"Can I have some of these?" He was tall and lanky, about 6’3" and even though there was a cool breeze from the east blowing in, with the temperature at 60 degrees he had on bermuda shorts, birkenstocks, no socks. His hand stretched out to the box of dog bones.
By Bill Coolidge
Published: March, 2001
"Can I have some of these?" He was tall and lanky, about 6’3" and even though there was a cool breeze from the east blowing in, with the temperature at 60 degrees he had on bermuda shorts, birkenstocks, no socks. His hand stretched out to the box of dog bones.
"Sure, help yourself" replied Amelia, who was on the staff at the Alameda Animal Shelter where I am a "volunteer dog walker." I followed the lanky young man through the two doors and back into the area of cages for rabbits, cats and dogs. He walked swiftly to a cage way back on the right, unlike other visitors who slowly meander from cage to cage, he knew where he was going.
As I walked by him, he was crouched low, handing a biscut to a black, medium size dog, maybe a cross between a lab and a shepherd. I heard him whisper softly "Lettie, oh Lettie, you’re the best Lettie, oh Lettie, Lettie, Lettie." The dog was scrunched down low meeting the man’s fingers with her nostrils, dropping the biscuts on the floor, preferring, apparently the intimacy of the touch, finger to nose, and the soft cooing words.
I am saying good afternoon to the dogs, mentioning their names, stopping for a moment so they can smell my fingers, telling them what fine dogs they are: "Oh there’s Butchey, isn’t she a sweet dog, so sweet." "And there’s Moose, oh look at that cute face, I know what you want Butch...a walk, I bet" But I keep looking back, noticing the man, squatting on the cold, damp, newly hosed down cement floor. "He knows this dog, I bet it’s his or going to be his," I think. My hopes rise a little, wishing for a possible adoption.
After I said hello to all the dogs I turned around, the man in a quick moving gait, was already opening the door to leave. Lettie had slunk to the corner of the cage, her back to me, the public. "Oh my god," I said to myself, "He’s leaving her here. He can’t keep her. He’s not here to adopt her." I sucked in my gut to try to force that sudden swift expulsion of grief that creeps up on me when I witness a dog becoming homeless.
Twice in my life I have had to give up a dog. Once on my way to Peace Corps, I put an ad in the paper "Good watchdog and family pet." A farmer called up and I told him about "Wheezer," a black lab, year old, trained that barked when strangers came to my door. I lived out in the country in a cabin and he loved to roam and always returned. I was overjoyed that a farmer wanted him.
On parting with him, Wheezer dislodged an unknown deep grief that I tried to hide from the farmer who arrived in an old Ford pick-up. Hiding my tears, I questioned him about his truck.
To my great relief, the next day he called back about noon and said "Mr. Coolidge, that’s a mighty fine dog you have there, the family loves him but he’s no watchdog. My brother came by at 5:00 this morning to help me milk the cows and he had a hard time opening the door. Your dog was sound asleep behind the door and never did wake-up. You better come and get him." "A reprieve I thought," refusing to acknowledge that I had to find a home for Wheezer and that time was running out, I drove happily out to bring him home.
I treated him like he was the prodigal son, lost, now found. I picked up a special steak bone at the butcher, a little half and half milk, and then patted him and ran around outside doing our old tricks of hide and seek. I felt guilty for letting such a fabulous dog go and now I was making it up to him.
The next day though was one day closer to when I had to leave so I reluctantly placed another ad. This time I left out "good watchdog." The ad was successful, a young farm family wanted him, but only as a pet. I left him with the children all running toward the barn, not much of a good-bye but at least I didn’t cry. I called the next day. The husband told me, "Your dog was gentle with the "Young-uns" and spent a lot of time running in and around the barn. We’ve already renamed him, Blackie." I put the phone down on the hook, thankful yet with a twinge of guilt and a little anger: renaming him, what’s wrong with Wheezer?
