog was indifferent if not indignant to little Sierra. On the converse, Sierra was more a puppy than I'd seen previous and has caused us to question whether she's a pup we can give enough attention and time to. We walked her back to the shelter aware her energy level may be sheer enthusiasm for the walk and canine cajoling, or may be more a puppy-sense that will wear our little girl's patience thin. Cry #1.
Taking on a dog, even as a foster, is a serious decision and we need to know we'll be the best foster parents possible. We all decided to think on it for a day, since I'll be returning there tomorrow. Driving away brought the same emotions I felt my first day of volunteering; I can't be leaving them there, I want to take them all home, I can't possibly take them all home, today I can't even take one. But I'm trying to do what is best, what is right, and what is realistic. To quote Scarlett, "...tomorrow is another day" so we'll see what the dawn brings.
Coming home I busied myself with assorted tasks to keep my mind from holding the sorrow I saw in Sierra's eyes as I'd returned her to the kennel. Hubby hugged me and I sobbed. What good does it do to sob so I stopped. I made sugared pecans for the new neighbors one floor up, and for the new widower a block over. I made soup enough to feed the Walton's and now need to find friends to parlay the portions out to. We made waffles for a good friend and shared our last summer watermelon slices. Then a neighbor called to ask if now was good to drop off some more donations. Sure, now is as good a time as any. *sigh*
Answering the door, looking at the neighbor with a plastic bin at his feet, I allowed my dismay to dissipate taking in everything this bin held. From an email sent yesterday to all my neighbors to pre-empt our usual holiday giving with what the shelter would need and a plan to get it, today I was already receiving a long list of much needed supplies, the kind that's so necessary but not as fun as the normal givings. Peroxide, spray bottles, gauze, 409, trash bags, sandwich bags, a dustpan you don't have to bend over to use, and puppy biscuits. This, and a promise that the bin will be refilled as often as I bring it back to the neighbor and his wife and their own shelter pup, Buddy. Hug, and cry #2.
On this journey, I've reached a piece of road where looking back no longer shows me where I started, and I've nearly forgotten that place. Looking forward and I'm not sure what lies that way either, but know going forward is the only direction I'll take. I'm definitely going to cry lots and lots more, but that's ok. I cry, it's me. Sad cries come with reasons, and happy cries do too.
This morning husband, pup, and me piled in the mini (cooper) and drove to the shelter to meet Sierra and see if we could foster her with our own Denali. Both Labradors, both females, it felt like a good fit. Driving to the shelter on a day it is normally closed I expected to find only one person to meet me. Rather, I see ten to twelve volunteers and other staff there working to walk all the dogs before noon, when the nearby traffic from the Chiefs Game would preclude further effort. On a Sunday morning it was so pleasant a surprise to see many, many walking feet and paws working together for a better day.
Taking our pup to meet Sierra didn't go as well as we'd have liked, but that was the point of this meet-and-sniff, to see if the two pups would mesh or not. While they had moments of play together, our dog was indifferent if not indignant to little Sierra. On the converse, Sierra was more a puppy than I'd seen previous and has caused us to question whether she's a pup we can give enough attention and time to. We walked her back to the shelter aware her energy level may be sheer enthusiasm for the walk and canine cajoling, or may be more a puppy-sense that will wear our little girl's patience thin. Cry #1.
Taking on a dog, even as a foster, is a serious decision and we need to know we'll be the best foster parents possible. We all decided to think on it for a day, since I'll be returning there tomorrow. Driving away brought the same emotions I felt my first day of volunteering; I can't be leaving them there, I want to take them all home, I can't possibly take them all home, today I can't even take one. But I'm trying to do what is best, what is right, and what is realistic. To quote Scarlett, "...tomorrow is another day" so we'll see what the dawn brings.
Coming home I busied myself with assorted tasks to keep my mind from holding the sorrow I saw in Sierra's eyes as I'd returned her to the kennel. Hubby hugged me and I sobbed. What good does it do to sob so I stopped. I made sugared pecans for the new neighbors one floor up, and for the new widower a block over. I made soup enough to feed the Walton's and now need to find friends to parlay the portions out to. We made waffles for a good friend and shared our last summer watermelon slices. Then a neighbor called to ask if now was good to drop off some more donations. Sure, now is as good a time as any. *sigh*
Answering the door, looking at the neighbor with a plastic bin at his feet, I allowed my dismay to dissipate taking in everything this bin held. From an email sent yesterday to all my neighbors to pre-empt our usual holiday giving with what the shelter would need and a plan to get it, today I was already receiving a long list of much needed supplies, the kind that's so necessary but not as fun as the normal givings. Peroxide, spray bottles, gauze, 409, trash bags, sandwich bags, a dustpan you don't have to bend over to use, and puppy biscuits. This, and a promise that the bin will be refilled as often as I bring it back to the neighbor and his wife and their own shelter pup, Buddy. Hug, and cry #2.
On this journey, I've reached a piece of road where looking back no longer shows me where I started, and I've nearly forgotten that place. Looking forward and I'm not sure what lies that way either, but know going forward is the only direction I'll take. I'm definitely going to cry lots and lots more, but that's ok. I cry, it's me. Sad cries come with reasons, and happy cries do too.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Surgery Ward
I’ve been around the shelter long enough now the staff is bothering to learn my name (Melody). As they’ve taken smoke breaks out back Lara jokingly shouted, “We should start paying you!” and half-jokingly I respond “Sure!” At the end of that same day I talk to Danny, the operations manager for the shelter, and ask exactly what needs the shelter really has. There are three opportunities they are looking for; Intake, Un-certified Vet Tech (i.e. paid less than certified), and Adoption Counselor. To me they all seem interesting, but assisting with veterinary care for the animals pulls my heart and my mouth forward as I happily volunteer to try that one on for size. The next day at 8am I’m at the shelter and ready to understand exactly how the spay and neuter process goes, and hopefully see one of the operations close up.
