We currently have two great pets in our home that are not ours. Not completely, anyway. We love them like ours and we, more or less, treat them like ours, but we know that the time will come when we will have to let go.
I guess the best way to illustrate my malaise is to tell their stories.
This is Buster:
Buster is about 6 and a half years old (the same age as Honey), 70 lbs, and mostly hound. I did his intake paperwork. The owner seemed genuinely upset, which is honestly refreshing when dealing with so much... apathy. She said she was moving, and wouldn't have a yard, so she couldn't take him with her.
You see, Buster was a "yard dog." Her words. Specifically, when I asked her why his back end looked so bad (severe alopecia, crusted and stinky), she shrugged and said, "He's a yard dog." When I asked if he had been to the vet, she said no, and gave me a look as if her previous statement made her current one obvious.
I've had dogs that prefer to be outside. They would come in and then, when ready, ask to go back out. Some dogs love being outside. In fact, some dogs live outside and have perfectly happy and healthy lives.
Buster is NOT a yard dog.
Buster loves blankets, loves belly rubs, loves chewing and loves playing fetch. He prefers to be right where his family is, not in the next room or out of eye sight. His new favorite thing is to snuggle on the couch and get his belly rubbed.
Putting a dog outside and not providing proper medical attention is cruel. Putting a dog outside that has probably been a beloved "house dog" for the first three years of his life is heartless. Pretending to be upset when returning the dog to the shelter because you refuse to bring him inside is stupid. I hate lying and I hate crocodile tears. You don't neglect a dog for three years and then pretend to care when you leave him to die.
The more time I spend with this dog, as weird as he may be, the more I hate his previous owner.
Before I move on to Gatsby, I'd like to set it up by sharing a story about another cat from Thursday. His name was Marbles, and he was a gorgeous orange and white cat. His owner knew one of our foster parents, and she contacted us with an urgent request for information about euthanasia. I spoke with her, so when her acquaintance came in moments later I was somewhat prepared.
Marbles was vomiting blood. We all knew that this would be a euthanasia request, but she asked be what the chances were that the vets would try to save him rather than euthanize him. I told her that it occasionally happened, but when a pet was vomiting blood, the situation was dire. To put that question to rest, I made a few phone calls and confirmed that our vets would not be able to save him in his current condition.
Marbles had urine crystals. He had been diagnosed a few years ago (he was currently seven years old) and his condition had been controlled by prescription diet. A few months ago, however, he started showing symptoms that the food wasn't working anymore. Symptoms include blood in urine, straining during urination, painful urination, and not using the litterbox.
She knew what was wrong for months and chose to not seek treatment until he was literally dying. Again, she seemed genuinely distressed, but it is hard to be sympathetic when every fiber of my being is screaming, "YOU KILLED YOUR CAT!!!" Had he been treated when he started showing symptoms again, he would have lived. Instead, a beautiful and otherwise healthy cat was put to death because a treatable condition was consciously left untreated.
I don't get it. My cat is squinting one eye and I am losing my mind. I know it's not an emergency, but I'm calling the vet tomorrow to see if I should do anything. I just don't get it.
That brings me to Gatsby. He was brought in by a guy who said that his wife didn't trust the cat around their new baby. Here's his story, as well as I can piece it together:
Gatsby, formerly known as Max, formerly known as Starlight, was adopted from the Washington DC Humane Society when he was about 5 months old. When he was surrendered to the shelter, he was 2 and a half years old. He was loosely diagnosed with urine crystals a few months ago, but a change in diet seemed to take care of the problem. Since the new baby had arrived, other members of the family were visiting and their accompanying dogs were upsetting Gatsby. In his stress, he lashed out at one of the visitors and became agitated even around the resident dogs. They started isolating him from the rest of the family, specifically the dogs and the baby. He was obviously unhappy and distressed, so his owners consulted their vet. Their vet prescribed fluoxetine (Prozac), and after one week on fluoxetine they surrendered him to the shelter.
If I didn't know any better, I would think that the owners had "tried everything." That's a common lie that we hear at the shelter from owners who have simply had enough. It is rare when a person will admit that they just can't deal with it anymore, just as it is rare when a person has truly tried everything. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't be so angry.
It is normal for a cat to become stressed out around unruly dogs. It is normal for a cat that is having an adrenaline rush due to "fight or flight" to redirect aggression onto a person if that person tries to grab them while they are panicking. There is a difference between isolating a cat and giving it refuge. A cat needs to feel safe in its own home, not endangered and not excluded.
Furthermore, if you think a pet is acting aggressively, DO NOT GIVE IT PROZAC. We have spoken with vets and behaviorists about different scenarios where trying fluoxetine is appropriate, and in every case we have been told that aggression can actually be made worse by Prozac.
Also, if your pet is on Prozac, there is an adjustment period. It can take weeks for a pet to feel "better." Those first couple weeks can be especially bad (I speak from experience). The last thing you want to do is surrender your pet to the shelter after one week on fluoxetine.
That is exactly what they did. And when Gatsby was in the middle of a bad trip, in a weird place with weird people, they had to muzzle him to finish vaccinating him. When he came down, a few days later, he emerged as the loving, perfectly normal cat he is.
But he was already deemed Rescue Only, based on intake behavior and special diet. My coworker who did his intake asked for my help, and as a last-ditch effort, I called the Washington Humane Society. They said that yes, they would take him back, but they would not arrange transport. Our rescue coordinator consulted theirs, and it was agreed that they would take Gatsby back if he got up to DC.
So, here we are.
Gatsby is the biggest cat we've ever had. He loves belly rubs and he loves attention. He also loves to play, in a lazy kind of way.
Just like with Buster, the more time I spend with Gatsby, the more furious I become that his owner left him with us to die. He was informed that Gatsby would not be adoptable and would more than likely be euthanized, and he chose to walk away.
Gatsby is a wonderful, normal cat. He met our dogs, briefly, and had a very normal reaction. He was fine until the dogs started barking at him and one rushed at him, at which point he puffed up and looked for a safe exit. Instead of grabbing him and getting mauled, we allowed him to find his own way back to his safe room, where he immediately calmed down and rolled over for more belly rubs.
I fall in love with all of my fosters. Every single one. Even if they are difficult, even if they don't fit our home and we have to re-foster-home them, even if I know they're going to die. When they're strays, it's easier. But with owners come baggage, which I then take because animals don't carry baggage. They don't have thumbs. Usually I can just ignore it, but these last couple weeks have really tested my faith in humanity.
I do take solace in the fact that they're better off here and their future will hopefully be brighter, but sometimes you just gotta rant it out.
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