I should explain that I don’t follow any specific religions perspective on life, death, or an afterlife. I once identified myself as Catholic because that’s how I was raised, but after the KC Archdiocese could not confirm my tithing was not used to support the Priests Defense Fund for those accused of pedophilia through the courts, I figured it was about time I started studying, investigating, and just wondering about stuff for myself.
One thing I remember from parochial school was being taught animals do not have souls. Of course, the definition I was provided for what my soul consisted of was dubious at best, nebulous even, I’m not sure the word soul means as much to me now as the idea of a spirit. When you learn about a person who has lost a leg in an auto accident but still does triathlons, you’d say that person has a strong spirit. The same would go for many of the dogs at the shelter, despite what they’ve probably been through you can easily see they still have a spirit, it’s not been broken, and they’ll find a way to recover and redress the wrongs done against them by simply living a happy life forever more. But until they get fostered or adopted, or mercifully released from pain and anguish they cannot recover, they live at the shelter for some time.
It’s while they are at the shelter my eyes will meet theirs. Sometimes it’s a passing glance that’s like the Jesus paintings of childhood; their eyes follow wherever you go. Other times it’s the emphatic eye-lock where you know they are saying “Help” or “Need Out” or “Need Walk” or “Why aren’t you stopping this?!” Those are the ones you may have to walk past, but walk back to as soon as you can. You won’t get to all of them. But for the ones that somehow telepath and control you to the extent you do pick them for a walk, do get them out of dog jail, those are the ones talking to you every chance they get, using every part of their body to convey a message, but it’s their eyes that try to communicate from their spirit to yours.
There’s the supernova burst of energy once out of the kennel, the ones where legs and paws slip away but come back to help rush them toward a door. Those whose tail wags so hard and fast with sheer joy, literal joy, their whole body shakes and moves and they hardly contain the power of their spirit in a small furry body.
There’s the lean in and kiss, jump up and lick ones that just have to touch you, to be touched, and feel for one moment they are real, they do exist, we haven’t walked by them because they are invisible, we see them. Their excitement comes through in every grateful motion trying to be close to you, to become a companion once again, as centuries of breeding has taught their heart is the chosen path for their kind.
And there is the remorseful, the ones who somehow take on blame for their fate, and implore you now to read the regret in their actions, their mannerisms, their heartfelt contrition for whatever sins they did which landed them here. They were a family pet, maybe there was that one chair they kept marking, or the barking to alert their family of animals in the yards they never understood, or the new baby that somehow usurped their place in the pack. The ones who became too old, too expensive, too needy, or too energetic for their families anymore. The ones that did nothing wrong except to be chosen by parents who maybe could never afford them, couldn’t keep them inside the house and put them in a yard, or lost their job and don’t know how they will buy food for themselves and their children let alone buy enough for their dogs. The dogs take all this into their hearts, their spirits bend and sometimes break under the massive weight of guilt that somehow they weren’t enough, did something wrong, and aren’t with their families any more.
Some of these are surrendered, others are just lost but no one comes looking for them, but their eyes tell the tale of a spirit displaced on the winds, blowing from one tree break to another like drifting around city streets, trying to find their forever home. Those are the eyes I never forget.
We’ve probably all seen a dog smile, something they are so apt to easily do. But I’ve seen a dog cry real tears, lying on the floor of a kennel with no interest in food, water, treats, or a walk because their spirit is broken at that moment. Just like me when boyfriend number XX disappointed and destroyed me for days or weeks, these dogs have broken hearts. They breathe shallow only allowing heavy sighs with barely audible cries whispered from their throats. They mourn, but do not plead for me or any comfort I might give; they’ve stopped believing in us for a short time.
Where is their family? Who is their pack? How do they exist now without those they once guarded, loved, and gave their hearts to? Their eyes tell me, their tears convey sadness so cold and dark I feel it with my spirit, and for the moment I’m standing with them someplace dark and cold and utterly alone, like a large room with all the lights suddenly out and my eyes unable to make out any direction to go, any way out, so I just stand there and hope someone comes for me or light comes in some way. If you look into their eyes, they will tell you their woes.