The first step I help with is gathering the patients from the general kennel area and placing them in the surgical prep/recovery room. Working with another volunteer we bring in nine different dogs and place in stainless steel kennels next to the two cats and litter of kittens already occupying other cells. Loretta, the certified Vet Technician, and I start to look over the collection of creatures and she points one out as the first surgery for the day. Taking Hobbs from his kennel, first we weigh him, coaxing his anxious energy to stand still long enough to register in at 40lbs. Knowing the weight Loretta begins to draw the amount of sedative we’ll use on him, along with vaccinations he’ll receive for rabies and distemper. For some strays, this may be the first medical attention they have ever received, and they are dismayed or freaked out as a result. For other lost pets, they’ve been to Vets before, but never alone and without their real parents to comfort them.
To give a dog anesthetic is no small task, at this location since they operate more like a M.A.S.H unit, they are efficient and effective if not always gentle-handed as I’d like. Since I’m the assistant today I start by taking the lead we have on Hobb’s neck, while standing behind him, getting Hobbs to sit and quickly wrapping the cord twice around his muzzle so he won’t bite. There are more than one way to hold a dog in order to give a shot, but this is how Loretta suggests I do it. So I lift the left front leg so Loretta can find a vein and administer the anesthetic. Sometimes it’s hard to find the dog veins, so there is expected squirming from them as she pokes and prods until a small amount of blood enters the syringe and she knows to inject the anesthetic. I’m told at a normal vet hospital, they’d shave the area first to make the vein easier to find, but here that’s a step which is skipped.
Once in the bloodstream anesthetic takes hold very quickly changing a hyper or strong dog into a docile and slouchy dog body. Hobbs is very agreeable, or simply overwhelmed, so administering his anesthesia goes quite smoothly. I hold him as I feel the effects, first his body is less tense, muscles soften, then his head sways slightly left to right and back. He’s trying to focus, trying to stay awake, but it’s moments until he lays down, with eyes open and tongue protruding, he’s asleep. Now lying limp on the floor, we know he’s out when his blink reflex no longer reacts to taps on the nose. We grab his legs, she takes the front and lifts his head using the nape, and I take the back. Raising the dogs up to the operating table is a challenge, given how their bodies become limp and how much some of them weigh. Hobbs is only 40lbs, so not too bad, lifting him is easy and we position his middle back into a plastic v-shaped tray designed to support his spine and keep him stable. Next we tie down his legs with cords attached to the table and adjust the light so it’s directly over the field of operation. Loretta shaves Hobbs and preps the area with an iodine solution. Three gauze pads of iodine are used and this may represent the first bath Hobbs has had in many months, if not years. If he’s a stray likely his mother bathed him, but this is nothing like that loving act.
Three Vets work at the shelter, and according to Loretta each have a different operating style, but in essence the operations are the same. It’s easier to neuter a male than spay a female, but although the female operation is more involved, I must state plainly that neutering seems much, much more grotesque to me. I fully support spaying and neutering, but watching one being done speaks volumes to the healing power and good nature of dogs who, when they recover from this, still let humans touch them.
The Vets all use a cautering knife for their surgeries since it seals as it separates. There is an unpleasant odor, similar to a dentists drill when it gets hot, but less blood loss. To neuter a dog, an incision is made along the lower abdomen, near the testicals, and one at a time they are pushed upward and outward like white, glossy, shooter marbles. Using the testes which extracts first the Vet then pulls the other one through the same opening, yielding a length of tissue with each. Clamps close off one piece of tissue, then a second set of clamps create the cutting line where the cautering knife separates the tissue and creates a sealed scar at the same time. In his hands he holds one testes and places it on the blue fabric placed over Hobbs chest. Then he does the same with the second testes and now they both lay on Hobbs stomach, outside his body, no longer attached.
Once the testes are removed, the remaining tissue slips back into and under the skin rather easily and the Vet checks for bleeders. Sometimes there is a little blood, sometimes there is more, but he carefully cauterizes the area and seals them off. Then it’s a matter of simple stitches and the procedure is complete in 20 minutes or less. Doc steps out and Loretta moves back in and cleans the area with peroxide, we trim nails and hoist the still limp Hobbs off the table. 30 minutes ago when we got Hobbs from his surgery kennel, he probably thought he was going for a walk, he couldn’t possibly know what was to happen.
Walking backwards with Hobbs back legs held in my hands and his hips hanging at my knees, Loretta lifts his front legs and his head hang down with his tongue protruding through quiet lips. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was dead. Holding Hobbs I step from the surgery room to recovery where yippy dogs become momentarily quiet taking in what they are witnessing, a dog that left their ranks with full bark and bravado, and is returned knocked cold and placed on a newspaper blanket within the kennel next to them. Loretta slams the kennel door shut and the loud noise startles the other animals and me. Some dogs remain quiet, others start barking, yipping, crying or pleading for attention, to get out, water, food, or a clean kennel. Or maybe they are barking “What did you do?” We go back into the surgery room and pull the card for the next animal, dog or cat, clean the operating table, check syringes are ready with the appropriate contents, and go back in to get whoever’s number came up.
We keep this up until noon, when Loretta takes lunch and I get back to the dogs in the recovery area. By now the ones we started the morning with are waking from anesthesia, and they are lucid enough to stand, albeit wobbly and woozy. Carefully, one at a time, we take them to an isolated area just outside so they can get fresh air and relieve themselves, or vomit, and we clean their kennels which almost always are urine soaked as a result of their condition. No one can have food or water yet until they are fully out of anesthesia, so the best comfort we can provide is a clean kennel to come back and lay down in.
