People think, judging from discussion boards I sometimes sneak around, that shelter workers are jerks. That's understandable, perhaps. Maybe all you want to do is to stop in Kittens-R-Us and pick up a 2 month diversion. Maybe the stringent and overbearing requirements we have, like speaking to your landlord to make sure it's ok that you have a pet, and also our sneaky tactics in trying to catch you unawares with the questions about whether you plan to declaw, whether you're going to let the cat outside, whether your other pets are spayed/neutered...I know. The audacity!
We are looser than most shelters, actually. We don't even call your vet for reference. Home visits? Ha. We hardly have time to go pee in the course of a day. Who's going to go do home checks? We will give you a hard time if you tell it to our face that the kitten is to be a surprise gift for your 19 year old boyfriend. But all in all....if you are articulate and polite, you'll most likely get what you want from us within reason.
But, yes. We are jerks. I think a lot about this. I do not really work the floor, play kitty petting zoo, do adoptions. I am too busy doing everything medical-related. Work that at one point was shared with two others who have since left and not really been replaced. But I think a lot about it, the impression we, I, give to visitors. I remember a couple years back at the Toyota dealership...the night we went to sign papers on the purchase of my Fit. They were busy. I grasped that. But for an hour, it seemed like at least a half dozen little metro-coiffed, cologned, necktied young car salesmen were zipping around from the finance office and back, right by our faces, all stressed looking...and no one so much as smiled and said..."Someone will be with you! Sorry!" I was offended. And I got to thinking that perhaps I do that. I know I walk harried and cranky-looking, all rushed, back to the copier, my boss' office, wherever, right past visitors-who-may-need-help. I try try try to pick my averty gaze up off my shoes and smile and say..."Have you been helped?" But somedays the burden is already too heavy and I just can't bring myself to open that can of worms. Honestly, I don't really want to know whether you have been helped, because there's a chance you'll say..."No, I haven't!" I have stuff to do, my Care-O-Meter was maxed out like 2 years ago, I have death and disease nipping at my heels constantly, and I don't want to get even further behind in my work to chit chat about why our adoption fee is "so high" ($85).
I try try try to be nice. Sometimes I go whole hog and stop what I am doing to answer any questions in the world for you. I feel good after it, and I hope you do, too. I say my Care-O-Meter is maxed out...but really it's not. It's part of me. But I can't muster that up constantly while getting pummelled with rotten tomatoes of Problems, Sob Stories and Futile Tasks all day.
Some of my coworkers don't seem to try that much. Sometimes I cringe at stuff I overhear. On one hand, I understand their crabbiness. We have had enough. We are emotionally bankrupt a lot of the time. We know you are quite possibly just in the throes of a kitten orgasm and not really thinking longterm. We have as good of a handle as we can on the ubiquitous cat URI that is in every shelter...and your pointing out that someone is sneezing or complaining about an eye goober is not seen as being that helpful, thanks. Your proclivity, as a layperson, to debate with us about the children-age-restriction assigned by a professional behaviorist to the nippy Jack Russell down there is tedious and slightly offensive. On the other hand, though, we could be friendlier. You are uppity to us. That makes us uppity to you. Which came first on a given day, I don't know. Some people, a couple coworkers of mine included, really should not be in a position to deal with the public. But how did they get like that? From dealing with the public.
I don't know what the answer is....maybe if we were nicer, the public would be less infuriating.
Maybe if the public was less infuriating, we would be nicer.
It's not like this all the time, but on a busy day, some scenarios play out that are unpleasant to overhear. Decent possible homes may be lost.
There has to be a better way. I just don't know what it is. A deli counter? "Number 23?" Something.
Showing posts with label animal shelter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label animal shelter. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Two roads diverged...
It's been nonstop lately. A couple people on vacation this week, including our intrepid receptionist, "The Gatekeeper." She's been at the shelter for a dozen years or so. How ever she keeps going day after day with the violin-laden verbal diarrhea pouring out of the phone receiver and at her desk window over and over and over, I'll never know.
Yesterday, in the midst of a couple crises, including an owner-present euthanasia or two and a fish-hook-in-lip debacle with the past-due-to-be-neutered cat of a lady who (insert story involving moving and no money, but "Thank you thank you thank you! You guys are wonderful! I will come back on Wednesday and make a donation!" AKA, sedation, neuter, vax, nail trim, pain meds, antibiotics and fish-hook-removal, on the house while "donation" gets rerouted towards a sixer and a carton of Pall Malls)...well, in meanders a classy-looking broad with a dog who needed a rabies shot THAT DAY, because she needed proof for court the next day. Typical. It's amazing to me how these things in these people's lives happen on such an urgent basis. I always thought that generally, any formal notification such as a court date, collections notice, evictions,and even voluntary moves, babies being born, allergy developments and the like, kind of came on with some time to plan...but it doesn't seem so if you go by the pressing needs of our clientele.
Anyhow...so.
Court date tomorrow for an animal control citation, I'm assuming. Rabies shot needed TODAY!!
After finishing the removal of the fish hook and the testicles from the cat, it was her turn. She drags in a big plastic crate. I start drawing up the vaccine. My boss starts filling out the certificate. Lady can't fathom if the dog is over or under 20 lbs, so I glance in the door at the little, oh, 8 pounder within. And I just knew.
I was looking my own dog in the face, but yet not. After some questions, I came to determine that indeed, this was littermate to my own beloved Svetlana. This lady's sister is an illustrious breeder of PoodlePoms. Pomadoodles. Diddlypoodoodleranains. Whatever the frig.
