OT: Interview at the Dog Pound (Article)

Fri, 07 Jul 2006 12:03:48 -0700

 This was sent to me. It's reality.
This was written by an author in Canada.
Please forward to others.
 
> I wrote a story today. I have submitted it to a
>Canadian dog magazine, and I am hopeful they
>will print it. It might just help ONE dog.
>Permission to cross post granted, as long my
>name, contact email and copyright appear with it.
>
>Interview at the Dog Pound
>As a journalist, I decided to go to the dog
>pound, and interview some of the “inmates”. I
>wanted to know what it was like in there from
>their perspective. What follows is not for the faint of heart.
>
>I entered the building, and one of the workers
>accompanied me to the holding area. This is
>where dogs are kept before they are allowed up
>for adoption…IF they are allowed up for
>adoption. If the dogs are found to be aggressive
>in any way, euthanasia is employed. Fortunately,
>if “fortunately” is the word to be used
>here…this is a Canadian establishment, and they
>use lethal injection, not a gas chamber.
>
>The pound worker led me past a big steel door
>that says “Employees Only”. “What is in there?”
>I asked. From the look he gave me, I knew that
>this is where dogs go in, and never return.
>We moved on to a row of kennels. The dogs were
>barking loudly, there was the acrid smell of
>urine and feces, and a feeling of despair seemed to permeate the room.
>“Go ahead,” the worker said. “They’re all yours.”
>
>PETEY
>
>I looked into the first kennel, and saw only the
>back of a medium sized dog who was curled up in
>the corner of his kennel, shivering. He was
>mostly white, with some black spots. “Hello?” I
>said. “May I come in?” He lifted his head, as
>though it weighed more than he could bear. When
>he looked at me, I could see he was a Pitbull.
>His eyes were gentle, but filled with grief. “Enter,” was all he said.
>I stepped in, closing the gate behind me. He put
>his head back down, facing away from me. I crouched down a few feet away.
>“My name is Pete. Petey my Master called me,” he
>said, still not looking at me.
>“Why are you here Pete?” I asked.
>“I am here because Master cannot afford to move
>to another province. I am here because someone
>with power said I am vicious, and a killer.
>Someone who never met me. Master took me for a
>walk one day, and some lady started to scream
>when she saw me. I got frightened, and barked at
>her. The dog police came, and they took me away.
>I have been with Master for 10 years. The last
>time I saw him, he just held me and cried. He
>kept telling me he was sorry. I worry for him.
>Whatever will he do without me?” Pete shivered
>even more. A tear slid down my face. I am
>supposed to remain objective, but this was wrong…so wrong.
>“Thank you Pete.” I said. He said nothing as I got up and left his kennel.
>
>Popper
>
>The kennel next to Pete’s held a very young
>looking dog. Pure Border Collie by my guess. He
>stood on his hind legs, looking at me through the gate.
>“Hello. My name’s Popper. He tilted his head. “Are you here to take me home?”
>“No, I’m sorry,” I replied. “But I would like to talk with you.”
>”Sure. What would you like to talk about?”
>“Popper, how did you come to be in this place?” I asked.
>Popper dropped down from the gate, with a
>perplexed look on his face. He walked to the
>back of the kennel, then back to the front. I
>noticed he had one blue eye, and one brown. He
>was quite beautiful. His black and white coat was shiny and thick.
>“I am not certain WHY I am here. I think maybe
>my family will come back for me. They bought me
>when I was only 6 weeks old. I remember they
>said how smart Border Collies are, and how it
>would be so easy to train me. They were very
>excited at first. The little ones played with me
>all the time. But the trouble with little
>Masters is, they refuse to stay in a group. I
>constantly had to nip their heels to keep them
>together.” He looked confused. “Why won’t they
>stay in a group?” he sighed. “So I did what I
>thought I should do. I am not quite sure why the
>little ones screamed when I did my job, but they
>did, and the Masters got very angry at me. They
>also got angry when I had to relieve myself, and
>did so in the house. I am not sure where they
>expected me to go. All they said was that I was
>the smartest breed in the world, and I should
>just KNOW better. Then they left me in the yard
>for a month or so. I got bored a lot, and I dug
>holes in the grass. The next thing I knew, the
> Masters brought me here.”
>Popper jumped back up on the gate, his white
>paws protruding through the links. He looked at
>me with his lovely eyes, and asked “Will you
>please let them know I want to come home? Please
>tell them I promise I will be good?”
>“I will Popper,” I said.
>
>Spartan
>
>My heart was breaking. I was beginning to regret
>coming here, but their stories had to be told. I
>moved along. The next dog I saw looked to be
>easily 100 lbs., a Rottweiler. He was handsome
>indeed, except for the scars on his face and
>back. He tilted his head, and looked me right in the eyes.
>“Hello. Who are you?” he asked.
>“I am a reporter,” I replied. “May I speak with you for a little while?”
>”Most certainly. My name is Spartan. You can come in, I won’t bite,” he said.
>“Thank you Spartan. I will.”
>I entered his kennel, reached out and stroked
>his giant head. He made a loud grumbling noise, and closed his eyes.
>“Spartan, why are you here?”
>Before he could answer my question, he was
>suddenly in the grip of a nasty coughing spasm. It sounded painful.
>“Please excuse me,” he said when it passed.