The comforting thought I cling to throughout this day in the surgery ward is that we only operate on those going to rescue groups, or those being adopted. (And of course those operations on dogs with life-threatening injuries, although we didn’t have one of those today.) While this seems a drastic day for any animal to endure, it’s a milestone on their way to a more permanent place, with foster or pet parents who will care for and caress them all, perhaps fingering the scars on their bellies while rubbing and showing affection, and the dog will not associate them with this day. They will only know this day is over and the rest of their life has been better since.
78B - or Sheldons Initiation
78B is Sheldon the tan colored Shepherd. He knows it’s his turn before I’m even in front of his kennel. Taking the key from the stretchy-cord around my wrist I start on his lock. It’s difficult to open, as many are, because they get water and moisture in them and stick. Yanking hard I pull it apart, only to have to put it right back together hanging on one of the kennel door wires. We have to re-lock each lock because they get stolen by people walking through the kennel looking for a dog. The locks don’t go together easily, and my hand hurts from trying to force them, but finally it gives in and locks. (Of course I’m not looking forward to going through this all over again when I bring Sheldon back.)
Looking down I see Sheldon coulnd’t wait to go outside, and there are two small mounds of crap on the floor of his kennel. Being younger, and excited, this makes sense and is just part of the situation. That Sheldon has grown more excited while I’ve toiled with the lock hasn’t helped because he’s jumped several times and landed all four paws into the piles and the smell begins to rise. If I could just get the lead around his neck, and get him out, maybe I can catch Mark, one of the shelter workers, and ask if he can clean Sheldon’s kennel before I get back. But as I lift the latch to the kennel door, Sheldon tries to bolt. Bouncing the kennel door off my head and shoulder, unfortunately in that order, and my right hand now instinctively pushes at Sheldon’s neck and gets him back in. Brother. But at least now I’ve noticed Sheldon has a collar, which can be a lifesaver with energetic dogs because it gives a modicum of control if you can just get your leash hooked to it. So more aware, and right eyebrow lifted high now to dissipate the sting from the door, I’m fully focused on leashing Sheldon. Left hand on kennel door tight, right hand with leash clasp open and ready, I reach into the kennel and find the collar. Easier than I’d imagined I’ve found the ring and closed the clasp around it and think I have Sheldon ready to come out. Letting the left arm move the door slightly wider, Sheldon becomes Secretariat and bursts through it like he’s going for the triple-crown. Damn!
Stepping into Sheldon’s way I just need to block him, exert a little control, and get him headed toward outside. Sheldon, with paws full of crap, climbs full up my front and hooks onto my shoulder. Sheldon is probably 60lbs. I wouldn’t mind this from a smaller dog, but Sheldon – c’mon. This big boy is big enough not to act like a puppy, but shelter life can do strange things to dogs and maybe this one just needs a little comfort, and a little love. But with both paws around my shoulders, and back legs happily finding a nook into my right hip I’ve at least got hold of an energetic dog who desperately needs to go outside. Turning and getting my balance with this large load, I start walking.
The kennel row is nearly quiet. I’m not sure if it’s disbelief as to what their cell-mate has pulled off, or just the fact his paws are not on the floor keeps the other dogs from getting excited, regardless, I’m just relieved to get out into fresh air with Sheldon and get him down off my shoulder! Outside Sheldon does get down, but never calms down for his walk. He’s so excited he darts left to lift a leg, then right to follow a scent, then back to the middle where he eliminates even more crap, but this time a bit too runny to pick up. He’s obviously high-strung, and the kennel environment isn’t doing him any favors. His yanking wears me down quickly, and I don’t try to get him to walk the right way at all. Stopping under the tree to pet him is calming to me but not him, although he does come up on hind quarters, putting the front paws on my chest, to kiss in the mouth his gratitude. A lick from a dog is like a Hallmark card. So I take the appreciation as it’s intended, and allow a weary smile onto my face and keep walking him.
There is also a long driveway from the main road to the shelter, and I decide Sheldon could really use the exercise, so we continue going. He calms only slightly, more relaxed in his yanking, but you can tell he’s a dog that would really benefit from an off-leash park and several minutes of unabated running. He’s strong and healthy and has energy to burn, and thirty minutes outside is about all he’ll get today. Walking back the long drive and up the incline to the back of the shelter, and Sheldon’s intellect shows through. He nonchalantly starts to walk the opposite direction we should be going, with regular correction from me. As we approach the back door, where some of the workers take smoke breaks, he digs his heels in and sits down. I offer treats, coaxing him forward, but this only brings him into a full lay-in onto the concrete floor of the garage area. This is a full protest from a dog, to lay down with their weight going against the direction of the leash. And although cute in one way, it’s quite desperate in another.
Maybe Sheldon thought I was adopting him, or maybe he only knew this is his chance for outdoors all day and it’s not been long enough, but it’s longer than the next dogs will get if I can’t put him back and give them their chance. The workers look over at me occasionally to see if I need help, but I can’t call them over yet. I have to figure out how to get Sheldon back in on my own terms. After letting him sit for a few more minutes, I finally bend over and get him to raise up half-way, into a sit. From there he shows no sign of movement until, I relent, and stand in front of him and say ‘Up’ and pat my shoulder to indicate he can have a ride in if he wants. Sheldon the puppy-face now comes out and he willingly, and with lightning speed I should add, jumps back up to my shoulder, compressing his hind legs into a tidy shelf of paw which I hold with my right hand while the left wraps around his shoulders to make sure I’ve got my charge safely in arms. I turn to see Robert and Mark staring at me for a moment, then going back to their business with small grins out of the corners of both their mouths, and I walk Sheldon back into the shelter.