My dog came from my work. She was 8 weeks old, still with her mom and littermates, and her rear leg was crushed...compound fracture. "Breeder" took her to a vet and was outraged at the prospect of spending three hundred on exam, xrays, etc. I remember it, 2 years ago...I remember my boss asking what the family's annual income was (we can only offer financial aid to people who qualify as low income). I remember the answer being "$80,000." I remember my boss' reply was silence and then an apologetic "no."
I remember the next day, we were closed down (UNHEARD of!) so staff could all attend a compassion fatigue workshop. It was time for Us. Our time. For a day, no animal garbage dump and recycling center services. One. Day. I remember in the middle of crying group therapy time, hearing the "tink tink tink" of a dipshit at the front window, knocking. It was a couple and a puppy with an e-collar and a homemade "cast". SSI papers were in hand for proof of need. Little batfaced foxy black puppy...and scent of gangrene from across the room. The amazing coincidence of a puppy matching the description and injury of yesterday's phone call! Puppy was zipped off for an emergency amputation.
Now, I was dogless for a dozen years...since leaving home at 18. I could've had a million dogs all that time, with being a vet tech. But I always declared I would wait until I owned a home. And it would be a sporty fun dog, medium sized. A labbish mixy thing maybe. At this point in time, we were set to close on our house in three weeks. As nursynurse, of course it was me who had to take home little tripod puppy to watch her that night. And the next night. A Poodle-Pom was not what I'd pictured myself with. But Cupid's arrow flew anyway. It was worrisome for a while, because the people who brought her in (who turned out to be "breeder"'s brother-in-law) were supposed to come up with a few hundred dollars to cover the amputation, and get her back. I was in love already. My boss kept me strung along for weeks, even though the people hadn't so much as called to check on her in all that time. Finally, I adopted her. She was a terror as a pup, a bitch to housetrain and has a horrid yap...but she is the apple of my eye, my Sveta. She runs around on three like nobody's business, and goes to schools and nursing homes. We just passed our Delta test for pet- assisted therapy. She makes the worst day disappear with her happy dance at the door. I love this dog ridiculously. Personality plus. Her tag says it all- "Piece of Work."
To see her sister in a piss-slippery plastic crate, shy of touch....what her life might have been....
She was scrawny and worried-looking. She had never been vaccinated until now. We also tried to get into the friendly spay discussion but didn't get far due to obvious lack of interest and a strange, sleepy ennui. The lady remembered the one with the broken leg. "We thought they'd just put it to sleep."
Hardly!
How profound it is, the way happenstance and random events can shape our whole future. Or that of a dog. Thank heavens Sveta lost that leg. Thank. Heavens. It was such strange mix of emotion to watch the other dog, the parallel reality, my own little bedbug's sad doppleganger, leave the building.
Yesterday, in the midst of a couple crises, including an owner-present euthanasia or two and a fish-hook-in-lip debacle with the past-due-to-be-neutered cat of a lady who (insert story involving moving and no money, but "Thank you thank you thank you! You guys are wonderful! I will come back on Wednesday and make a donation!" AKA, sedation, neuter, vax, nail trim, pain meds, antibiotics and fish-hook-removal, on the house while "donation" gets rerouted towards a sixer and a carton of Pall Malls)...well, in meanders a classy-looking broad with a dog who needed a rabies shot THAT DAY, because she needed proof for court the next day. Typical. It's amazing to me how these things in these people's lives happen on such an urgent basis. I always thought that generally, any formal notification such as a court date, collections notice, evictions,and even voluntary moves, babies being born, allergy developments and the like, kind of came on with some time to plan...but it doesn't seem so if you go by the pressing needs of our clientele.
Anyhow...so.
Court date tomorrow for an animal control citation, I'm assuming. Rabies shot needed TODAY!!
After finishing the removal of the fish hook and the testicles from the cat, it was her turn. She drags in a big plastic crate. I start drawing up the vaccine. My boss starts filling out the certificate. Lady can't fathom if the dog is over or under 20 lbs, so I glance in the door at the little, oh, 8 pounder within. And I just knew.
I was looking my own dog in the face, but yet not. After some questions, I came to determine that indeed, this was littermate to my own beloved Svetlana. This lady's sister is an illustrious breeder of PoodlePoms. Pomadoodles. Diddlypoodoodleranains. Whatever the frig.
My dog came from my work. She was 8 weeks old, still with her mom and littermates, and her rear leg was crushed...compound fracture. "Breeder" took her to a vet and was outraged at the prospect of spending three hundred on exam, xrays, etc. I remember it, 2 years ago...I remember my boss asking what the family's annual income was (we can only offer financial aid to people who qualify as low income). I remember the answer being "$80,000." I remember my boss' reply was silence and then an apologetic "no."
I remember the next day, we were closed down (UNHEARD of!) so staff could all attend a compassion fatigue workshop. It was time for Us. Our time. For a day, no animal garbage dump and recycling center services. One. Day. I remember in the middle of crying group therapy time, hearing the "tink tink tink" of a dipshit at the front window, knocking. It was a couple and a puppy with an e-collar and a homemade "cast". SSI papers were in hand for proof of need. Little batfaced foxy black puppy...and scent of gangrene from across the room. The amazing coincidence of a puppy matching the description and injury of yesterday's phone call! Puppy was zipped off for an emergency amputation.
