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| It had been raining intermittently all afternoon, and a frigid haze had settled over the area surrounding the Humane Society animal shelter. It was around two o'clock, but the heavily overcast skies made it darker than usual. A fine mist drizzled continuously, creating a pervasive damp and chill. Despite the gloomy weather, there had been a steady stream of people coming through the front door since noon. Most of these patrons were bringing in animals--either surrendering their own pets or dropping off strays; a few other were milling around in the kennels, trying to find a dog or cat to adopt. I had spent most of the afternoon behind the front counter, processing the many bring-ins. I evaluated the animals as they were signed over, making secret predictions about which ones would find homes and which would likely be "put to sleep". With the rate of arrivals that day, we were quickly running out of housing space. Tomorrow morning, we would be forced to select the animals that would die to make room for still more newcomers. It was an endless cycle. Even though we tried to keep adoptable animals for as long as possible (usually about two weeks), it was unfair to deny other animals the opportunity to be seen and, hopefully, adopted. With the knowledge of tomorrow morning's grim task festering in my mind, I was filled with dread each time the office door opened; I knew it was someone bringing in another helpless animal that would likely end up dead--and probably by my hand. I heard the familiar groan of the metal door opening again, and I looked up apprehensively. An older gentleman entered the office and stood silently just inside the door, awaiting recognition. He did not lift his eyes to meet mine, but instead stared uncomfortably at the floor in silence. I noticed that his crumpled grey work pants were streaked with dirt and his heavy boots were covered with mud. He wore an oversized brown coat which hung on his tall, this frame like a heavy, unkempt drape. "Can I help you?" I asked, leaning forward across the wide counter. With a leathery hand, he removed the greasy cap from his head and lifted his eyes to meet mine. His face was very dark and deeply creased around his mouth and eyes, which were a cloudy, watercolor blue. He ran his hand over his head, smoothing a few short grey hairs and drew in a long breath. His eyes lowered again, and his lips barely parted as he muttered something that sounded like "pups in the car." I couldn't tell if he was just shy or if he might be hiding something, but I offered to accompany him outside to retrieve whatever it was he had mumbled. He made no response except to replace his cap, and then he turned and went outside. I followed him out, not bothering to grab a coat, which I quickly regretted since the drizzle had turned to a light rain. But I was afraid that, if I hesitated, this strangely quiet man might not wait for me. As I caught up with the man in the parking lot, he began to relate in a raspy, muffled voice the story of how he had found the pups. He said he'd noticed a burlap sack near the road about a quarter mile from the shelter. He had stopped to investigate and found that the sack contained four puppies. He had brought only two with him; the other two had already died, so he left their bodies back at the roadside. Then, from behind the driver's seat of his rusty, mud-covered car, he produced the filthy cloth bag. He held the sack open, and I reached tentatively into it and scooped out the two tiny beagle-mix pups. There was a male and a female, probably no more than five weeks old; they were muddy and wet, and I held them close against my chest as we returned to the office. A coworker, Cathy, glanced up as we entered and saw the pitiful animals. I motioned toward the man, and she immediately pulled out two surrender forms for him to sign. I saw him wipe his moist eyes with his coat-sleeve as he approached the counter. He signed the forms without uttering a word, then he made a final hopeful glance toward the pups and me. He regarded the unmoving forms that I cradled, and his expression wilted. I managed a slight smile that was meant to be comforting. He made no response except to lower his eyes, and then he silently exited the shelter. I was gently rocking the puppies while I waited for the paperwork to be completed. Cathy filled out the vital information, then she turned to me. She gently lifted the female from my arms and held it close, stroking the small head and body while I told her what the man had told me. The scrawny, tiny puppy seemed to use all of her energy to raise her head and look up at Cathy with dark, hollow eyes...then her eyes closed again in sleep. I was still holding the male close to me, but he had given no indication yet that he knew I was there. He just lay there in my arms, motionless except for the almost undetectable movement from his shallow