I never had chance to tell Mark about Sheldon’s kennel, so upon our return, I put Sheldon down into his bed in a corner, and take out the poop-sacks from my apron and pick up his waste. I wipe at the smears as best I can, at least removing the majority of it, and turn the bag inside out. I think of tying it shut, but don’t bother, it’s going straight into the trash can with lid. Closing Sheldon’s kennel is as difficult as opening it, with the exception that Sheldon is licking my hands between the door wires, pushing his tongue between each finger as if to say “Thank you, and please come back tomorrow.” I offer Sheldon a treat, say a few kind words in mommy-to-baby voice and turn to clean up. The row is not completely quiet, and grows a little louder as they all see me walk out of the row, which means no one is up just next for a walk. But I have to take a bathroom break myself and get a drink of water. Sheldon wore me out and I need a little composure before the next. I mark the white board with 78B “WTue, Energetic, lovs treats” and go through the double doors into the air-conditioned shelter offices. Turning the corner to the bathroom I walk through the cat-smell and knock on the old wood door to see if the bathroom is free. Pressing the door open, Samantha walks just past me and says “Whew baby, that one got you!” with her Australian accent and flair for humor. But I don’t realize what she means until I step in front of the mirror and look to see a toffee colored smudge from me left cheek down to neck, and another one on my right shoulder which starts in the front and true to skid-mark-form works its way onto my upper back. The front of my navy blue apron has a large cream smear from his dander, but my right him has chunk smear deposits from Sheldon’s paws. Sweat across my forehead and nose and I don’t know if what I feel right now is laughter or a cry coming on, so I turn on the faucet and pick up water in my hands if the latter. Splashing water on my face helps, and I decide to chuckle at it, even though small tears come to my eyes, they are more out of weariness than anger or disappointment, just being tired and knowing I’ve got a few more waiting to be walked.
Using the hodge podge of donated soaps, each dispenser holding a pittance remaining, I wash my hands, arms, face and neck. I take water to the t-shirt and brush off the apron. That’s as clean as I’m able to get, and probably clean enough knowing I need to go walk a few more. “That was hard as hell” I think to myself, but then think to how gently and thoroughly Sheldon had tried to lick my hands. Was he trying to clean me, was he trying to make amends, was he just grateful? I don’t know, but I can’t help but smile about Sheldon. So in my bathrobe, recounting the day I’ve had, the worst part of it has become the best part of it, but tomorrow is Wednesday and I’ve got another row to walk.
The Uniform; The Routine
Writing this I’m already in my bathrobe, learning quickly it’s a necessity to come home and immediately place everything I’ve worn into the washer and get into the shower myself. After the first day I figured out what clothes will and won’t work volunteering at the shelter. Sneakers with heavy socks is mandatory, any other shoe I’ve worn with what I thought to be gripping soles didn’t come close to my New Balance running shoes with an extra wide toe box (due to abunion on my right foot). Jeans didn’t work as well as I’d hoped, feeling hot and restrictive, not allowing me to move quickly enough to adapt to a dogs movement or change of direction. Hardy Capri style khaki’s have done the trick. They allow a little air circulation at the legs, but protect my shins and quads. I’m down to wearing two pair though being the only ones I really don’t care if they get scratched or stained.
A long sleeve t-shirt sounds like such a good idea, until you start to sweat and struggle to keep the sleeves pushed up your arms, or realize more fabric is just more area for dog hair to mix with your own sweat and for the smell to be so gross you want a bath much sooner than time will permit. Short sleeve t-shirts seem to work the best, so I’ve been going through all the old t-shirts I have, rotating between four and five that still look respectable enough to leave the house, but in all honesty, don’t bother me at all if they are getting ruined. The shelter has volunteer t-shirts, but they are out of them at present, so I just keep waiting for them to come in so I can buy one and wear it permanently.
I wear an apron when I volunteer to hold the vital necessities; leash, lead (for dogs without collars), spare collars I’ve rummaged from the bin, a rubber brush that works on most coats, dog waste bags, treats, my cell phone, and chap stick. I’ve found these things to absolutely vital while walking every dog, and they keep me from taking away time to stop at my car and get anything personal. I start every day with a fresh and clean apron, which by day’s end is smeared with dander from all the dogs I’ve petted, crumbs from the treats that have been crushed in the deep pockets, hair from the brush and the dogs that will happen no matter what I do, and slightly heavier with my sweat. Several times through the day I need to adjust the apron as it slips down from my waist and hangs on my hips, sagging in front from the weight and no longer fighting to remain spread around my lower body.
Without that shirt, people often think I work at the shelter rather than volunteer. I wouldn’t mind this confusion a bit if it wasn’t for the fact they are still asking questions I’m not sure of yet, and any time I spend listening to their questions, only to have to hunt down a staff member for them, is time I’ve walked away from the kennel I almost had unlocked and the dog that almost got to go for a walk at that moment and now must wait another. For a dog that hasn’t been out yet all day, that moment is excruciating. I’ve always come home dirty from sweating through these still warm fall days, but there’s frequently the dog that is so excited to get from his kennel he or she jumps and jumps and tried to kiss on the mouth to show their gratitude. I know to watch for this now, and as a training tactic I bring up my knee and this pushes the dog backwards and down, and then I praise them when all four paws are on the ground. They really can’t help how excited they become, so I try to channel that energy into their walk, getting to ‘eliminate’ outside their kennel, or just pushing their faces into the tall grass and wildflowers which must feel wonderful to the pups because more of them do this than don’t.
Getting a little mud or dirt on me isn’t a big deal, but today was an initiation of sorts. On M, W, F you should start walking the dogs from the front kennels and work your way backwards. Even with four or more volunteers stopping by one day, it’s possible you won’t be through two rows of dogs, double-decker kennels, before the end of day. So T and Thur you should start walking the dogs from the back kennels. This means there are definitely days dogs do not get out of their kennels for a walk. Even though you’re exhausted from everything you did get done, it’s always hard to walk out at night and realize two rows of dogs don’t know why today wasn’t their day.