Now, I was dogless for a dozen years...since leaving home at 18. I could've had a million dogs all that time, with being a vet tech. But I always declared I would wait until I owned a home. And it would be a sporty fun dog, medium sized. A labbish mixy thing maybe. At this point in time, we were set to close on our house in three weeks. As nursynurse, of course it was me who had to take home little tripod puppy to watch her that night. And the next night. A Poodle-Pom was not what I'd pictured myself with. But Cupid's arrow flew anyway. It was worrisome for a while, because the people who brought her in (who turned out to be "breeder"'s brother-in-law) were supposed to come up with a few hundred dollars to cover the amputation, and get her back. I was in love already. My boss kept me strung along for weeks, even though the people hadn't so much as called to check on her in all that time. Finally, I adopted her. She was a terror as a pup, a bitch to housetrain and has a horrid yap...but she is the apple of my eye, my Sveta. She runs around on three like nobody's business, and goes to schools and nursing homes. We just passed our Delta test for pet- assisted therapy. She makes the worst day disappear with her happy dance at the door. I love this dog ridiculously. Personality plus. Her tag says it all- "Piece of Work."
To see her sister in a piss-slippery plastic crate, shy of touch....what her life might have been....
She was scrawny and worried-looking. She had never been vaccinated until now. We also tried to get into the friendly spay discussion but didn't get far due to obvious lack of interest and a strange, sleepy ennui. The lady remembered the one with the broken leg. "We thought they'd just put it to sleep."
Hardly!
How profound it is, the way happenstance and random events can shape our whole future. Or that of a dog. Thank heavens Sveta lost that leg. Thank. Heavens. It was such strange mix of emotion to watch the other dog, the parallel reality, my own little bedbug's sad doppleganger, leave the building.
Friday, July 25, 2008
As Much Fun as a Root Canal
After a couple weeks of pain, which moved around the entirety of my mouth and varied in intensity from slighly annoying to crying at 3 a.m., I finally made it into a dentist and then an endodontist. No longer am I a root canal virgin. This week, I endured the first of two...out-of-pocket. No one becomes a vet tech for the insurance benefits, believe me. Or for the paycheck.
Having asked everyone in my acquaintence whether they'd had one, and how bad it was, I entered the endodontist's office only somewhat anxious. It was fast. Exactly one hour after the start, I found myself back in the car, pulling out of the parking lot with a numb mouth and a heavy sigh. It really wasn't bad, except for a couple seconds...and having to write so many digits on a check. Apparently, some people, once in a while, sport a "hot tooth." That's one that doesn't get blocked completely by the novocaine as it should. Happens once a month or so, they said. Lucky me...Miss July. There was a second when I felt the drill inside my tooth. It was as though someone dropped an atomic bomb in my jaw. Fat Man and Little Boy both. At once. I held still, but the physical response was intense...heart racing, muscles quaking, throat whimpering and eyes flooding. All at once I was 4 years old and I needed my mommy. Thankfully after a couple minutes and a couple more blocks, I felt nothing. And it was shortly done, after a whole lot of unsettling shoving of implements up my face.
It was not pleasant.
But you know what was more torturous than the root canal itself?
There I was, mouth open, laying back, rubber dam clamped in place over the victim tooth and covering my gaping maw....unable to speak. Gagged, essentially.
And there sat my friendly, nice endodontist and her nurse, one on each side...handing things and poking things and handing things back. And they were chatting up a storm, right over my head about how much "fun" my job must be. They'd asked me where I worked in that getting-to-know-you, pre-shoving-things-in-your-mouth phase of the appointment. I told them. Then, after the panic of that pain moment, the needles and the drilling....just wanting it to be over...they then started talking about how great it must be, how much fun, how much the nurse would probably love to have my job. What torture to be unable to clarify. To be unable to garble..."Euthanasia! Neglect! Cruelty! Cat Hoardings! Boomerang Adoptions! URI! Short-staffing! Stupidity! Abandonment!"
Lord. Isn't that terrible, to be at that point (which I have been for quite a while now), to be SO hot to rain on people's parade when they surmise that sheltering... that horribly underpaid and emotionally traumatic animal welfare work, is all about playing with puppies and kittens all day? Selfish, perhaps....to resent the "animal loving" public for not having to see what is in my face Monday through Friday and even in my dreams Saturday and Sunday. I can't tolerate people having the wrong idea either way...and I am not quite sure which is worse, over a tray of cheese and crackers at a party..."What do you do?"..."I work at the SPCA."
a.) "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!! (pitch always rising at end, images of frolicking kittens in person's head) That must be SOOOO much fun!!!"
b.) "Ohhhhh. That sucks. Do you have to....you know...put them to...sleep?"(person edging away as if I am wearing a tattered executioner's hood right then)
I just can't let people keep either view, and I get pretty defensive either way.*
Neither is right. Except...also, both are right.
One is demeaning and one is insulting.
It's an important conversation.
Which can't be had in the middle of a root canal.
Mind you...generally, I don't bring it up. If it comes up, and I can't skirt around it, then I might get into it. My preference, out of context, is to avoid the topic of what I do alltogether. I'm no soapboxer...do not think so for a minute. Had I not gone to the root canal after work, wearing my logoed scrubs and badge, perhaps it all could've been avoided.
It's just been a long, hard week, I suppose.
*PSA: please, whatever you do, when you are out some sunny Saturday running errands and decide to swing by your local shelter or pound to engage in indiscriminate, dirty fingerpokery into each and every kitten cage, do NOT go up to any staff members and say the following:
"I could never do what you do! I love animals too much!!"
