I'll never understand the owners who say that they don't have time for their pet anymore, and leave them to die at the shelter in the arms of strangers. I'm not talking about how we tell every pet owner who surrenders a pet that their pet will be at risk due to space, health and temperament, I'm talking about the owners who are told, after intake, point blank, that if they walk out that front door without their pet, their pet will be euthanized in the next ten minutes. And they keep on walking.
Kiki was brought in by his grandfather and left to die. He was a 4 year old, declawed cat whose mother could no longer give him the time that he "deserved". "He deserves a good home with a loving family," she wrote. Kiki did not get what he deserved. Kiki hadn't been away from home in years. He was in a borrowed carrier that smelled like another cat, taken to a room by someone he didn't know, placed in a kennel in that carrier, surrounded by hundreds of other smells and the voices of strangers. He didn't want to be handled by those strangers, he was too scared and wanted to be left alone. So he hissed. He hissed and he growled and he acted tough so that we wouldn't know that he was scared to death. But we knew. We also knew that we couldn't keep him. We couldn't put him up for adoption because he wouldn't be able to handle dozens of strangers staring at him every day, trying to touch him. We couldn't hold him because the shelter environment is cruel for fearful animals. Our only option was to euthanize him and give him a kind death. But first, I asked his grandfather if they would take him back. I said, "He's scared. We can't touch him. You can walk out that door with him and we'll destroy the paperwork. If you leave him here, he will be put down."
Kiki fought. He was scared, but he fought death. He wasn't ready. But that wasn't his choice. Or ours.
Bryn was a good dog, too. At one time, she had a family with children that loved her. But then her mother and her children left her with her father. Her father lost his job, but found a new one a few weeks later. That new job, though, meant that he had to travel, for weeks at a time. No one would watch Bryn, and her father couldn't afford the extensive boarding fees with his new job's salary.
When I met Bryn, she thought she was at the vet and she was already scared. The vets had warned us that she was fearful and would need to be muzzled, and to go slow with her. So we went for a walk, me, Bryn and her father. We walked down the sidewalk, and when we got to the end, she and I walked around the yard while her father went to his car. He couldn't take her back, no matter what the outcome, but he knew that her chances were not good.
Bryn walked with me like a good girl does. She went with me into the front door, through the lobby, and down the hallway. She got on the scale, and stood obediently. But she would not let me touch her. And she would not let anyone else touch her. Bryan was scared, too, and she defended herself in the only way she knew how. The whites of her eyes showed. Her hackles went up. She bared her teeth. And she growled. A dog like that can't go on the adoption floor. A dog like that should be at home, with her family, where she is safe. The shelter is no place for a scared good girl.
Sometimes we can save these pets. But most of the time, we can't. We don't have the space for them, we don't have a place where they can feel safe and relax. It's loud and it smells funny and there's nothing for them but fear. It's so sad that the best we can do is euthanize them, give them the peace that their owners failed to secure for them. Please, people, take your pet to the vet to be put down. Be there for them when they need you the most. Don't put that on us.
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