So today is Tuesday and I started at the back. We’re supposed to start with the house trained, but that list is hard to keep current when dogs are moved from one kennel to another, for one reason or another, so you just start at the beginning. The kennels are labeled by number and alpha, which is how we track which have been walked and which have not. 78A is a Tybalt, an Australian Shepherd. Tybalt has black hair mostly, but also some brindle coloring and some grey patches near his hind quarters. He’s a bit older and very docile. He acts a bit surprised he’s getting a walk, but submissively lowers his head near the kennel door so I can slip the lead around his neck. I checked my pockets for a collar that might fit, but I don’t have one, so the lead is all I can use for Tybalt, but he’s calm and won’t pull too much and seems to be ok with this arrangement.
Getting the dogs in and out of the kennels quickly is key to keeping a peaceful row of kennel dogs. They watch you as soon as they can see you, look to see which kennel you might be stopping at, and if they see the key come out a choir of off-tune angels breaks into a chorus of ‘Me, Me, Me….ooo Pick me!” which you hear from their barks. Dogs which otherwise hadn’t peeped a sound are now highly engaged in letting you know they too want to get out and they too need your attention. The longer it takes to get a dog out of their kennel, either because they back away from you and take some coxing, or because they are on a second level kennel and not sure how to get down now that they have their chance, the louder the howling seems to get.
I’m becoming deft at extracting and replacing the pups, but these are dogs stressed by a kennel environment, there is no way to know which will bolt to escape, yanking your arm with them, or which will finally talk back to their noisy neighbor face to face and a snarl contest begins, or which will squat and pee right there (or worse) because of their stress. Best you can hope for is a lock that opens easily, as many of them don’t, a collar on the dog or a dog willing to have the lead slipped over their neck, and a willing walker that comes out without convincing and is ready to go. The really smart dogs keep their heads down and let me lead them to the nearest door. The energetic or slightly confused will spread all four wide and try to get their bearings and run this way and that way trying to see their way clear.
I’m trying to direct them all the time, avoiding the wet slippery floor they may already have skidded on, watching for the people in the aisles looking at dogs who just want to touch one so bad they won’t realize how awkward that would be with this dog I’m trying to take on a walk, and just start walking. Tybalt was a pro at this, either because he’s been at the shelter long enough or just because he’s old enough to know a routine works one way best and lets me lead him into it. No matter, we’re out the door and on our walk and he’s heeled to the lead like a champion.
A walk for these dogs is different than for my Labrador at home. These dogs will eliminate as quickly as possible, so it’s imperative to get them away from the building and over to the grassy fence area, or we’d have dog urine in droves by each door. Once in the overgrown grass around the fence, with paws safely resting on fallen leaves, you’ll find out just how much of that dog was bladder, or how long they tried to hold it for the hopes of getting outside to relieve themselves. For Tybalt, it was a hind-leg lift and a full release of a day’s worth of water. Although I saw no real change is his overall body language, as some dogs leap and bound after a release such as this, Tybalt just seemed to grin slightly and the skin around his eyes relaxed telling me he had been slightly strained but now he’s calmly reposed.
On average, I’ll have Tybalt out of his kennel for 20 minutes as we walk around the shelter grounds, he finds a spot to do number two, and I stop us under the pine tree out front to see how he likes pet-therapy – that is, allows me to pet him – and bring out the brush. Then it’s continuing the circuit, coming around the other side of the shelter, past the outside kennels which often house rowdy-fence-guarding-dogs, and up the slight incline to the back of the shelter. The back of the shelter is the hardest part of the walk because keen dogs will realize this is the end of their walk. I also may have to walk past Animal Control trucks bringing in more dogs or cats (or roosters, rabbits, reptiles, etc) or the refrigeration trucks. Either of these are hard for me to walk past because I know the first truck brings in animals with slim hope of adoption. The refrigeration truck brings in roadkill dogs and cats, animals found abandoned and left to die, and pets used as bait dogs by fighting rings and also, left to die of their wounds. Those are brought to the back and loaded into one of two incinerators and operate daily. This same incinerator takes the euthanized animals from the shelter no one would adopt. Despite being harmless animals willing to give love unconditionally, they’ve been put down out of lack of a home. So walking the dogs past this area is depressing and deflating, and reminds me to focus on the one dog on this lead that I can try to help as much as I can. Tybalt goes back in his kennel quite calmly, drinks water, takes the last treat I have to give, and turns around three times and lays down in the corner. The floor of his kennel is still damp from having been hosed out earlier, but given the humidity and heat today, likely feels good on Tybalt’s skin that would love a bath if only we had time to give one.
Without stopping, I walk back to the white board at the other end of the room and mark 78A as “WTue” to show he got a walk today, and any other volunteer can focus on those squares with nothing written in them. The white board is divided into squares, like a calendar, and we write up when one of the dogs has been walked. It’s gratifying when an entire row is marked off, but disheartening when you see three more rows with nothing in them. But without wasting time I pump hand sanitizer into my palms, fill up my Ziploc bag with donated treats (this week is some sort of a ginger or peanut butter cookie) and turn on heels to head back to my row.
A long sleeve t-shirt sounds like such a good idea, until you start to sweat and struggle to keep the sleeves pushed up your arms, or realize more fabric is just more area for dog hair to mix with your own sweat and for the smell to be so gross you want a bath much sooner than time will permit. Short sleeve t-shirts seem to work the best, so I’ve been going through all the old t-shirts I have, rotating between four and five that still look respectable enough to leave the house, but in all honesty, don’t bother me at all if they are getting ruined. The shelter has volunteer t-shirts, but they are out of them at present, so I just keep waiting for them to come in so I can buy one and wear it permanently.