You are trying to sound friendly and whatever, and we can totally dig that...thanks. really. But that statement is the biggest, steel-toed kick in the nuts to all of us who show up day after day like the gluttons for punishment we are. No offense, but you with your pampered pets and Animal Planet habit (god bless you, seriously...there should be more people like you, and then maybe there would be less need for people like us) don't have the same concept of "love." To "do what we do" is for the sort of love that chews you up and spits you out...that takes you higher than you will ever be in your life...and that takes you to rock bottom more often than most people have to endure. Thanks for the sentiment....but if you get a shelter staffer or ACO on the wrong day with that statement, you may be sorry. Instead, a sincere "I appreciate what you are doing for the community...it must be so hard sometimes. Hey...who's your favorite dog/cat here right now?" will make someone's day.
Also, try to refrain from the other standby insensitive but well-meaning remark: "I couldn't work here. I'd take everything home."
a.) Does that mean that I'm an asshole for "only" having one dog and three cats?
b.) Come tag along on a hoarding bust... Vick's Vaporub stinging the skin under your nose within your mask, shit-skating through a puke-inducingly filthy house full of dozens of decrepit, dying and/or dead cats. Then remind me what you said about "taking them all home."
Thank you, good night. It's just Friday. It's nothing personal. We can talk about cutewittle baby kittens some other time, 'k?
And I really am not this much of a sourpuss. Honest.
Having asked everyone in my acquaintence whether they'd had one, and how bad it was, I entered the endodontist's office only somewhat anxious. It was fast. Exactly one hour after the start, I found myself back in the car, pulling out of the parking lot with a numb mouth and a heavy sigh. It really wasn't bad, except for a couple seconds...and having to write so many digits on a check. Apparently, some people, once in a while, sport a "hot tooth." That's one that doesn't get blocked completely by the novocaine as it should. Happens once a month or so, they said. Lucky me...Miss July. There was a second when I felt the drill inside my tooth. It was as though someone dropped an atomic bomb in my jaw. Fat Man and Little Boy both. At once. I held still, but the physical response was intense...heart racing, muscles quaking, throat whimpering and eyes flooding. All at once I was 4 years old and I needed my mommy. Thankfully after a couple minutes and a couple more blocks, I felt nothing. And it was shortly done, after a whole lot of unsettling shoving of implements up my face.
It was not pleasant.
But you know what was more torturous than the root canal itself?
There I was, mouth open, laying back, rubber dam clamped in place over the victim tooth and covering my gaping maw....unable to speak. Gagged, essentially.
And there sat my friendly, nice endodontist and her nurse, one on each side...handing things and poking things and handing things back. And they were chatting up a storm, right over my head about how much "fun" my job must be. They'd asked me where I worked in that getting-to-know-you, pre-shoving-things-in-your-mouth phase of the appointment. I told them. Then, after the panic of that pain moment, the needles and the drilling....just wanting it to be over...they then started talking about how great it must be, how much fun, how much the nurse would probably love to have my job. What torture to be unable to clarify. To be unable to garble..."Euthanasia! Neglect! Cruelty! Cat Hoardings! Boomerang Adoptions! URI! Short-staffing! Stupidity! Abandonment!"
Lord. Isn't that terrible, to be at that point (which I have been for quite a while now), to be SO hot to rain on people's parade when they surmise that sheltering... that horribly underpaid and emotionally traumatic animal welfare work, is all about playing with puppies and kittens all day? Selfish, perhaps....to resent the "animal loving" public for not having to see what is in my face Monday through Friday and even in my dreams Saturday and Sunday. I can't tolerate people having the wrong idea either way...and I am not quite sure which is worse, over a tray of cheese and crackers at a party..."What do you do?"..."I work at the SPCA."
a.) "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!! (pitch always rising at end, images of frolicking kittens in person's head) That must be SOOOO much fun!!!"
b.) "Ohhhhh. That sucks. Do you have to....you know...put them to...sleep?"(person edging away as if I am wearing a tattered executioner's hood right then)
I just can't let people keep either view, and I get pretty defensive either way.*
Neither is right. Except...also, both are right.
One is demeaning and one is insulting.
It's an important conversation.
Which can't be had in the middle of a root canal.
Mind you...generally, I don't bring it up. If it comes up, and I can't skirt around it, then I might get into it. My preference, out of context, is to avoid the topic of what I do alltogether. I'm no soapboxer...do not think so for a minute. Had I not gone to the root canal after work, wearing my logoed scrubs and badge, perhaps it all could've been avoided.
It's just been a long, hard week, I suppose.
*PSA: please, whatever you do, when you are out some sunny Saturday running errands and decide to swing by your local shelter or pound to engage in indiscriminate, dirty fingerpokery into each and every kitten cage, do NOT go up to any staff members and say the following:
"I could never do what you do! I love animals too much!!"
You are trying to sound friendly and whatever, and we can totally dig that...thanks. really. But that statement is the biggest, steel-toed kick in the nuts to all of us who show up day after day like the gluttons for punishment we are. No offense, but you with your pampered pets and Animal Planet habit (god bless you, seriously...there should be more people like you, and then maybe there would be less need for people like us) don't have the same concept of "love." To "do what we do" is for the sort of love that chews you up and spits you out...that takes you higher than you will ever be in your life...and that takes you to rock bottom more often than most people have to endure. Thanks for the sentiment....but if you get a shelter staffer or ACO on the wrong day with that statement, you may be sorry. Instead, a sincere "I appreciate what you are doing for the community...it must be so hard sometimes. Hey...who's your favorite dog/cat here right now?" will make someone's day.
Also, try to refrain from the other standby insensitive but well-meaning remark: "I couldn't work here. I'd take everything home."
a.) Does that mean that I'm an asshole for "only" having one dog and three cats?
b.) Come tag along on a hoarding bust... Vick's Vaporub stinging the skin under your nose within your mask, shit-skating through a puke-inducingly filthy house full of dozens of decrepit, dying and/or dead cats. Then remind me what you said about "taking them all home."