and sporadic breathing. Cathy and I looked to each other, both of us imploring silently for a glimmer of hope that we could save these two, but her mournful expression mirrored my own. The pups were almost dead, already: neglected, starved and nearly frozen. It was unlikely that medical intervention would be of any benefit to them at this point. Knowing the limited funds and capabilities of the shelter, we silently acceded that we had only one choice. Neither of us said a word; there was no cause for discussion. The fate of these pups had been decided in the moment that their unwanted lives had been so unceremoniously discarded at the side of the road. They would never know how much we wanted to save them or that they were loved, if only for these few moments. We silently rose and carried our tiny bundles toward what we called the "E"-Room. Calling it the "E"-Room, rather than the Euthanasia Room, was one of the coping mechanisms of the staff; it helped us to not think so often about the sober purpose of the small room at the rear of the building. In order to get to the "E"-Room, we had to walk the entire length of the kennel, along the bare concrete corridor separating two rows of chain-link walled runs. I braced myself as we entered the kennel, since the dogs there were usually noisy and active; however, as we carried the limp forms of the puppies through the kennel, there was no sound except the thud, thud of boots on cold concrete. The dogs' silence was both chilling and comforting as we approached the euthanasia room. It was as if they didn't want to further worry or frighten these tortured, miserable young ones--or perhaps they were, like Cathy and I, grieving the hopeless plight of the pups. Arriving at the wrought iron guard of the "E"-room entrance, I cradled the little body in one hand and unlocked the outer door. I turned the metal doorknob and the door swung open with a foreboding creak. I held my intended victim's diminutive body closer and nudged open the inner door with my shoulder. As we entered the room, Cathy flipped the switch by the door and an overhead fluorescent sluggishly flickered on, illuminating the small room. The concrete clock walls had been painted a musty yellow in a useless attempt to make the room less dreary; they provided a ludicrous contrast to the unpainted grey floor. There was a small cabinet on the wall adjacent to the door, and below it stood a large silver exam table. The top surface of the table was smooth and clean, and a shelf underneath held a supply of tattered and faded towels. Another of our coworkers had taped a picture of a male blue-jeans model on the opposite wall: another futile attempt to provide distraction from this room's grim duties. The stifling coolness had no effect on the pups; they seemed unaware of any of their surroundings. The male remained unconscious as I set him on a towel on the table next to his sister. The female sat up halfway, wobbling defiantly against her desire to give up. Her front legs quivered for a moment before she collapsed, legs sprawling in front of her. Her unfocused eyes gazed fixedly at the wall, and she did not stir again. I wrapped each pup in a towel and picked them up again. While I tried uselessly to warm and comfort the ill-fated creatures, Cathy opened the cabinet and withdrew two syringes and a bottle of blue liquid. She drew a small amount of the solution into the syringes and placed them on the table before turning to me. Cathy and I had worked together for almost a year, and we had become good friends. We had worked together in this room many times, so we were both confidant of the skills and compassion of the other. While we both detested this part of our jobs, we had labored to become proficient at administering the intravenous injections that were used to put the animals to death. She regarded the pups as I embraced them. We had been here many times before; there was no need to discuss our plan. Because the female was still semi-conscious, we would euthanize her first, ensuring that she would not have to watch her sibling die. I gently placed the male on the table and then turned my back to him, facing Cathy. I arranged the towel around the puppy so that she was still mostly covered and presented her scrawny front leg to my partner. The puppy gave no complaint as I held off her foreleg vein with my thumb, and I used my free hand to cup her round little head and gently rub one ear. In a few seconds, her life was over. Before half of the contents of the syringe had been instilled into her vein, she went lifeless in my arms. I delicately deposited her body on the table with the towel still in place and picked up her brother. Soon, they were both lying sided by side on the table, dead. Cathy and I avoided each other's eyes while we packaged the diminutive bodies for disposal. Not a sound emanated from within the room or from without. It wasn't until we opened the room's