Sunday. A friend and I take our dogs for a run in the
park. The late-afternoon sunlight is pure gold, and a fresh breeze rustles the
tall grass. A family approaches us on the trail: a man, woman, and two small
boys. They are accompanied by a large tan dog with the distended nipples of
motherhood and an adorable pup who looks just like his mom. The pup pesters his
mom, taking five steps for every one of hers. She patiently tolerates his
rambunctiousness.
It’s a heartwarming scene that totally depresses me.
What has happened to me? I love dogs. I love puppies.
And yet the sight of puppies makes me sad. Every time I see or hear of a litter
of kittens or pups, I also see cages full of homeless ones and the bins full of
dead ones at the shelter where I work.
Monday. It’s 8
PM , time to go home. I walk past the cages in the Stray Cat Room. A
calico cat and her two kittens sit quietly on the shelf in their cage. The
mother grooms one of the kittens. A pink card attached to the cage tells me
it’s time to say goodbye to these three. I feel the familiar mixture of
sadness, anger, and bitterness.
A huddled gray ball of fur in an adjoining cage
catches my eye. In the farthest corner of her cage, a bedraggled cat hides her
head under a sheet of newspaper. I peer between the bars. “Hi, Kitty,” I say
softly. “Are you totally miserable? I don’t blame you.” I chatter on, more for
my own benefit than for hers. I put some treats into her bowl and leave.
Tuesday. A small, frightened black rabbit is rescued
from a cellar by one of our Humane Officers. That evening she gives birth to
five babies. Four days later, when her stray period is up, the babies are
injected with sodium pentobarbital. A few seconds later, they are dead. The
mother is put up for adoption.
Gray Cat clings to her corner, still facing the wall.
I notice that she’s eaten the treats I left, which encourages me. I talk to her
again. “I know it’s hard to believe, but actually you’re pretty lucky. Decent
food, a clean litterbox, people who care about you; and, with a little luck,
one special person to appreciate and adore you forever.” Gray Cat is not
impressed.
Wednesday. I talk to the people in my dog-training
class about spaying and neutering. “Of the ten million dogs and cats who are
killed every year at animal shelters in the US
“Spend a day at the shelter and you’ll also hear the
repertoire of reasons people give for not having their animals spayed or
neutered: ‘We want the children to experience the miracle of birth'; ‘Neutering
is unnatural'; ‘It’s cruel'; “I wouldn’t want anyone to do it to me'; ‘My cat
is from champion stock'; ‘We’ve already got homes lined up for all the babies.’
But try to explain these reasons to a loving, beautiful animal (or even an
ill-tempered, homely one) whose time is up, who is receiving a death sentence
when his only crime is that some human let him be born instead of facing the
reality of the overpopulation disaster. I’ve never heard a rationalization that
didn’t fade into nothing in the face of even one death.”
On my way out, I stop at Gray Cat’s cage again. “Hi,
Gray C. Still memorizing that bit of wall, I see.” A miracle! She turns and
looks at me. Her emerald eyes size me up. Maybe I’m being too optimistic, but
she seems a little less frightened, her body a shade more relaxed. “Listen,” I
tell her, “you’ve probably met some pretty unevolved humans out there. We’re
not all like that. Give us another chance, okay?” She blinks dubiously. This is
progress.
Thursday. The animal care technicians at the shelter
are the bravest people in the world. I watch them scrub kennels and clean
litterboxes. I see them take a moment to play with a kitten or hold a lonely
pup. I hear them calm the frightened ones with a gentle word. And every now and
then I force myself to witness what they must face every day. That same dog who
they cared for, petted, and talked to must finally be given the only thing we
have left to offer: a gentle, respectful death. What have we come to when the
best we can do is to kill them kindly?
Jim puts a leash on the Labrador retriever. She cowers
in the back of the kennel, tail between her legs. He tugs on the leash. She
whimpers and crouches down lower. He kneels beside her. “It’s okay, pup. Don’t
be scared.” She stops whimpering but won’t move. He scoops her up in his arms
and carries her to the Euthanasia Room. She’s been at the shelter for two
weeks. She’s so frightened that all she does is lie in the corner. No one wants
her. Now she will die. Carol holds her while Jim shaves a small patch of fur
from her leg. She is quiet and trembling. Jim continues to talk to her. He
gives her the injection. She slumps onto the table. Carol carries her body to
the Chill Room and adds it to the pile.
In the Cat Room, Gray Cat is sitting in her usual
corner, but she’s not facing the wall today. The room is noisy. Adorable
kittens fill row upon row of cages. Friendly adult cats come forward, asking
for attention. I open her cage to give her a treat. “It isn’t fair,” I tell
her. “You have every right to distrust people, but if you don’t act adoptable,
how can you compete with all these other cats?” I reach my hand closer to her.
I touch her. She lets me! I thank her.
Friday. At home, a veterinary clinic calls me to find
out if I have room for another unwanted. The owners brought a young mini-lop in
to be euthanized. Why? They’re moving out of state. They don’t want to take the
rabbit. They haven’t found any friend who will take him, and they don’t want “a
bunch of strangers” coming to their house to see the rabbit.
When I get to work, Gray C. is not in her cage. I look
everywhere. I try not to be too hopeful. I tell myself, don’t pursue it. I
ignore my own good advice. I go to the Chill Room. She is there, in one of the
bins, her body curled up against that of a terrier. I touch her, for the second
and last time. Her body is getting cold. She is gone. I mourn her. But who will
mourn the calico kitten underneath her, and the angora rabbit in the next bin?
Who will mourn all ten million of them, one by one?
Please remember all of the unwanted furkids in
shelters … ADOPT, DON’T SHOP!
(Amy Espie)
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