Thank you, good night. It's just Friday. It's nothing personal. We can talk about cutewittle baby kittens some other time, 'k?
And I really am not this much of a sourpuss. Honest.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Positions to Be Put In
Just last month, there was an article in Veterinary Practice News about "convenience euthanasia". It actually mentioned that as a private practice vet, if you are uncomfortable with the reasons for a euthanasia given by a client, you should refer them to a local SPCA or humane organization. Hi. That's me.
Thankfully, even we have standards and will not put animals down just for shits 'n' giggles or out and out "convenience." I have to sleep at night. It's nothing taken lightly. But I suppose I have done, or participated in doing, plenty of them that a private vet may not have done. For example, our "clientele" tends to be that of the lowest income bracket. People who cannot afford extensive supportive care for a degenerative disease. People who are not capable of proper treatment for something as manageable as, say, diabetes. People who cannot afford possibly pointless chemotherapy for cancer...or even expensive NSAIDs for advanced ortho problems. In the scheme of things, having come from private practice, it does bother me. But, this is their pet...their family member. Suffering is directly around the bend. I feel okay with having a hand in preventing that suffering by euthanasia.
Same with aggression. I respect the courage it takes to undertake the responsibility of deciding such a thing when human safety is at risk. Lesser people dump it on a shelter and let us be the "bad guys." These cases are hard and sad. But in the scheme of things, it, too is preventing suffering.
Then there are the nebulous ones. Case in point: a couple owns two teenaged cats. Neither is in ill health, particularly. Foreclosure, going into assisted living, whatever...but cannot keep the cats. What are the possibilities? Put them in the shelter where they will be overlooked and miserable, ripped from their known lives of over a decade to be put into a cage to compete with kittens? To be put in the path of the upper respiratory infection that we are never free of, the catching of which is directly related to stress? Will some miracle person fall out of heaven and come into our shelter wanting not a kitten, not a young cat, not a pretty cat, but coincidentally two nondescript, teenaged cats possibly on the brink of costly degenerative health issues? Is it fair, for them, to force them to endure a hellish existence on the off chance that monkeys might fly out of my butt? Add onto that the fact that we are full, and in order to undertake this doubleforcing of hell onto two older cats, some others will have to go? These are the sticky, judgement call situations that happen in every shelter. It sucks. And I am the one who has to carry it out and go home at night. I know, I feel, I did the right thing. It was gentle and peaceful and dignified and number one, it was the choice, the responsible choice, in the given circumstances, of the legal owner of the cats. It was the best that could be done for them. Until you are willing to go to your local shelter and adopt two teenaged, un-special, nondecsript cats yourself, then you shouldn't say a thing. It was the best thing for them in the circumstances. They would've been stressed and confused and frightened and lonely otherwise. Death cannot be worse than that. Yet, it tore me up. Know that should it come to this in your life and with your animals...that there will be someone aching at the task they must perform for your convenience. I do it because someone must...someone who cares. Someone must be gentle and apologize to them for you...must tell them they are beautiful and special and that things will be better for them on the other side. But it sucks. And it eats my soul. I can only hope that upon my own death, I am not met with a mob of angry animals.
There I am, right in the dead eye. She was a pretty cat, to me.
Thankfully, even we have standards and will not put animals down just for shits 'n' giggles or out and out "convenience." I have to sleep at night. It's nothing taken lightly. But I suppose I have done, or participated in doing, plenty of them that a private vet may not have done. For example, our "clientele" tends to be that of the lowest income bracket. People who cannot afford extensive supportive care for a degenerative disease. People who are not capable of proper treatment for something as manageable as, say, diabetes. People who cannot afford possibly pointless chemotherapy for cancer...or even expensive NSAIDs for advanced ortho problems. In the scheme of things, having come from private practice, it does bother me. But, this is their pet...their family member. Suffering is directly around the bend. I feel okay with having a hand in preventing that suffering by euthanasia.
Same with aggression. I respect the courage it takes to undertake the responsibility of deciding such a thing when human safety is at risk. Lesser people dump it on a shelter and let us be the "bad guys." These cases are hard and sad. But in the scheme of things, it, too is preventing suffering.
Then there are the nebulous ones. Case in point: a couple owns two teenaged cats. Neither is in ill health, particularly. Foreclosure, going into assisted living, whatever...but cannot keep the cats. What are the possibilities? Put them in the shelter where they will be overlooked and miserable, ripped from their known lives of over a decade to be put into a cage to compete with kittens? To be put in the path of the upper respiratory infection that we are never free of, the catching of which is directly related to stress? Will some miracle person fall out of heaven and come into our shelter wanting not a kitten, not a young cat, not a pretty cat, but coincidentally two nondescript, teenaged cats possibly on the brink of costly degenerative health issues? Is it fair, for them, to force them to endure a hellish existence on the off chance that monkeys might fly out of my butt? Add onto that the fact that we are full, and in order to undertake this doubleforcing of hell onto two older cats, some others will have to go? These are the sticky, judgement call situations that happen in every shelter. It sucks. And I am the one who has to carry it out and go home at night. I know, I feel, I did the right thing. It was gentle and peaceful and dignified and number one, it was the choice, the responsible choice, in the given circumstances, of the legal owner of the cats. It was the best that could be done for them. Until you are willing to go to your local shelter and adopt two teenaged, un-special, nondecsript cats yourself, then you shouldn't say a thing. It was the best thing for them in the circumstances. They would've been stressed and confused and frightened and lonely otherwise. Death cannot be worse than that. Yet, it tore me up. Know that should it come to this in your life and with your animals...that there will be someone aching at the task they must perform for your convenience. I do it because someone must...someone who cares. Someone must be gentle and apologize to them for you...must tell them they are beautiful and special and that things will be better for them on the other side. But it sucks. And it eats my soul. I can only hope that upon my own death, I am not met with a mob of angry animals.
