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.