Today was the 'emancipation date' for a Shih Tzu named Shandy. This means when dogs are brought into the shelter by Animal Control Officers (ACO) as a stray, we cannot take them out of their kennel for five days, thus allowing their owners to come looking for and find them and decreasing liability for the shelter. With the exception of medical care, this means strays must eat, sleep, and eliminate in their kennels without human touch for these days until they are 'emancipated' or available for adoption.
Patiently I waited for Shandy's emancipation date, which is also the date they move from being just a number (A115422309) to being given a name. First from the kennel, covered in matted hair, she practically leapt into my arms, so happy to be free of her cell. Smells, covered in burrs, and very wary of her environment, I wasn't sure if she was excited to be out or ready to nip at any hands near her.
What makes this blog about Shandy's Shawshank Redemption, is the rigors she had to endure through a 'normal process' of being picked up a stray and then adopted by new parents. Whatever she went through being apprehended by ACO, I know not. Whatever she thought of her five days in the kennel, I'm not sure. But after being taken out of that kennel by me, I can catalogue one hellacious day in her life I will never forget.
To clean a matted pup like Shandy, we have to anesthetize her. So quick and skittish, I couldn't determine if she would bite or not when presented in the surgery room as a candidate for a shot so I could work on her. Thelma, the vet technician with more experience around dogs than I have, didn't wait to see. She swept Shandy up, injected her in the back hip with the anesthetic, and said 'There you go.' A quick yelp from Shandy, but it was too late. To tell us she was being hurt didn't matter when the hurt was already inflicted. Anesthetic administered in the muscle takes longer to affect the patient than that administered intravenously, so I had to wait to see it take affect of her. I walked Shandy down the hall, then as I noticed the heaviness of her head increase, and the sleepiness take over, I picked her up.
Laying her on the corner of a table, I had a section of an old blanket for her padding, one pair of Oster clippers, a can of 'clipper spray', a pair of scissors, and paper towels nearby should she vomit or urinate during the 'grooming.' For an hour and a half I shaved Shandy, working on the matted face, head, legs, and backside. Her tail was actually five inches shorter than the length of matted hair I shaved off it. Her ears, which had been matted down to her shoulders, now raised up half-perk. Her face, a slight snub nose, was now free of gunk and mess, and her eyes were clearly visible. She was also missing her whiskers - unavoidable when shaving or trimming off matts, and her coat is of varying lengths since I left good patches of hair. I removed what I had to, and shortened what I could.
Waiting for Shandy to wake from the anesthesia, I wrapped her in a blanket and brought her to the adoption room. Holding her like a baby, I heard her muffled breathing, and felt her slight twitches and efforts to fight the false sleep and wake to find what was happening to her. In the adoption room we have a kiddy-pool with blankets I could lay Shandy in while I went about other duties, checking back on her every chance I had. Soiling her blankets, as anesthetized dogs and cats will do, I lifted her from that pile of garb and wrapped her in a fresh dry towel. With her in my lap, I did some data entry until she was awake enough to stand on her own.
While still -- what we call 'drunk' -- a woman comes to the shelter based solely on the picture of Shandy with a matted face, and wants to meet her and actually applies to adopt her. She lost one of her Shi Tzu's recently, and wants to find another for the litter mate still at home -- and the hole in her own heart. Success at a shelter is a quick adoption. She seems a wonderful person, accepting of Shandy's temporary lethargy as what it is, drug induced, and sees past the choppy shave I'd given her to the sweet face beneath. Following her application for adoption, and approval thereof, Shandy was listed on the next days surgery list.
To complete my 'grooming' of her, I bathed Shandy. In a bathtub also used to clean bowls and dishes, I fill a small plastic bowl with warm water and drape Shandy in it with my hands, as the hose scares most who hear it's serpentine hiss. Using Dawn dish soap, the few fleas that remain after the shaving drop off dead, and with a plastic cup I slowly pour warm water over Shandy's head and work on the tear-stain and gunk stuck around her eyes. She doesn't like the bath, but is equally uneasy about the myriad puppies and recovering dogs in this same room, whining, barking, and generally begging for attention.
