His 15 Minutes

Splinter is aptly named. His image sticks with me (and it hurts a little). The highlight of Splinter's day is the 15-minute walk we do around the shelter; he's heart-broken when we return to his kennel. Affectionate and full of energy, he deserves so much more than I or any of the volunteers can give him. He deserves a family. Sometimes I wonder if he'll ever have the chance to roll around in real grass or fall asleep in an actual home. Five months old, and already his pitbull label puts him at a disadvantage. There's a strong possibility he'll never leave the shelter. Only 23 hours and 45 minutes until that kennel door opens again. The wait must feel interminable.

We Meet Again

She's unmistakeable. Those eyes. That tongue. Once she left the shelter, I honestly never expected to think about Lilli Bear again, let alone see her. It's not that I didn't like her -- in her months with GADAB I did develop a fondness for her. But we see so many dogs and not every one becomes the sort that embeds himself in your consciousness and never fades away. When her owner redeemed her, I wished the best for Lilli Bear; I hoped her time after her stint in the shelter would be better than her time prior to it, but my focus turned to the dogs still in custody.

When I saw her on the street, it was like running into a friend from a past life. "Lilli Bear!" I cried. But she and her owner hurried along, and I was left standing there, stunned and unnerved. "I know that dog!" I shouted to no one in particular. People began to give themselves an unnecessarily wide berth as they passed me. After a moment, I continued toward home.

Sometimes at the shelter I get sloppy with my handling. I'll let a dog jump on me more than he should or I won't ask for eye contact before bestowing a treat. Corinne reminds me that the greatest gifts we can give these dogs (in addition to comfort and affection) are the tools to help them when they leave our care. We can teach them manners. We can show them tricks. We can equip them with behaviors that perhaps will endear them to the people they ultimately go home to. Just maybe those behaviors will prevent people from mistreating them. Maybe. As for Lilli Bear, I don't know if our work with her has any affect on the way she's treated now. I do know that her coat appeared shiny and her demeanor seemed relaxed. I can only hope she's living the life she deserves.

I Hate Posts Like This

The happiness of Little Papa's good news is unfortunately dampened a bit by what I have to share about Bear - the pitbull who came in with LP on the same cruelty case. Bear was euthanized after being officially surrendered to Animal Care and Control and subsequently failing her handling tests. As was the case with Momo and Minna earlier in the year this is a heartbreaker. We worked hard with Bear while she was with us the last 6 months and she came a long way. Unfortunately, she deteriorated behaviorwise from being in the shelter for so long and even the attention we gave wasn't enough to counteract the effects of longterm custody on her. I'll think of bear every time I see a tennis ball (she loved fetch) or a garden hose (chasing water was close second to tennis balls). Farewell, Bear. I hope you've met someone who can throw a ball a few miles for you.

I Love Posts Like This

Nothing makes me happier than passing on a happy ending. We have one for one of our longtime guests, Little Papa, a spunky brindle boxer who came to us in November for a cruelty case along with his friend Bear, a pitbull. Their case ended recently with them both being surrendered over to the shelter -- this was a good outcome since their home was not a good place to be . For Little Papa, it's the best outcome. He's very adoptable and I'm sure will find a good home - in fact, he's already passed his medical and temperament tests and been moved over to the available animals section of the shelter. If you know anyone interested in adopting a loveable goof of a dog that needs tons of exercise and no small children in the house, please pass this along.

His Name Is Radar

Last Friday on my way out of the animal hospital, a small, frightened pit bull was making his way in. Huge patches of fur were either hanging off of him or missing completely, and deep cuts ran across his throat and chest. All four legs were spotted with pink open sores, some the size of quarters, and his right front leg appeared dislocated, horribly swollen, or both. A vet technician spoke lovingly to him as she coaxed him through the door. She told me that the dog had been born and bred to fight. Apparently he'd lost this bout and was dumped on the street to die.

All weekend, he drifted in and out of my thoughts; like many of the dogs I work with, he appeared in my dreams. When he was well enough to travel, I knew he would wind up here at ACC, and on Monday when I came in, there he was, gazing at me from his makeshift bed in his kennel. Woozy from pain medication, he looked nearly as roughed up as he had two days ago. Still, I was overjoyed to see him. As I crouched in next to him, he moved slowly and deliberately closer to me. I stayed there stroking him a long time, avoiding his wounds and his injured leg. He nuzzled into me so intensely, a bit of his patchy fur remained stuck to my sweatshirt when I finally pulled away.

On Tuesday, he seemed better. Or maybe I just wanted him to seem better. When I went in to sit, his appetite instantaneously returned and he began eating the kibble he'd thus far left untouched. I told him I knew he was a gentle dog, and I promised he'd never be made to fight again. On Wednesday his tail wagged as I approached his kennel. Limping, he walked the few steps to greet me. I worried to see him struggling out of his bed, but I was thrilled he felt strong enough to attempt it. On Friday he licked peanut butter off of my fingers and seemed to smile, the way dogs do, as I cooed and pet him.

Today, Saturday, it rained, and the shelter felt gray and cold in those morning hours. As usual, we snuggled for a long long time, he and on his bed and me sitting beside him, so close I felt each breath come in and out. I worried about his injured leg, but each time I'd shift to give him space, he moved closer to me, his brown eyes sorrowful, yet somehow brimmed with hope. "You're so beautiful," I told him. "You didn't deserve this."

I got the phone call a few hours later; a decision had been made. A scared dog, wary of humans, he'd be euthanized within the hour. Because the sadness stung so acutely, I tried to focus on the indignation: born to be abused, made to fight, sentenced to a life of pain and cruelty. I had wanted so badly for this dog to be the exception, to somehow prove that a week of tenderness could erase the fear. That he could know, finally, a happier life. The sense of injustice is overwhelming. I can't find any meaning in it, and writing about it doesn't help.

But at least I can keep my promise. He'll never fight again.

Red, the rocket dog

Who says long legs make for the best runners? Barely off the ground, he's across the park and back within a few blurry seconds. That's Red. A miniature pinscher-dachshund mix, he's not especially lean, not particularly leggy, but not to be underestimated when it comes to speed. He zooms past me, darting at the bird in the far tree, and an instant later he's back investigating the noise coming through the other side of the fence. Red's owner is in the hospital, and with no one to take care of him during this time, we give him the closest thing we can here to a home. And he gives me something too: a pretty good workout during our spirited games of chase. You can guess who wins.

Dog of the Week

Meet Jeckel. He's a very smart, highly energetic pitbull mix. He loves running, playing fetch and is extremely trainable. He's also a very typical Give a Dog a Bone resident -- he joined us for a few weeks while his owner was in jail. Since there were no friends or family to take care of him, Jeckel came to Animal Care and Control and was put under GADAB's care.