Years later, I had an English Setter who I had tried to train with no success. Whistling and verbal commands made no difference in his young life as he ran full speed around our five acres. A friend noticed this and simply said, "He’s deaf." I was stunned by the news. It made sense but now what? My friend added, "I happen to know someone on the other side of the county who adopts dogs like yours and trains them with hand signals." It was a bittersweet moment when I let this young pup into the welcoming hands of the dog trainer.
But in recent months at the shelter here in Alameda, I have noticed that many of the dogs that I walked responded to commands to "sit" or "stay." They had received training but somehow were now in the shelter waiting for adoption, their owners apparently never looked for them. This seemed odd, so I sat down with the supervisor of the shelter, Shellete Bass, to ask her some questions.
"Shellete, I just saw a young man, clearly attached to Lettie, come in and give her some dog biscuts, pat her nose, and then he quickly up and left. What’s going on?"
"Bill, this is a whole new thing to me and I’ve been here, in this shelter, for 20 years. Did you see those big boxes, to the left of the front door? I nod affirmatively. "Well those are drop-off boxes. When the shelter closes down for the night, people can still drop off stray dogs. But we’re not getting ‘strays’ anymore. We find dogs, when we come to work in the morning, with little notes in the boxes, telling what they like to eat, maybe their name, or a brief history of medications."
"Shellette, why don’t they just come during office hours, and you ask them some questions about their dog?"
"They’re ashamed. They never leave their name and telephone number. They’re forced into it and this is the way they deal with it. We call these pets "owner released animals." And the numbers are increasing steadily. And what you saw with Lettie’s owner is not the exception. We’re getting more and more pets brought in, the owners are no longer able to care for them."
"I don’t get it, Shellette. The guy looked healthy, able to take care of Lettie."
"It’s all different now, Bill. Rents in the Bay area are going up and up and up. "Low cost housing" in Alameda is now over $300,000. Apartments are scarce and if you find one, the manager says, "No pets." And if pets are allowed, the security deposit is doubled. Military families moving in have brought their family pet with them only to find few if any apartments will rent them if they have a pet.
" The whole family comes in to give the pet up. I just go into my office and close the door. Let one of my staff deal with their sorrow. It’s getting to me now. And I know people who moved farther out into Castro Valley to find less expensive apartments. The same thing is happening out there. No pets. But it means that over 50% of the dogs we shelter here were voluntarily given up."
Moose has been one of my favorites. A big hunk of a dog, with a face reminscent of one my blood hounds years ago. Joy and sadness expressed so quickly that he tugs at my heart and so I walk him. He stops at curbs. Pulls hard in the beginning then slows down to a chipper walk after the first block. Stops when I say, "Stay." A beloved pet of someone, this dog is now rootless. At night when I listen to the dogs bray, just a block away from the sailboat I live on, I wonder if maybe one of them is Moose, offering his lament to the moon filled night.
Too many dogs for adoption, too few people living in housing accessible to pets. A friend of mine, living on a sailboat across the dock has an "illegal" pet staying on his boat. The marina has a rule: No Pets, written in the contract.
"But my daughter has had to move to a less expensive apartment and she can’t find one that allows dogs so at the last minute I volunteered to take ‘Chum.’ Do you know of anyone that wants a dog?" His brown and black dog wagging her tail, as if waiting for my reply.
I shook my head. I thought about Lettie. In the midst of her sorrow, being caged up, in a building filled with barking dogs all jumping up and down, wanting to be noticed, walked, adopted.
The next day after talking to Shellette I walked along the line-up of dogs vying with each other for my attention. When I came to Lettie’s cage, there she was curled up into a black ball, still facing the far wall. Shellette told me that the rules of the shelter state, "6 days available for adoption, then euthanasia." She added, "but I break the rules all the time when I think a pet is adoptable." I hope she breaks the rule for Lettie. I hope soon, very soon, Lettie will rise up, at the sound of footsteps, maybe the voices of excited children, and jump, bark, and wiggle. In the meantime,she and I will walk, strangely comforting each other’s solitude.