door and re-entered the kennel that we were overcome by the tumult of the barking of every dog. The din was a welcome relief from the torturous silence, and as we made our way back to the front office, we stopped at every cage to receive forgiving kisses and extend grateful head-pats and ear-rubs. Although this is not the story that inspired "Just Another Day," it illustrates the heartbreaking chore of euthanizing animals which is what inspired the poem. For these pups, death was a release from their suffering, but in too many cases, it is a matter of space and resources. The poem refers to an adult German Shepherd named Amos Moses. I fell in love with him the first day he arrived at the shelter as a stray. He was skinny and dirty and his coat was dull and shaggy. He was frightened by his new environment and seemed somewhat hand-shy as well, indicating that someone had probably abused him in the past. Still, his beautiful, dark brown eyes expressed gentleness, intelligence and perhaps even sadness. He instantly won my heart. During his stay at the shelter, I spent time with him every chance I had. Whenever I finished my morning cleaning duties early or when business was slow in the office, I would walk him on the shelter grounds or brush him while sitting on the grassy hill that hid the shelter from the road. He thrived on the attention and a playful, affectionate dog emerged. I wanted desperately to adopt him, but my living circumstances wouldn't allow that...so instead, I appointed myself as his advocate. I championed him for three days past his initial euthanasia deadline, hoping he could be placed in a home. Finally, after more than three weeks at the shelter, he was adopted. Unfortunately, he proved to be destructive when left alone in his new family's home, and they were forced to return him a month later. My heart sunk the moment I saw him again, but I could tell that the adoptive family had agonized over bringing him back. It did seem, however, that they had taken good care of him: he was no longer underweight, and his black and tan coat was now full and glossy. They had named him Amos Moses. Amos Moses returned to the kennel, and I again hoped beyond hope to find him a second adoptive home. Almost two weeks later, however, he had to be put to sleep to make room for another dog. It was just not fair to keep him locked up in a kennel for so long, especially when we were taking in more animals every day that needed the same chance he'd had. Although he was a healthy and gentle dog, Amos Moses was not wanted. Like hundreds of thousands of domestic animals in this country, he was destroyed because we could not find him a permanent home and because, as a privately operated and funded organization, our Humane Society shelter had to carefully expedite its resources in order to continue housing and caring for the ceaseless influx of unwanted animals. After a while, one might think a person could become desensitized to the endless cycle of "making room" at the shelter...but I never did. I saw many kinds of neglect and cruelty, and I know that my endeavors were not always fruitless: I did help to save some of the innocent animals, and the ones who died by my hands and in my hands were loved and comforted until their final breath. |
JUST ANOTHER DAY
It was just like any other day--
Another morning like the rest.
The birds sang the same way,
And the sun did not rise in the West.
The sky that day was blue--
Though laced with cloudy grey--
But it was just a lid for the world,
And this was just another day.
You were really nothing special,
Just another in the crowd,
But you found your way into my heart--
Where others weren't allowed.
Sad brown eyes that held me
When I should have passed you by;
You trusted me, not knowing
That, by my hand, you'd die.
It was no lengthy affair:
Circumstances dictated your stay;
So I greeted you the same--
After all, it was just another day.
Your faith in me unfaltering,
You walked with me to the room;
It assumed a sudden coolness,
And it smelled of a tomb.
My hands began to tremble
As I gathered my executioner's tools.
I was filled with guilt and misery,
But I was only following rules.
My accomplice comforted you with gentle words;
I kissed you and whispered, "I love you."
Then I slid the needle in and injected
And watched the life drain from you.
And, still, the birds were singing
As I left my job that day;
Lightning did not strike me down--
No floods swept me away.
At home that night, I drank and wept,
But that is not enough
To escape a damned, pernicious world
Where I must kill the ones I love.
1987
Dedicated to Amos Moses, who touched my heart
and loved me until the end. God forgive me.
It was just like any other day--
Another morning like the rest.
The birds sang the same way,
And the sun did not rise in the West.
The sky that day was blue--
Though laced with cloudy grey--
But it was just a lid for the world,
And this was just another day.