I wear an apron when I volunteer to hold the vital necessities; leash, lead (for dogs without collars), spare collars I’ve rummaged from the bin, a rubber brush that works on most coats, dog waste bags, treats, my cell phone, and chap stick. I’ve found these things to absolutely vital while walking every dog, and they keep me from taking away time to stop at my car and get anything personal. I start every day with a fresh and clean apron, which by day’s end is smeared with dander from all the dogs I’ve petted, crumbs from the treats that have been crushed in the deep pockets, hair from the brush and the dogs that will happen no matter what I do, and slightly heavier with my sweat. Several times through the day I need to adjust the apron as it slips down from my waist and hangs on my hips, sagging in front from the weight and no longer fighting to remain spread around my lower body.
Without that shirt, people often think I work at the shelter rather than volunteer. I wouldn’t mind this confusion a bit if it wasn’t for the fact they are still asking questions I’m not sure of yet, and any time I spend listening to their questions, only to have to hunt down a staff member for them, is time I’ve walked away from the kennel I almost had unlocked and the dog that almost got to go for a walk at that moment and now must wait another. For a dog that hasn’t been out yet all day, that moment is excruciating. I’ve always come home dirty from sweating through these still warm fall days, but there’s frequently the dog that is so excited to get from his kennel he or she jumps and jumps and tried to kiss on the mouth to show their gratitude. I know to watch for this now, and as a training tactic I bring up my knee and this pushes the dog backwards and down, and then I praise them when all four paws are on the ground. They really can’t help how excited they become, so I try to channel that energy into their walk, getting to ‘eliminate’ outside their kennel, or just pushing their faces into the tall grass and wildflowers which must feel wonderful to the pups because more of them do this than don’t.
Getting a little mud or dirt on me isn’t a big deal, but today was an initiation of sorts. On M, W, F you should start walking the dogs from the front kennels and work your way backwards. Even with four or more volunteers stopping by one day, it’s possible you won’t be through two rows of dogs, double-decker kennels, before the end of day. So T and Thur you should start walking the dogs from the back kennels. This means there are definitely days dogs do not get out of their kennels for a walk. Even though you’re exhausted from everything you did get done, it’s always hard to walk out at night and realize two rows of dogs don’t know why today wasn’t their day.
So today is Tuesday and I started at the back. We’re supposed to start with the house trained, but that list is hard to keep current when dogs are moved from one kennel to another, for one reason or another, so you just start at the beginning. The kennels are labeled by number and alpha, which is how we track which have been walked and which have not. 78A is a Tybalt, an Australian Shepherd. Tybalt has black hair mostly, but also some brindle coloring and some grey patches near his hind quarters. He’s a bit older and very docile. He acts a bit surprised he’s getting a walk, but submissively lowers his head near the kennel door so I can slip the lead around his neck. I checked my pockets for a collar that might fit, but I don’t have one, so the lead is all I can use for Tybalt, but he’s calm and won’t pull too much and seems to be ok with this arrangement.
Getting the dogs in and out of the kennels quickly is key to keeping a peaceful row of kennel dogs. They watch you as soon as they can see you, look to see which kennel you might be stopping at, and if they see the key come out a choir of off-tune angels breaks into a chorus of ‘Me, Me, Me….ooo Pick me!” which you hear from their barks. Dogs which otherwise hadn’t peeped a sound are now highly engaged in letting you know they too want to get out and they too need your attention. The longer it takes to get a dog out of their kennel, either because they back away from you and take some coxing, or because they are on a second level kennel and not sure how to get down now that they have their chance, the louder the howling seems to get.
I’m becoming deft at extracting and replacing the pups, but these are dogs stressed by a kennel environment, there is no way to know which will bolt to escape, yanking your arm with them, or which will finally talk back to their noisy neighbor face to face and a snarl contest begins, or which will squat and pee right there (or worse) because of their stress. Best you can hope for is a lock that opens easily, as many of them don’t, a collar on the dog or a dog willing to have the lead slipped over their neck, and a willing walker that comes out without convincing and is ready to go. The really smart dogs keep their heads down and let me lead them to the nearest door. The energetic or slightly confused will spread all four wide and try to get their bearings and run this way and that way trying to see their way clear.
I’m trying to direct them all the time, avoiding the wet slippery floor they may already have skidded on, watching for the people in the aisles looking at dogs who just want to touch one so bad they won’t realize how awkward that would be with this dog I’m trying to take on a walk, and just start walking. Tybalt was a pro at this, either because he’s been at the shelter long enough or just because he’s old enough to know a routine works one way best and lets me lead him into it. No matter, we’re out the door and on our walk and he’s heeled to the lead like a champion.
A walk for these dogs is different than for my Labrador at home. These dogs will eliminate as quickly as possible, so it’s imperative to get them away from the building and over to the grassy fence area, or we’d have dog urine in droves by each door. Once in the overgrown grass around the fence, with paws safely resting on fallen leaves, you’ll find out just how much of that dog was bladder, or how long they tried to hold it for the hopes of getting outside to relieve themselves. For Tybalt, it was a hind-leg lift and a full release of a day’s worth of water. Although I saw no real change is his overall body language, as some dogs leap and bound after a release such as this, Tybalt just seemed to grin slightly and the skin around his eyes relaxed telling me he had been slightly strained but now he’s calmly reposed.