There I am, right in the dead eye. She was a pretty cat, to me.
The Why and How
This work is certainly a nebulous, everchanging thing... in the way of how one deals with it.
The esteemed Doug Fakkema sums it all up.
Any thinking person, when faced with the same issues every day, is always trying to come to terms with the big Why. In our case, Why must we contend with the same problems day in and day out?
My idea of Why changes from time to time.
My current Why, the reason why animal sheltering is necessary, is simple:
Puppy and Kitten Addiction.
It's more complex than that, but that's it in a nutshell. That mentality is reflected in lots of areas in society, really. New is better. Pretty is better. Exciting is better. NOW is better. Fewer people are of the mindset of investing time and work into anything, whether it be relationships, cars, homes, work situations, education. Pets are no exception. And something about the face of a baby anything makes many people stupid and shortsighted. When I am in a room with a needle and syringe in my hand, putting to sleep a stereotypical big, strong, undisciplined, dominant 2-4 year old unneutered male dog who has indicated a distinct tendency to maul the hand that feeds, this is what I think about and feel anger about. I know that there was a point when that dog was a cute little puppy, and someone was impulsive in their sea of "AWWWWW!!"s, in their puppy lust. I know they goo gooed and bought large amounts of toys and treats for the first several months. I know also that they never took the time for good socialization and training, nor made the effort to discipline. I know it came time to neuter and they chose not to spend the money, just as they chose to remain passive in discipline. Fast forward a couple years, Baby Huey has become a monster and gee, the owner is "moving." Here I am cleaning up the "mess." We can't risk our 130-something years' existence, our function of helping thousands, just for this one individual...this giant, walking bite risk. One skilled lawsuit would eradicate us. So here I am, needle in hand. It eats at me. And what I also know is that the person who turned the dog in is sleeping soundly at night, ignorantly believing that there are people out there who are not consumed by reckless puppy lust, who would be willing to put their family and neighbors at risk by adopting a big, macho, grown up time bomb, people game to put in the exhaustive work to rehabilitate it....and that these mythological, benevolent and capable people will happen to walk into our shelter some sunny Saturday and "fall in love" with the drooling snarl of the beast in Run #11. This belief is stored in the brain next to the one that so many have...that there is some magical "Farm" where all animals go and live and romp forever in harmony. And no doubt the turner-inner is already dreaming of their next cute wittle puppy. And several Saturdays have come and gone, with 60%, easy, of visitors leaving after a cursory stroll to see if we have any small-breed puppies kicking around somewhere. We don't. The dog in #14 was a small-breed puppy, fresh from Hunte Corp. three years ago....too bad now he's a dominant little shit with balls like walnuts, ready to take your toddler's face off over a dropped Cheerio. Er, uh...or should I say, his owners were "moving." So many people start edging out when they hear there are no puppies here. A friendly mention of some nice young adults we have brings a glaze to their eyes.
I see the same when I stand in the cat room. Each face...each 5 year old given up for "moving", and who will sit here for months, meowing for their food in the morning, while kitten after kitten gets adopted.....they were once a kitten, too. I imagine them, adult face morphed into baby face, rewind 5 years....tiny face peeking out of a box at a flea market, or even from the cage bars of our own shelter...the soundtrack is always the same: "AWWWWWW!" (the sound of Hell itself). And now, the face not even worth a glance to most people. How short the distance between the cuteness of kittenhood...the fun of making your own lolcat .gifs, the glee of buying toys...to adult cathood. I prefer the latter, and thankfully some others do, or else we'd never get our adults out. But still...each time I look at a shelter cat's face here, now, waiting, given up...I only see a kitten, once worshipped. Now fallen.
Thankfully, we rarely must resort to euthanasia of our own animals. Thankfully, once in a while and sometimes in wondrous spurts, folks do come along and see something special in an adult animal. Thankfully, too, conscientious people come in to adopt a puppy or kitten with the well-thought-out intention of committing for life. That is as good as anything...each kitten in a lifetime home is one less adult cat ending up in the shelter system in the future.
What is the Answer? Spay/neuter seems to be. Obviously. But, I ask: if society is leaning more and more towards a sense of individual entitlement and instant self-gratification (can anyone deny this?), won't there continue to be a demand for cutewittle puppies and kittens? A reduction in population but an increase in demand....how will that work? Hopefully I am wrong.
The esteemed Doug Fakkema sums it all up.
Any thinking person, when faced with the same issues every day, is always trying to come to terms with the big Why. In our case, Why must we contend with the same problems day in and day out?
My idea of Why changes from time to time.
My current Why, the reason why animal sheltering is necessary, is simple:
Puppy and Kitten Addiction.
