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.
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