On average, I’ll have Tybalt out of his kennel for 20 minutes as we walk around the shelter grounds, he finds a spot to do number two, and I stop us under the pine tree out front to see how he likes pet-therapy – that is, allows me to pet him – and bring out the brush. Then it’s continuing the circuit, coming around the other side of the shelter, past the outside kennels which often house rowdy-fence-guarding-dogs, and up the slight incline to the back of the shelter. The back of the shelter is the hardest part of the walk because keen dogs will realize this is the end of their walk. I also may have to walk past Animal Control trucks bringing in more dogs or cats (or roosters, rabbits, reptiles, etc) or the refrigeration trucks. Either of these are hard for me to walk past because I know the first truck brings in animals with slim hope of adoption. The refrigeration truck brings in roadkill dogs and cats, animals found abandoned and left to die, and pets used as bait dogs by fighting rings and also, left to die of their wounds. Those are brought to the back and loaded into one of two incinerators and operate daily. This same incinerator takes the euthanized animals from the shelter no one would adopt. Despite being harmless animals willing to give love unconditionally, they’ve been put down out of lack of a home. So walking the dogs past this area is depressing and deflating, and reminds me to focus on the one dog on this lead that I can try to help as much as I can. Tybalt goes back in his kennel quite calmly, drinks water, takes the last treat I have to give, and turns around three times and lays down in the corner. The floor of his kennel is still damp from having been hosed out earlier, but given the humidity and heat today, likely feels good on Tybalt’s skin that would love a bath if only we had time to give one.
Without stopping, I walk back to the white board at the other end of the room and mark 78A as “WTue” to show he got a walk today, and any other volunteer can focus on those squares with nothing written in them. The white board is divided into squares, like a calendar, and we write up when one of the dogs has been walked. It’s gratifying when an entire row is marked off, but disheartening when you see three more rows with nothing in them. But without wasting time I pump hand sanitizer into my palms, fill up my Ziploc bag with donated treats (this week is some sort of a ginger or peanut butter cookie) and turn on heels to head back to my row.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Learning How to Help
Week two of my leave of absence, and week two of volunteering at a high-kill animal shelter in my city. I've learned that marking on the wall calendar what time you've walked a dog isn't as helpful as noting the day. A day can pass without a dog being walked, getting out of their kennel. I've learned that a kennel and a cage are not that different. I've learned that picking up a recently flea-dipped dog causes me eye and nose irritation, a burning rash on my skin. Now I know why he was immobile in his kennel, moving hurt (Mackie). I've learned that American Bulldog / Pit Bull Terrier mixes walk best with harnesses, they only pull against collars (Mason). The shelter does not have enough harnesses for everyone. I've learned that no one is currently donating collars or harnesses to the shelter and they have no budget for them. The collars, leashes and harnesses in the box by the volunteer desk were acquired from pets that didn't need them anymore. I've learned that the facility has two incinerators. I've watched them load and unload. I’ve learned the man who operates the incinerators is as kind to the dogs as anyone I’ve seen. I've learned that some dogs believe they are being freed from their kennels when you take them for a walk. They know when you turn the corner of the building, they start pulling the opposite direction; they do not want to go back in even if it means shelter, food, water, and medical care. I've learned that dogs forgive you for putting them back in (Amos).
I've learned that a Pit Bull with no hair left from having mange, with scars on his back and pieces missing from his ears, is the sweetest cuddler I've ever come across (Fostered!). I’ve learned when a dog sleeps in the day at a shelter, with their back to the door is really showing signs of depression (Preston). I've learned that all puppies are born with worms, and without medicine, they grow with worms growing inside them until the worms win (Jet). I've learned that a dog-aggressive Rottweiler named Ronald that has lost a leg, will tolerate quite well Pit-Bull puppies that get out of the basket while you're cleaning their cage. I've learned that a dog brought in with an imbedded collar, still wants to be petted even if you accidentally get close to his neck. He will forgive you for your touch. I've learned that all dogs do not like the same food, but they will eat it if that's what they have, even if it gives them diarrhea. I've learned that dogs do not like 'eliminating' in their kennels if they can help it, if only they could get out of their kennels in time. I've learned that an active shelter can spay / neuter up to 20 dogs and cats a day, only stopping for space to allow recovery, or to deal with accident / abuse victims. I’ve learned the smell from a cautery knife is a good thing, it means they believe the animal is worth saving even if a limb is not. I've learned that owners who bring their pets in for the vet services will abandon the pets if they are positive for heartworm without even finding out how much treatment costs. I've learned that owners will surrender their dogs if they can't afford their medical needs, but those same owners have very nice SUV's (Grace). I’ve learned that some pet parents surrender their dogs to the shelter to protect them from domestic violence, at the same address they call home (Duchess). I’ve learned we have many, many dogs being fostered. I’ve learned the name of 41 dogs at the shelter.
I’ve learned that when you ask where paper towels are, there really may not be any more. I’ve learned that volunteers feel alone, overwhelmed and helpless. But, they keep coming back and keep walking, bathing, caring for, and fostering dogs. I’ve learned every pair of eyes I’ve looked into is happy to see me, the dogs, the cats, the volunteers, and especially the staff. I’ve learned I can’t help them all, but I can help some…now it’s just determining how much and how fast. I’ve only got a few months left. (Great idea to link to the Volunteer Page on Facebook so the adoptable pets can be seen by more people: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/group.php?gid=132931120072928&ref=ts) Please note, if any of the hyperlinks no longer work, the dogs have either been adopted, or euthanized.
Monday, September 20, 2010
3 Months to Live
What if you had three months to live...any way you wanted. Would you travel to far countries on someone else's dime, traversing thousands of carbon-bigger-footprint miles just to find yourself? Or would you give more to your community, find an outlet for that passion that's been smoldering inside, and get more out of the life right in front of you? This is the first official Friday of my Leave of Absence (Future Leave) and volunteering at the local animal shelter, halfway Home Pet Adoptions (http://halfwayhomepets.com/).