It's more complex than that, but that's it in a nutshell. That mentality is reflected in lots of areas in society, really. New is better. Pretty is better. Exciting is better. NOW is better. Fewer people are of the mindset of investing time and work into anything, whether it be relationships, cars, homes, work situations, education. Pets are no exception. And something about the face of a baby anything makes many people stupid and shortsighted. When I am in a room with a needle and syringe in my hand, putting to sleep a stereotypical big, strong, undisciplined, dominant 2-4 year old unneutered male dog who has indicated a distinct tendency to maul the hand that feeds, this is what I think about and feel anger about. I know that there was a point when that dog was a cute little puppy, and someone was impulsive in their sea of "AWWWWW!!"s, in their puppy lust. I know they goo gooed and bought large amounts of toys and treats for the first several months. I know also that they never took the time for good socialization and training, nor made the effort to discipline. I know it came time to neuter and they chose not to spend the money, just as they chose to remain passive in discipline. Fast forward a couple years, Baby Huey has become a monster and gee, the owner is "moving." Here I am cleaning up the "mess." We can't risk our 130-something years' existence, our function of helping thousands, just for this one individual...this giant, walking bite risk. One skilled lawsuit would eradicate us. So here I am, needle in hand. It eats at me. And what I also know is that the person who turned the dog in is sleeping soundly at night, ignorantly believing that there are people out there who are not consumed by reckless puppy lust, who would be willing to put their family and neighbors at risk by adopting a big, macho, grown up time bomb, people game to put in the exhaustive work to rehabilitate it....and that these mythological, benevolent and capable people will happen to walk into our shelter some sunny Saturday and "fall in love" with the drooling snarl of the beast in Run #11. This belief is stored in the brain next to the one that so many have...that there is some magical "Farm" where all animals go and live and romp forever in harmony. And no doubt the turner-inner is already dreaming of their next cute wittle puppy. And several Saturdays have come and gone, with 60%, easy, of visitors leaving after a cursory stroll to see if we have any small-breed puppies kicking around somewhere. We don't. The dog in #14 was a small-breed puppy, fresh from Hunte Corp. three years ago....too bad now he's a dominant little shit with balls like walnuts, ready to take your toddler's face off over a dropped Cheerio. Er, uh...or should I say, his owners were "moving." So many people start edging out when they hear there are no puppies here. A friendly mention of some nice young adults we have brings a glaze to their eyes.
I see the same when I stand in the cat room. Each face...each 5 year old given up for "moving", and who will sit here for months, meowing for their food in the morning, while kitten after kitten gets adopted.....they were once a kitten, too. I imagine them, adult face morphed into baby face, rewind 5 years....tiny face peeking out of a box at a flea market, or even from the cage bars of our own shelter...the soundtrack is always the same: "AWWWWWW!" (the sound of Hell itself). And now, the face not even worth a glance to most people. How short the distance between the cuteness of kittenhood...the fun of making your own lolcat .gifs, the glee of buying toys...to adult cathood. I prefer the latter, and thankfully some others do, or else we'd never get our adults out. But still...each time I look at a shelter cat's face here, now, waiting, given up...I only see a kitten, once worshipped. Now fallen.
Thankfully, we rarely must resort to euthanasia of our own animals. Thankfully, once in a while and sometimes in wondrous spurts, folks do come along and see something special in an adult animal. Thankfully, too, conscientious people come in to adopt a puppy or kitten with the well-thought-out intention of committing for life. That is as good as anything...each kitten in a lifetime home is one less adult cat ending up in the shelter system in the future.
What is the Answer? Spay/neuter seems to be. Obviously. But, I ask: if society is leaning more and more towards a sense of individual entitlement and instant self-gratification (can anyone deny this?), won't there continue to be a demand for cutewittle puppies and kittens? A reduction in population but an increase in demand....how will that work? Hopefully I am wrong.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Skeletal Pathos
This has happened twice in the past few weeks. Both times were pit bulls, coincidentally. Euthanasia, I feel, is the most important part of my job, hands down. Fortunately, we are a private shelter and not a pound, which means that when we are full, we have the luxury of saying so. The euthanasia of our own animals is not frequent and is soley based on physical or mental suffering or bite risk/liability. That explanation is for another day.
On any given afternoon, euthanasias generally are what we call DPOs, or "Down Per Owner", as opposed to DPS, "Down Per Shelter." I am it for euthanasia- the only one there now who can do it or prepare for it. I am the one who talks to the owner, if they want to be present. It varies, just like people's emotional displays vary. It can be draining, the counseling part. I explain, give the sedative, prepare them and their pet...and then our director, a former equine vet, comes in for the injection. That's just a formality. He'd be the first to tell you that I am the better shot. But it looks better to have the whole nurse/doctor thing going. If they drop-off (which I never understand), then it's all me. And in a way, it's better like that. It's a private thing, and other than the owner, I'd rather it just be me and the animal.
The reasons are generally warranted. Almost always illness and old age. End stage cancer. Sometimes aggression. Those are hard. That is a hard decision to come to. It is very courageous and responsible to step up and make this decision rather than dump a dog at a shelter without full disclosure and put not only other people and other animals at risk...but an entire shelter at risk for future liability...and the dog in question at risk for a life of misery. Sometimes we are wrangled into euthanasias that are seemingly more for convenience. The lines are blurry. Nothing is black and white. But, that is for another time.
Recently, though, have come two very upsetting situations involving pit bulls, spaced by a couple weeks. Both were very well-loved. Too loved, in fact. Both made it to a ridiculous age...16 and 17. Both would easily have been prosecutable cruelty cases had we come upon them in other circumstances...like if a concerned neighbor had called us. Both arrived comatose and absolutely, horrifically emaciated and dehydrated, attended by owners who were in such a state of hysteria that everyone was uncomfortable. Both were scheduled as "routine" DPOs....old dogs whose time had come. In each case, when the paperwork had been done, and the dog was brought into the exam room, jaws dropped. I have never seen anything so skeletal, alive. How to speak to the owners? You are, on one hand, so cognizant of the human-animal bond...I mean, it is our life's work. You can understand how people can love their pets and have difficulty letting them go. But on the other hand, here in front of you is blatant neglect in the fullest definition. "How long has he been like this?" "Did you take him to a vet?" Both situations yielded disturbing answers. If you love something so much that you are in hysterics...and mind you, this is not a traumatic, acute situation but a progressive one....how can you let things go so far?? A.) You've had several more years with this animal that most people get with theirs, since most dogs make it to 13 or 14, max. B.) You have to have seen the dog melting away like an ice cube for the past few weeks. It should not come as some insurmountable shock that death was near.