>“Kennel cough. It seems all of us who come in here get it.
>“Why am I here? Well, about two years ago, I was
>born in the backyard of some person I can’t even
>recall. I had 11 brothers and sisters. I recall
>a day when a big man came and gave that person
>some money, and took me away from my mother.
>They had to chain her up, as she was very angry
>that he took me. They chained her and beat her.
>I came to know the man by the name of Jim. I
>overheard him telling his friends that I would
>grow up to be big and mean like my mother. But
>as I grew older, all I wanted to do was play and
>be friends with everyone. Jim said I needed to
>be taught how to be mean, so he chained me up in
>the yard. No more house for me, he said, I was
>too spoiled. When people came by to visit, I was
>so happy to see them. I wanted them to come and
>play. But that made Jim angry, so he beat me
>with sticks and chains. When he came near, I
>would roll onto my back so he would know I
>wasn’t a bad dog. That made him beat me more.”
>Spartan’s eyes clouded with grief. “Then he
> brought me here.”
>I reached out and stroked Spartan’s massive
>gentle head once more. “I am so sorry Spartan.
>Some people are just plain evil.” I gave him a
>kiss and left his kennel. As I walked away,
>Spartan called out, “What will happen to me, nice lady?”
>I shook my head. “I can’t say Spartan. Maybe
>someone kind will come and get you. We can only hope.”
>
>Patsy
>
>I walked a little further down. I could see a
>shape moving at the back of the next kennel.
>“Hello?” I called out. Suddenly the shape lunged
>at the gate in a fury, barking and gnashing its
>teeth. I stumbled backwards, and crashed into an
>adjacent kennel. The other dogs began barking
>loudly and jumping at their gates.
>“Don’t go near her,” a small female voice came from behind me. “She’s mad.”
>I gathered myself back together, and saw a
>little Jack Russell Terrier behind me.
>“Thanks for the warning,” I was still trembling.
>Across the way, the other dog, apparently a
>Husky and German Shepherd cross, was glaring at
>me, lips curled back revealing brown stained
>teeth. Her ribs and hips showed through her dull, matted grey coat.
>The little dog invited me into her kennel, and I gladly went in.
>“Who are you?”
>“My name is Patsy.” The little brown and white
>dog held a paw up to the gate in greeting.
>“My owner surrendered me. She said she wanted a
>cute little dog like the one on the TV show,
>Frasier. She didn’t bother to look into the type
>of dog I am.” Patsy heaved a sigh.
>“I suppose she expected me to just lie about and
>only need a short walk each day, just like
>Eddie, but my energy was so high that I needed
>to run and play.” She glanced at her
>surroundings. “Now I am here. I suppose it could
>be worse. I could be like…her.” Patsy looked
>towards the still growling dog across the way.
>“What happened to make her so vicious?” I asked.
>“From what we could gather,” she replied. “she
>was found tied in a back yard. She only had a
>three foot chain. Some days there was no water.
>Rarely was there any food. One day a nice
>neighbour came by and brought her some meat. By
>then it was too late. She was already mad. She
>broke off her chain, and bit the poor man badly.
>We know she will be going behind the steel door.
>I am sad to say, I think it will be best.
>Perhaps then she will know some peace.”
>Just then, the door at the end of the building
>opened, and a woman stepped inside. All the dogs
>began to bark wildly, then one by one, they went
>quiet. I whispered to Patsy, “Who is that? Why have all the dogs gone quiet?”
>Patsy breathed deeply through her little nose,
>and closed her eyes. “SHE is a Rescuer. Can’t you smell it?” she asked.
>“Smell what?” I was confused.
>“Compassion. Love. Sorrow. It emanates from her
>pores. She is here for one of us, but nobody
>knows who just yet.” Patsy looked hopeful.
>The Rescuer moved from kennel to kennel, looking
>at each dog. I sat quietly watching. I could see
>tears in her eyes as she made eye contact with
>each one. She stopped at Spartan’s cage and spoke quietly to him.
>“No more beatings my man. No more. You are
>coming with me. From here on in, it’s all going
>to get better.” The Rescuer produced a leash,
>opened the kennel door, and took Spartan away.
>As he walked beside her, his little stubby tail wagged with delight.
>Patsy sighed again. I could see the
>disappointment in her eyes, and it grieved me.
>They all had the same look, as they watched The Rescuer depart.
>“I am so sorry Patsy,” I said in a whisper. “But
>you are a little dog, and everyone loves little
>dogs. I am convinced you will be rescued soon.”
>Patsy’s brown eyes twinkled at me, a little bit of hope returning.
>
>I had heard and seen enough. I needed to tell
>people how it was for these unfortunate
>creatures. They were all here through no fault
>of their own. I stood to leave. I passed by many
>other dogs I did not interview, looking at each
>one, wishing I could take them all home with me
>and give them the love they deserved.
>I stood by the door taking one last glance back,
>when it opened, and one of the pound workers
>came in. His face was drawn and sad. He walked
>by without a word, and stopped at Pete’s kennel.
>I heard him take a deep breath, then he paused,
>and opened the kennel door. The words were
>muffled, but I am sure I heard him say “I’m sorry old boy.”
>He came out, with Petey in tow. The old dog’s
>head hung down in resignation, and they both
>disappeared behind the big steel door.
>
>Copyright
>Sally Hull
>July 6th/2006
>[EMAIL PROTECTED]ca
 

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