I've always loved animals, especially dogs, and when on the road I craved Denali my yellow Labrador more than any other comfort. So with full energy to 'change the world' I've started a three month journey to find out if volunteering is really what I've always thought it would be, and if I really could change my world, one dog at a time. This week I can say it's definitely not been the 'Marley and Me' experience I was hoping for, but more akin to Upton Sinclair's 'The Jungle.' Not as bad, but worse than I feared. The first organization I contacted to volunteer actually has a waiting list, and I've still not been to the orientation yet. They are a pleasant facility with a no-kill policy, meaning they only euthanize in the case of an animal with temperment issues that may cause issues for public health, or if the animals own poor health would make euthanisia a more humane alternative. But the second organization, Halfway Home Pet Adoptions, had no list because they have few volunteers. This shelter receives over 640 animals PER WEEK, which is far beyond their capacity. They are a high-kill shelter, with most the animals only receiving 5 days opportunity to be adopted. They have to be this way because they are part of Kansas City's works department and they cannot turn away any animals received. This means, they have to make room for others to come through, and room for others to get a small chance, then be humanely put down. This is the toughest place to volunteer, but the one that needs help more than all the rest.
I've started by learning their systems and practices (Supply Chain Engineering and Business Processes), and spent the greater part of my days walking and talking to dogs. When you enter a shelter, especially one such as this that does not refuse any animals, charge a surrender fee, or ask people surrendering animals to wait for openings, you'll likely be shocked by the conditions, as I was. The smell, the noise, the utter despair and hope in each animals eyes may at first energize you to take charge that day. But the next day, when you see new eyes staring back at you, it will also cause you to pause for a great long time at how anyone can help an issue as seemingly insurmountable as pet overpopulation.
Nearly all the dogs I walked these first few days are unaltered, meaning they were either homeless and never given proper veterinary treatment, or they were never spayed or neutered by their uneducated owners. Maybe the owners weren't stupid, but you have to believe they were completely unaware of consequences of NOT spaying or neutering a dog; they end up here.
So this is the beginning of a 3 month journey to live, any way I chose. And I'm choosing to give back to my community by understanding one of the worst issues facing my city; understanding the opposite existence of my beautiful Denali with two loving parents, frequent walks, visits to the vet, an off-leash park a few miles away and much more affection than even she would like at some times. If I can really understand this issue, how pet overpopulation affects my city, then perhaps I can also learn how to really help for long-term benefits. I believe I can do something to improve and change this situation, or I wouldn't be doing it. Rather, I'd be eating pasta, riding elephants, or learning meditation and only having done good for myself. At least these three months will be in service to others, and that's the minimum I'm striving for. Now I'll close because Mr. Magoo is waiting for me at the shelter for a walk. Today is Day Five for him, along with six other dogs I've walked this week. Today at least, I'll change how he spends his last hours and hope he understands I'm only trying to help.
I've always loved animals, especially dogs, and when on the road I craved Denali my yellow Labrador more than any other comfort. So with full energy to 'change the world' I've started a three month journey to find out if volunteering is really what I've always thought it would be, and if I really could change my world, one dog at a time. This week I can say it's definitely not been the 'Marley and Me' experience I was hoping for, but more akin to Upton Sinclair's 'The Jungle.' Not as bad, but worse than I feared. The first organization I contacted to volunteer actually has a waiting list, and I've still not been to the orientation yet. They are a pleasant facility with a no-kill policy, meaning they only euthanize in the case of an animal with temperment issues that may cause issues for public health, or if the animals own poor health would make euthanisia a more humane alternative. But the second organization, Halfway Home Pet Adoptions, had no list because they have few volunteers. This shelter receives over 640 animals PER WEEK, which is far beyond their capacity. They are a high-kill shelter, with most the animals only receiving 5 days opportunity to be adopted. They have to be this way because they are part of Kansas City's works department and they cannot turn away any animals received. This means, they have to make room for others to come through, and room for others to get a small chance, then be humanely put down. This is the toughest place to volunteer, but the one that needs help more than all the rest.
I've started by learning their systems and practices (Supply Chain Engineering and Business Processes), and spent the greater part of my days walking and talking to dogs. When you enter a shelter, especially one such as this that does not refuse any animals, charge a surrender fee, or ask people surrendering animals to wait for openings, you'll likely be shocked by the conditions, as I was. The smell, the noise, the utter despair and hope in each animals eyes may at first energize you to take charge that day. But the next day, when you see new eyes staring back at you, it will also cause you to pause for a great long time at how anyone can help an issue as seemingly insurmountable as pet overpopulation.
Nearly all the dogs I walked these first few days are unaltered, meaning they were either homeless and never given proper veterinary treatment, or they were never spayed or neutered by their uneducated owners. Maybe the owners weren't stupid, but you have to believe they were completely unaware of consequences of NOT spaying or neutering a dog; they end up here.
So this is the beginning of a 3 month journey to live, any way I chose. And I'm choosing to give back to my community by understanding one of the worst issues facing my city; understanding the opposite existence of my beautiful Denali with two loving parents, frequent walks, visits to the vet, an off-leash park a few miles away and much more affection than even she would like at some times. If I can really understand this issue, how pet overpopulation affects my city, then perhaps I can also learn how to really help for long-term benefits. I believe I can do something to improve and change this situation, or I wouldn't be doing it. Rather, I'd be eating pasta, riding elephants, or learning meditation and only having done good for myself. At least these three months will be in service to others, and that's the minimum I'm striving for. Now I'll close because Mr. Magoo is waiting for me at the shelter for a walk. Today is Day Five for him, along with six other dogs I've walked this week. Today at least, I'll change how he spends his last hours and hope he understands I'm only trying to help.
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