The Discarded and Forgotten Dog
The hound who was rescued and freed by one woman
I enter and the familiar smell washes over me.
I touch the chain-link cages. My friend Tracey moves ahead of me. We walk as bold, furry, legs greet us throwing themselves against the metal.
Others cower and shake in the far corner of this unfamiliar place where they’ve become the forgotten.
I am physically comfortable having worked at a kennel in my youth.
I am emotionally uncomfortable.
I recognize the stark concrete, steel, and serenade of echoing barks.
The sound that’s constant by day and by night eventually waxes and wanes.
Each four-legged heart settling down as they circle into a furry ball on the cold floor.
This is not a kennel vacation with the thrill of pooches and people. This is not a place where owners will return to pummeling paws and slobbering kisses.
It’s a canine exile.
Where these pups will attempt to find comfort despite their horrible solitude. Where they will await daybreak and the welcome sound of humans. Where they will hope a stranger takes them home.
And barks will reignite begging to be heard.
The canine introverts and extroverts. The neurotic and the beastly. The wide spectrum of fluffy heaven usually afforded the luxury of a perfect human match.
Not here in their four-walled prison.
This is a sentence of loneliness.
Mark Twain once said, “The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.”
It is true.
And if it were up to these furry gentlemen they would free the other members of their pack. Not jail them. The ones cast aside by man.
“How do you choose?” I ask Tracey.
My heart aches and my stomach churns.
Tracey is stronger than me.
I knew this even in middle school.
She’s a rare combination of devouring empathy and tough love.
Tracey points to a lab mix wagging his tail from side to side. “Not him he’ll find a home,” she says.
She moves from cage to cage.
We pass one beagle, a second, then a third.
It’s a harsh reality in southern Virginia. The shelters are filled with these three and their kin. These hounds are considered a utilitarian breed by many hunters and farmers.
“This is who I will take,” says Tracey. “It will be much harder for him to find a home before his time is up.”
Tracey and others have founded HAPPE a rescue organization (www.happepets.org) in Virginia. They have fostered and saved scores of deserving animals.
Their impetus is rooted in a shocking and inhumane method of euthanasia. Gentle creatures are destroyed while trapped in gas-infused containers. A slow and painful death where these loving dogs leave scratch marks on the boxes as they desperately try to escape.
It’s hard to write these words.
Let alone believe this atrocity existed.
And was dealt to friends wanting nothing more but to lick and love us.
The longer Tracey and I are here, the more I beg for the same escape the dogs howl for. This life sentence is unbearable to witness.
When Tracey and I were in high school, we would run into a convenience store. She would yell, “For gosh sake pick something!”
Now I want to yell the same thing.
We gravitate toward friends because of shared unity. A tattoo of similarities. But now I hang onto our differences. The ones that speak to the beauty of Tracey’s individuality.
A hospice nurse by day and an animal liberator by night.
Her strengths leave her distinct mark on the world.
We continue our walk. Tracey’s eyes shift from side to side. She takes in every one of the kindred spirits she wishes she could save. Finally, she grasps a metal lock.
The clinking door signals freedom to the beagle trapped within.
Tracey swoops down and scoops up the grateful hound.
His tail wags with his good luck. He is free.
We retrace our steps.
I feel relief as the door breaks open and welcomes the light of day. Rather than the darkness lurking between concrete, steel, and a life threatening sentence.
Tracey’s new buddy springs towards the car.
He shares my sense of peace.
He settles into his backseat haven.
I look at Tracey.
This is just another day for her. She is unaware of her gift. Of being the few with the ability to face life and death daily. To make a difference when most of us can’t walk that fine line. I don’t tell her what I am thinking.
I admire Tracey for facing what I fear.
For the agonizing work of walking past many to save just one.
I look at the beagle nestled peacefully. He feels it too.
She is his savior. His rescuer. His new shot at paw pummeling and slobbering kisses. At licks and love.
He will live to wag another day.
And Tracey will be back.
To liberate the other forgotten gentlemen in his pack.
