Opinion Time - All About the Fight

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When people learn that Sophie and I volunteer at a "Kill Shelter," we get a variety of responses. One of the most frequent seems to be a variation on, "Oh, I don't know how you can do that - I couldn't handle knowing that the animals might get put to sleep."

I'll be perfectly honest: it isn't easy. Personally, I'm usually drawn to the animals who have the most difficult time getting adopted or rescued, as I (somewhat abashedly) suspect a quick look back through many of Shelter Diaries' posts would indicate. Given that part of working with a shy, frightened, or headstrong animal is getting to know how it thinks... well, it seems like I wind up making a lot of friends I know I'll lose in one way or another. It's inevitable. The only way to avoid the painful part is not to do it at all. A lot of people take that route, and I can't fault them for it.

I often compare the animal shelter to a field hospital in a hostile land. Of the countless numbers that come in through the front door, many will never leave. You will lose many lives, no matter what you do, and that's just the way of things. But if everyone were too timid to make the effort, you would lose all of them. I don't view that as a palatable option.

It's impossible to "make yourself" stop caring. Empathy has no on/off switch. So you mourn each one that doesn't make it. As Sophie pointed out to me when Buster died, though: "The heart is one of the largest, strongest muscles in your body. Like other muscles, it hurts when you overwork it. And like other muscles, the pain only means it will be stronger the next time you have to use it." Every animal I've worked with has left me a stronger person, including and especially those I've cared about enough to leave me gutted when they die. That strength is something I can bring to the next dog who needs a hand, who I may or may not see leave the shelter.

In the end, you can't focus on the big picture; it'll crush you and drive you out of your head. Each day, each animal, each moment... that's where you have to work. It isn't about winning the war. It's about giving the fight everything you've got. That's what matters.

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Grief

A woman came into the shelter this weekend to have her dog euthanized.

She spoke quickly and deliberately, and explained that the dog was ill, she had taken it to five different vets, they had each told her something different and nothing had helped, now he was starting to cough up blood and the latest vet said there was something wrong with all the dog's organs and he'd have to do x-rays but she'd spent all her money at the other vets already and... She needed to have him put to sleep, because there was nothing else she could do, and she didn't want him to keep suffering.

She signed the release just as quickly, almost dismissively. The shelter technician and I both looked at the dog and his shaking owner, then at each other, and I'm sure we both had the same expression - if not the same thought.  He gently lifted the dog and carried him away. Since it was a busy day in the rest of the shelter, I was left alone with the woman.

She just stood there at the counter for about half a minute. Without looking at me, she asked, "I'm not going to see him again?" I told her no.

"It won't hurt, will it? What'll happen when they do it?"

I explained how the euthanasia injection worked - the dog would be given an anesthetic, just like if it were going into surgery. He'd fall asleep, and just not wake up again. And he wouldn't be hurting.

She nodded, then started crying. "It's all my fault. I should have done something else. I should have done more..."

Those words were very familiar. They were pretty much what I'd told myself, over and over again, when Buster died. But I knew how untrue those words were. She'd fought tooth and nail for her dog, and literally given that fight everything she had. In the shelter, she'd given him comfort and courage - and believe me, I know how hard it is to stay calm when your heart's breaking. She'd been brave enough to take on the pain of grief so her dog's pain would abate.

What more would her dog have asked of her?

I wish I could have put it more eloquently and completely, as the behavioral psychologist Patricia McConnell did on her blog, here. Sophie recently pointed this article out to me (under the heading of, "you really, really need to read this"). If you've ever lost a pet, and especially if you've ever had to have one euthanized, I highly reccommend it.

Just before she left, I told her the one thing she could have done - the one thing she still could do, in spite of everything: "Just try to always be the person your dog thinks you are."

I really hope she realizes how much she did for her dog. In time, when the sting of grief isn't as sharp, I hope she'll come to the shelter and adopt another companion. Because that will be one well-loved dog.
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