Winston started at the shelter this way. Surrendered by his family because they couldn’t afford him any longer, he was confined to a kennel after living in a house, eating once a day after obviously enjoying a life of treats given his weight, and barely touched by our hands after he likely had someone’s hands he would know the scent of even now. His brown-butter fur is soft and beautiful, he’s clean and had not been left in a yard on a chain like others. His block head is perfectly proportioned to hold the cinnamon sugar eyes which stare out through kennel doors at each form and figure passing by knowing instantly, it’s not the one he’s looking for.
Winston’s mourning followed the same stages ours would; disbelief or denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. The first day Winston was at the shelter he was utterly confused by the surroundings, turning in his kennel, getting up, laying down, trying to push the kennel door open, he couldn’t understand why he was there let alone this small space he was confined to. Then anger, as I walked past he immediately barked, when lowering my hand and my eyes so he could smell me I only heard angry growls and barks from him as I wasn’t his human, I was just one of ‘them.’ Then the next day when I visited his kennel he began to growl and bark, but then sniff and investigate, he was bargaining with me if I allowed him to sound off for a moment, he would then allow me to try to offer a biscuit, or my scent as an olive branch for the place he now lives. But I cried with him on the next day when Winston lye on the floor of the kennel, half in and half out of the bed which isn’t really big enough for his body and stared straight ahead. Getting on my knees so we were eye to eye, I feared he was sick or injured, but when I looked into his eyes and saw the tear stains, the unblinking and unreacting face and I knew he was depressed. Only when my eyes filled with tears and I whispered “I’m so sorry” in a voice breaking into a painful high pitch as I choked down that lump that always rises with misery did Winston look at me. But I knew, saying I was sorry, offering my condolences couldn’t lessen the pain his heart felt or his mind endured as he was left to ask himself “Why?” There is no answer which Winston could possibly understand.
I wouldn’t be at the shelter for three days, so I emailed Sam to let her know about Winston and that he needs a little help, a little love, and a little time out of his cell. Coming back the following Monday and I went to find Winston to see if in any way his pain had lessened and his spirit was rebounding. Not in his kennel, but the card still on the cage, I knew he had to be somewhere here still, so I went back to help in the Treatment Room and knew the next thing I had to do is figure out where. Washing dishes in the bathtub / sink we use for bathes, I hurried through bowls and dishes and pans to remove the puppy poo, the old dog food, and clean them so they were done and all I had to do was look for Winston. As it happens the window to the Treatment Room overlooks the back parking lot and I heard a volunteer talking to a dog. Looking out the window it was unmistakably Winston so I dried hands and rushed down the hallway to the back door so I could see how the walk was going, make sure he was not growling or snipping, nor miserably hauling his body places when his spirit had left him.
The thrill when I heard that volunteer tell me the walk was going great and Winston was full of energy is moving even now. This dog was abandoned by his family, left here to figure out something on his own he could never sugar-coat or explain in a politically correct way, and deserted to deal with his anguish and anger and the “Why.” But today he was perky. Winston was playful, energetic, and looked into all the eyes he saw with forgiveness, forgetting what he’s been through and determined to reclaim his spirit and restore it to the glory of Dog. He’s a survivor as sure as any pup which comes in with an imbedded harness, a gunshot wound, bite marks and scars, except Winston took his beating on the inside. Despite that, in spite of that, Winston is a great dog. He’s funny, strong, big, playful, loving, and wonderful. He still loves us, I can see that in his eyes, and he’s looking for one of us to love him. It’s so simple, it’s utterly beautiful.
It’s hard to look into their eyes, but it’s even harder not to. I’m in love with Winston, and lucky for me, he’s in love with ‘us’ all over again. Dogs have spirit, and Winston is living proof.
PS. As I write this blog my loving husband has already gone to bed and snores quite comfortably in our king size bed. My dog, my Denali, lays on the thin area rug near my feet, waiting for me to finish so she can go with me to that comfy bed. I know my husband loves me, but the love of a dog is immeasurable. :0)
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