Clean, but sopping wet, once again I wrap Shandy in fresh dry towels, and hold her in my arms to help warm her. She was already unnaturally cold from anesthesia, now missing most her coat, and I'd just given her a bath which would further drop her body temperature and increase her discomfort -- this would be a tough day, and then she'd face another one tomorrow. But without that awareness within a moment Shandy naturally perched on my shoulder and licked my neck. She was grateful the bath was over, and I was holding her high and away from other dogs in their kennels. She is a perfect lap dog so content to be in a warm caring embrace.
We go back to the adoption room once again, and I work the towel over her small body, removing what dampness she will allow me as she just leans into me, pleading to be held close. Once dry and up and about, and since tomorrow she was slated for surgery, the safe place for her is in pre-op. I begrudgingly placed her in the stainless steel kennels just off the surgery room. She wanted to stay in my arms and I wanted to keep holding her, but I had other pups to help and other work to be done.
Approximately 30 minutes later, I stopped by to check on Shandy, and she was lethargic, dizzy, and having trouble standing. There were also a few dark red patches on her skin which alarmed me. Sweeping her into my arms again, I begin looking into her face and pleading with her to fight, stay with me, and please be ok. I thought she was having a stroke, too much stress was wearing her out. Walking to Doc's office, I report what's going on with desperation in my now cracking voice. I'm emotional while everyone else is calm. "She's drunk because of the anesthetic I just gave her" says Doc. "But Why?!" I ask with absolute confusion, "She just recovered from anesthetic from this morning??" "O, we'll get her surgery in today yet" he said, and then went on with the conversation my entrance to the small office had intruded. This relieved and alarmed me, two bouts of anesthetic in one day is tough on any dog.
This happens quite a bit to someone new to the shelter like myself. Why is something happening? Who is supposed to do this? Will it get done? Did it get done? As it turns out Doc and Thelma had enough time for one more surgery today and decided to fit Shandy in. So in the same day Shandy was knocked out for a shaving, given a bath, and shown to a stranger who will be her new mom, she's been knocked out again and will be spayed, as all dogs and cats adopted from the shelter must be spayed or neutered prior to release. I place Shandy back in that kennel, promising she'll be ok, and this will all be better soon. I hope she couldn't sense the sadness in my voice but rather the hope in my words.
About an hour later, after helping Journey administer medicines to dogs on the main kennel floor, I stop to check on Shandy one more time. Before I opened the door to the room I could hear she was screaming. Turning on the light, in her kennel, just waking from surgery and unable to turn off her side and onto her belly, she was in obvious distress and confusion. Alarmed is not the right word, but desperate more describes how I felt. Turning her over and finding another towel for her comfort, her cries subside but do not completely quiet. She is in pain, she is confused, and in one day she has been through a hellacious ordeal.
The red spots on her skin were my fault, a novice groomer trying her best to help dogs, it's called clipper burn. Thelma applied ointment to her, and they'll be gone in a day or two, but they add to one full day of stress for Shandy. Tonight she sleeps alone in that kennel, completely unsure why we've done everything we did to her. She'll be sore from the operation, the shots given, the vaccinations administered, and the burns inflicted. This time tomorrow she'll be in a loving home with a new best buddy all within one week of Shandy's life.
I won't see her again, won't be able to hold her or make up for today's treatment with tenderness or kisses. I've helped her on this terrible journey from stray to pet, and she's left an indelible impression on my heart. Like being falsely imprisoned and finding her escape, it's a place she should have never been in and I'm so much more at peace to know she should never be back -- but somehow I still feel we've let her down, she should never have been at the shelter in the first place. I hope her previous 'owners' lose sleep too, feel pains in their stomachs, and itches on their skin with any amount of worry where their Shih Tzu ever got off to.
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