When the branches of a wilted shrub in the far corner of the yard burst with lilac blooms, the scent was so strong I could smell them from the kitchen sink. I pulled the plastic covers off the rocking chairs on the front porch and sat there in the late afternoons after work. Not long ago, Penny was on my lap, and I rocked us both. I knew I had to move away from the grief, a little bit each day. But I didn’t want to leave behind the last time I saw her, all springy and sweet and full of life.
I was in a strange place of limbo, not planning the future, trying not to live in the past. Just getting through the days and bracing myself for whatever would happen next, hoping I’d be strong enough to get through. And once I got through it, I knew I would be able to face anything, because nothing would ever be as hard as losing Pen.
I was surviving the immense loss. I didn’t really expect to. But I was surviving. Somehow, I was surviving.
85
A few weeks later, an email came from Sandra that the animal shelter was looking for volunteers for all kinds of activities, from walking dogs to playing with cats to helping with the gardens.
I signed up for yard work. I liked being out in the sun with my hands busy. I was always thinking about Penny, but my crying jags were more manageable when I was outside working.
Clouds were gathering the Saturday I was volunteering, and by the time I got to the shelter, it had turned into a downpour. I got out of my car and opened my hatch to search for an umbrella, coming up empty. I tried to run and avoid the puddles in the parking lot, but by the time I got to the front door, I was soaked.
Sandra met me in the lobby and handed me a towel to wipe my face.
“Hold on to it,” she told me. “One of our indoor chores today is laundry.”
The other volunteers had cancelled, so I spent the morning washing and folding pet blankets and towels. Most of them had seen better days, but there were many cozy fleece blankets like the ones my kids used to sleep with, because both of them had been too warm at night for a comforter.
“These are nice,” I said, folding a fleece. “Do they keep the dogs comfortable?”
Sandra looked at me over the rims of her red-framed glasses.
“Comfortable? Have you ever been inside the shelter before?” Aside from our meeting in the rec room, I hadn’t.
“Come on,” Sandra said, straightening up and stretching her back. “You can help me with what’s next on the list: chow time.”
We loaded up two wagons with huge bins of dry food and water, and Sandra hit numbers on a keypad to let us into the animal units. As soon as we got inside, I heard the sounds of barking, so loud the noise bounced off the walls and spiraled back into the middle of the room, a roaring cacophony of sound.
I looked around and immediately felt ashamed for thinking the animals had comfortable quarters. It was warm and dry, yes, and the dogs were each in their own walled-off space, but that was all that could be said. Their spaces were barren—no stuffed toys, rubber balls or rawhide chews anywhere. All the dogs I saw down the row of tiny spaced-off pens were large dogs, all of them on their feet, all of them barking loudly and continuously. Many were pacing or circling, a few were spinning as if they were puppies chasing their tails, but this wasn’t a game, it was some kind of fixation. Their eyes were dilated and bulging.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Sandra gave a short laugh. “Kennel sickness is starting to set in. They spend too much time alone with nothing to do; they’re constantly under stress from the noise and chaos in these unnatural surroundings. This isn’t like home. Hard as we try, we can’t make this place comfortable and loving. We do the best we can, but the dogs get strung out.”
My heart sank. That’s just how they looked: strung out.
“What’s worse, the more overstimulated they become, the less chance they have of being adopted because they appear mean to people, even when they’re the sweetest dogs in the world, just scared out of their minds after being here so long.”
“How long?”
“Jess, we see dogs start experiencing negative effects of being here after two weeks. Some of them stay for months.”
At the end of the first row of pens, a small white dog with gray ears was sleeping in a perfect circle on a threadbare towel. It was the tiniest of spaces in the row, and her food had been tipped over.
The note card posted on the door said she had been there three weeks, she was shy around children, and that her name was Lucy. I hesitated outside the door, not wanting to wake her, but I did want to sweep up her food and fill her bowl with fresh kibble. As I stood watching her, Lucy lifted her head sleepily, one drowsy eye still closed, and looked at me.
I blinked hard and looked away.
When I turned back, Lucy was at the door, two front paws up, trying to make herself look much taller than she actually was. I didn’t know how she could possibly have moved that fast, so I nudged the door open slowly and slid in quickly in case she tried to run.
She didn’t run.
She lay down and rolled onto her back to show me her tummy. I stroked her soft belly gently and she pretended to nip at my fingers, her own little game. After a while, she got