You were really nothing special,
Just another in the crowd,
But you found your way into my heart--
Where others weren't allowed.
Sad brown eyes that held me
When I should have passed you by;
You trusted me, not knowing
That, by my hand, you'd die.
It was no lengthy affair:
Circumstances dictated your stay;
So I greeted you the same--
After all, it was just another day.
Your faith in me unfaltering,
You walked with me to the room;
It assumed a sudden coolness,
And it smelled of a tomb.
My hands began to tremble
As I gathered my executioner's tools.
I was filled with guilt and misery,
But I was only following rules.
My accomplice comforted you with gentle words;
I kissed you and whispered, "I love you."
Then I slid the needle in and injected
And watched the life drain from you.
And, still, the birds were singing
As I left my job that day;
Lightning did not strike me down--
No floods swept me away.
At home that night, I drank and wept,
But that is not enough
To escape a damned, pernicious world
Where I must kill the ones I love.
1987
Dedicated to Amos Moses, who touched my heart
and loved me until the end. God forgive me.
| "Eyes Of Fear" These frightened cats were experiencing their first real human contact. They were brought in in cages and box-traps by their "owners," who had allowed their unspayed and unneutered pets to produce dozens of offspring. Many had been killed on roadways or had disappeared--the likely victims of poisoning by neighbors who didn't like the cats coming onto their property. Since all of the cats were completely feral and therefore unadoptable, they were all humanely euthanized. |
| This photo is one of my favorites because of its positive associations. This kitten was the first participant in the "Pet Of The Week" campaign I orchestrated for the Humane Society where I worked. After posting this picture on our posters throughout the city, almost every kitten we had was adopted! It is one of the accomplishments in my life of which I am most proud. |
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| !!! ALL ORIGINAL WORK ON THIS SITE IS PROTECTED BY UNITED STATES COPYRIGHT LAW. THE AUTHOR/CREATOR RESERVES ALL RIGHTS, AND WORKS MAY NOT BE COPIED, SOLD OR OTHERWISE USED WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF LINDSEYE GREYE !!! |
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| Our journeys on this small planet are never taken alone. We are always surrounded by the many beings that God created. His plan was, of course, flawless; humans would live together in communities and families, and animals would do the same. Some animals would help us with the work of growing crops, others would be used by us as a food source, but most of the animals he created to be free. It was humans that chose to domesticate some animals that would be our companions (specifically, I am referring to dogs and cats, although we now make "pets" of many kinds of animals.) Now, please, don't misunderstand--I am not suggesting that we take all the domesticated animals out to the forest and release them in a grand gesture of emancipation! Rather, I am saying that we have an obligation to these animals. We are responsible for their safety and keeping, just as surely as if they were our own children. We have built large and complex communities which are dangerous and confusing to a dog or cat. Their natural instincts for hunting and survival have been curbed by centuries of disuse, and the obstacles encountered in an urban, or even rural, environment (i.e.: motorized vehicles, traps, wild predatory animals, poisons and toxins) that can harm or kill the most savvy creature. As a Humane Officer in Evansville, Indiana, and later working for Animal Control in Washington, DC, I had a front-row seat to observe a variety of forms of cruelty and neglect. After a while, the carelessness and callousness of people was no longer surprising, but remained tragic, nonetheless. Images from those days haunt me still. This page is dedicated to all the animals--those who have been saved, those who could not be saved, and those who might still have a chance. Healthy, loving, innocent animals are humanely put to death in shelters every day simply to make room so that other animals might have a chance of finding a home. These animals did not ask to be born, and they certainly did not ask for us to turn our backs to their plight. If you have a dog or cat, I hope you will have it spayed or neutered to help decrease the overpopulation problem in the United States. Perhaps you may even consider adopting an animal companion from a local shelter. None of us walk alone through this world, and sometimes the best companion on the journey is a four-footed one that asks nothing more of us than for us to love and care for it. We are all God's creations, and we honor Him when we acknowledge that every life is precious. |
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| Journeys Taken Not Alone |