Perhaps I speak from a more pragmatic point of view, since this process of letting go is so familiar to me.
But I cannot fathom letting my animals or my loved ones get to the point of looking like Auchwitz victims in a coma and not doing something.
It's an odd point of balance in the moment, to gently make a point to the person about being more proactive in the future, yet still remain compassionate. They should know that this is not acceptable, yet they still deserve our kindness at this dark moment in their life.
These are hard. We have prosecuted people for allowing a dog to get even remotely to that state without intervention. The only difference is that the owners of these two pit bulls came to us, and we were not called out to them.
I can still feel the washboard of ribs under her dry coat, the hip bones like carved cups. Thick, yellow mucus filled her eye sockets under sunken, glazed eyes. She must've once weighed 50-something pounds but was now 20, according to the husband. Occasional breaths were the only clue that "life" was still within. It was horrible. For all they give us, we owe them a dignified end. To keep them medically comfortable when illness and age set in, and to let them go when suffering begins. This was not dignity. It was pathetic. The wife was outside having a breakdown. The husband left the room. My boss, one of the kennel girls, and I looked at each other, still incredulous and sickened. Then I set this poor dog free. I kissed her cheek as I injected. It was like kissing a bare skull.
I hope I never see a dog so thin ever again. Or if I do, it will be in "Evidence" photos.
On any given afternoon, euthanasias generally are what we call DPOs, or "Down Per Owner", as opposed to DPS, "Down Per Shelter." I am it for euthanasia- the only one there now who can do it or prepare for it. I am the one who talks to the owner, if they want to be present. It varies, just like people's emotional displays vary. It can be draining, the counseling part. I explain, give the sedative, prepare them and their pet...and then our director, a former equine vet, comes in for the injection. That's just a formality. He'd be the first to tell you that I am the better shot. But it looks better to have the whole nurse/doctor thing going. If they drop-off (which I never understand), then it's all me. And in a way, it's better like that. It's a private thing, and other than the owner, I'd rather it just be me and the animal.
The reasons are generally warranted. Almost always illness and old age. End stage cancer. Sometimes aggression. Those are hard. That is a hard decision to come to. It is very courageous and responsible to step up and make this decision rather than dump a dog at a shelter without full disclosure and put not only other people and other animals at risk...but an entire shelter at risk for future liability...and the dog in question at risk for a life of misery. Sometimes we are wrangled into euthanasias that are seemingly more for convenience. The lines are blurry. Nothing is black and white. But, that is for another time.
Recently, though, have come two very upsetting situations involving pit bulls, spaced by a couple weeks. Both were very well-loved. Too loved, in fact. Both made it to a ridiculous age...16 and 17. Both would easily have been prosecutable cruelty cases had we come upon them in other circumstances...like if a concerned neighbor had called us. Both arrived comatose and absolutely, horrifically emaciated and dehydrated, attended by owners who were in such a state of hysteria that everyone was uncomfortable. Both were scheduled as "routine" DPOs....old dogs whose time had come. In each case, when the paperwork had been done, and the dog was brought into the exam room, jaws dropped. I have never seen anything so skeletal, alive. How to speak to the owners? You are, on one hand, so cognizant of the human-animal bond...I mean, it is our life's work. You can understand how people can love their pets and have difficulty letting them go. But on the other hand, here in front of you is blatant neglect in the fullest definition. "How long has he been like this?" "Did you take him to a vet?" Both situations yielded disturbing answers. If you love something so much that you are in hysterics...and mind you, this is not a traumatic, acute situation but a progressive one....how can you let things go so far?? A.) You've had several more years with this animal that most people get with theirs, since most dogs make it to 13 or 14, max. B.) You have to have seen the dog melting away like an ice cube for the past few weeks. It should not come as some insurmountable shock that death was near.
Perhaps I speak from a more pragmatic point of view, since this process of letting go is so familiar to me.
But I cannot fathom letting my animals or my loved ones get to the point of looking like Auchwitz victims in a coma and not doing something.
It's an odd point of balance in the moment, to gently make a point to the person about being more proactive in the future, yet still remain compassionate. They should know that this is not acceptable, yet they still deserve our kindness at this dark moment in their life.
These are hard. We have prosecuted people for allowing a dog to get even remotely to that state without intervention. The only difference is that the owners of these two pit bulls came to us, and we were not called out to them.
I can still feel the washboard of ribs under her dry coat, the hip bones like carved cups. Thick, yellow mucus filled her eye sockets under sunken, glazed eyes. She must've once weighed 50-something pounds but was now 20, according to the husband. Occasional breaths were the only clue that "life" was still within. It was horrible. For all they give us, we owe them a dignified end. To keep them medically comfortable when illness and age set in, and to let them go when suffering begins. This was not dignity. It was pathetic. The wife was outside having a breakdown. The husband left the room. My boss, one of the kennel girls, and I looked at each other, still incredulous and sickened. Then I set this poor dog free. I kissed her cheek as I injected. It was like kissing a bare skull.
I hope I never see a dog so thin ever again. Or if I do, it will be in "Evidence" photos.
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