dogs barking at our presence drowned out the sounds—alive with the whistles and warbles of chickadees. It would have been a pleasant day by Alaska standards, had we not been there to peruse the pets a dead woman left behind.
We found the experience painful but educational. We had never considered what would happen to our own dogs should we meet an untimely death. We assumed family members would come forward to take home what they could, but we had never made these plans formally, or even more important, legally. Fortunately for Delp’s dogs, she showed foresight and filed a last will and testament detailing her wishes for her brood, but she had taken all knowledge of who was who to the grave with her. Her dogs’ names, their ages and physical descriptions, and their medical histories were all unknown.
All the dogs looked healthy and well cared for, and they displayed the usual array of personalities. Some were overtly gregarious and completely overjoyed at meeting newcomers, wagging their tails so excitedly, they whipped themselves right off their own doghouses. Others were so timid that they refused any form of hand or eye contact and trembled in terror inside their house whenever we stepped near.
“Which ones should we take,” Cole asked, over the drone of biting insects.
On the drive up we had agreed on two as the maximum we could financially afford to add to our kennel at that time. It seemed like so few, but a harsh reality of rescuing dogs and one that becomes a mantra for anyone who does it for any length of time is: you can’t save them all.
“I think we should go for the ones least likely to find homes with anyone else,” I said.
“Well, that rules out these guys,” Cole said, gesturing with her hands in Vanna White–style over a pen of puppies roughhousing and chewing each other’s ears in the elation of us standing so close.
We knew they’d be the first to go so we scanned the dog yard, staring past those literally jumping with joy, to essentially look for omega animals: any gimps, cripples, misfits, or weirdos. In the back corner of the kennel we found a likely prospect—an ancient, mole-dark male with a build as bizarre as a Salvador Dali painting. He had a head like a boar and a barrel chest to match, but his hips and stubby hind legs seemed half the size they should be.
“He looks like a weight lifter who does too much upper body, but totally neglects working out from the waist down,” I joked.
“Looks more like the Tasmanian devil from the old Looney Tunes cartoons to me,” Cole said.
The circle where he was tethered looked like a Word War I trench. There were long deep ruts where he clearly dug for many hours a day. There were a couple of huge, heavy equipment tires in his spot too, possibly to slow down his digging or divert him from the activity, but from the jagged rubber chunks all around the circumference, it was plain to see he chewed on them extensively. The filthy-looking animal also paced feverishly with his food bowl clamped in his jaws, staring more through us than at us. All of these behaviors added up to a dog with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. As if that weren’t enough, we deduced after slapping mosquitoes next to his head without him taking notice, he was also completely deaf.
“I’d say he’s a keeper,” Cole quipped.
“Indeed,” I concurred dryly, and with that, the dog joined our ranks and was from then on dubbed “Old Man.”
“So who else?” Cole asked.
This time, our eyes searched past the messy mounds of freshly dug soil to a spot that barely looked like a dog lived there at all. Tall grass grew in the circle where he was tethered, indicating a cowardly creature that spent most of its time hiding in its house. The dog cowering at the back looked a lot like a coyote and exhibited a similar disposition: wanting to avoid human contact at all costs. Despite our best efforts to coax him out of his fear-induced catatonia, he wanted nothing to do with us. We were forced to manually, hand-over-hand, reel his chain in to bring him near. Like an anchor, he had to be dragged every inch of the way, his limbs locked up tight in resistance, as he was petrified stiff with fright.
“Looks like we found another addition,” I said.
“At least he’s younger than the other one,” Cole said, since the dog appeared to be around two years old. This panic-stricken pup we named Rolo, due to his pale, caramel-colored coat. Our friends who drove up with us also took home seven dogs between the three of them. In the end, not all of Delp’s dogs were able to find homes, but most of them did through the efforts of kindhearted people.
The nobility of these selfless deeds should not be understated. The bearers of bleeding hearts acknowledge it as both a blessing and a burden. Those who rescue dogs know an occupational hazard of compassion is that you eventually begin to deteriorate, deep within yourself, from seeing so much animal suffering firsthand.
Sure, there is joy and satisfaction from liberating a dog from an acutely awful situation, but those feelings are short-lived. Replaced by the dread of knowing there will be others, or worse still, the ones you can’t save. There just isn’t enough time, enough money, enough room, to save every dog in a bad way, which is why 2.7 million animals are euthanized in the United States annually.… I repeat, 2.7 million killed, each and every year, at the taxpayers’ expense.
This number weighs on me, my conscience and my soul, till I feel like a dead man under six feet of soil. I dwell on this loss of dog life to the point I can’t sleep at night, and when I do I have nightmares. My days are also filled with depression, which turns to cynicism and judgment, not just of those causing the suffering and their capacity to be so cruel and callous, but also of those who turn a blind eye to the hurt and dog deaths. If only people acted altruistically, if only those who aren’t providing for dogs properly or adopting those without homes could be moved to act, if only more people would simply care. If only …
Then, just as my thought pattern of how humans could be so inhumane reaches near-obsessive proportions, others will come forward—as with adopting Delp’s dogs—and show they too care. Suddenly, there is someone else who understands sacrifices—like eating chips and salsa for dinner for weeks to afford premium-grade kibble—because they have also surrendered similar staples to provide for a dog in need.
It is then that I realize Cole and I are not the only ones who appreciate the underappreciated. We have kindred spirits—few and far between, but still out there—and knowing that these people exist, and are genuinely doing their parts to help animals, gives me the strength to go on saving lives.
…
Next to join our mosaic of mutts was Ghost, another female from our local animal shelter. She became permanent entirely by accident. I had been at the pound for a story when I spotted the gorgeous girl pacing in one of the runs. She had a short coat, white as the full moon, the only exception being her mauve-colored nose, the lightest of light blue eyes, and the black stencil that bordered them and her lips. Images of her exquisite appearance still echoed in my mind later that day when I visited our veterinarian with one of our other dogs, and I involuntarily described her during the appointment.
“I know someone who is looking to get a pet dog, and she sounds like a perfect fit for this person,” he said.
Knowing time is of the essence when it comes to dogs on death row, and with the prospects of a home lined up, I shot back to the pound immediately. Getting there just before closing, I filled out the paperwork, forked over the adoption fee, and took the dog home. It was too late that day to make it back to the veterinary clinic before it closed, but I drove there the next day with the dog riding shotgun.
To my dismay, the veterinarian told me he had informed his friend of
