Dancing Dogs (11 page)

The staff had come to call the end of the week “Black Friday” because that was when sick, “dangerous,” or unadoptable animals were euthanized. Emma forced herself to look at the list of animals posted in the surgery every Friday morning. Sometimes there were twenty or thirty names on the list. The shelter did everything they could to find homes for the animals, but it was tough. And getting tougher. Many
more animals were coming in than going out. Room had to be made for the new ones who were being surrendered every day.

Emma made it an article of faith to say good-bye to all of the animals, taking them out of their cages for a final pet if she could, and if there was time. She was determined that no animal leave the world without some human affection or a proper farewell. Some Fridays, she assisted the vets, holding the cats and dogs, closing their eyes while the needles went in, taking the bodies out and treating them with dignity. A cremation service collected them. Emma put a name tag on every animal before they were collected.

People were often shocked to learn the reality of life at the shelter. As Sandy, the director, told them, “We’re not a no-kill shelter. We can’t afford to be.” There was hardly any such thing as a “no-kill shelter.” There were shelters that did their own killing, and shelters that sent animals away to be killed, or didn’t accept any whom they might have to kill. These days, almost no publicly funded shelter could afford to care for animals for years at taxpayer expense.

Emma remembered one father she encountered when she still worked days and interacted with the customers. The man grabbed her by the shoulders and put his face close to hers. “Can you imagine what it feels like to be in this position?” he had said quietly, but with a kind of smoldering rage. “To be so low that you have to bring the family dog in here because you can’t afford vet bills and dog food? To face my kids when I go home and tell them I sent their dog away?”

Emma forced herself to look this man in the eye. “Look, Mr.,” she said, her voice shaking, “I’m sorry for you and for your dog. But this is not my fault. We’re both doing the best we can.”

The man looked at her for a second, then turned, got into his pickup, and drove away, leaving his confused German shepherd with Emma.

When Emma got discouraged, she thought of the many happy scenes. The children who left holding dogs and cats in their arms, the lucky animals who found a family. Saying good-bye to them was a different kind of farewell, and they carried her through the other times.

One early evening shortly after Emma’s shift began, she and her coworker Sam heard a roar coming off the highway that separated the mostly abandoned strip mall from the animal shelter. Emma looked out the rear window and saw a dozen big black motorcycles thundering down the road. At first, it didn’t occur to her that they would be coming to the shelter, but the bikes slowed down and rumbled toward the entrance, belching smoke as they approached.

Emma heard the barking start up—the animals hated the noise. Soon, there was a din of barking, howling, and yelping that seemed to rattle the shelter.

“Jeez,” said Sam. “The ground is shaking.” Emma saw that the lead driver had an animal crate fastened to the rear of his bike.

Emma, never one for confrontation, scurried back to one of the crate rooms, where she could busy herself feeding or socializing or medicating one of the dogs and the cats. Maybe tonight she would visit Brownie, the fat old golden whose elderly owners had had their home foreclosed. She needed to have her bandages changed—she’d had a cancerous growth removed—and Emma doubted the shelter would be able to keep her alive much longer.

She heard some noise in the reception area.

Sandy, the director, was on duty. She could talk to the
bikers. Emma could see the black leather jackets, long hair sticking out from under the helmets, jeans and studded boots. No way was she going to talk to them.

She saw Sam go to the reception area to help Sandy out.

Emma let Brownie out of her crate and kissed the old dog on the nose, and then gently lifted her up on the examining table. She carefully took her dressing off—she couldn’t be interrupted now—and took some liver treats out of her pocket. Emma bought them with her own money at the local PetSmart. The shelter couldn’t afford to buy treats.

Emma didn’t have the heart to ask Sandy, but she guessed, from her experience, that this Friday would be the day Brownie would be put down. Nobody in Washequa was going to adopt a dog with cancer, not a twelve-year-old. And the shelter couldn’t justify paying for more surgery for her. There were younger, healthier dogs to save, some who might find homes.

While Emma put a fresh bandage on and gave Brownie her antibiotics, Sam came in, looking flushed and angry.

“What happened?”

“That biker, a macho jerk, came with a large, brownish cat, and he said he wanted to leave the cat but he wanted to know for sure that she would find a home. When Sandy said she couldn’t promise that, he nearly put his fist through the wall and called her a bitch. He said she had to find a home for the cat or he would chew the place up.

“I told him to chill out, and two of his thugs came toward me until Macho Man stopped them, just held up his hand. Sandy threatened to call the police and told me to go get a carrier for the cat. I didn’t want to leave, but I saw she wanted me to get out of there.” Sam went into one of the storerooms to get a travel carrier.

Emma felt a surge of anger. But she remembered Sandy saying they had to think of the animals, not the people.

Sam, still visibly upset, hurried back into the reception area with a big plastic carrier.

A short while later, Emma heard the cycles roar off.

She ventured out into the hallway, but there was nobody there. She walked down the hall to the Surrender Bay area, where new animals to the shelter were kept in quarantine for two weeks. It was feeding time, and that was part of Emma’s job. She looked at her watch and saw it was time to give the new arrivals their antibiotics too. She went into the medicine cabinet for fresh syringes and the medicine vials.

She also reached for one of the food bags before heading down the hallway. She heard a male voice from inside the new-arrival room, but it wasn’t Sam’s. She froze. The hallway lights were kept off as a budget-saving measure, turned on only when necessary. She knew she couldn’t be seen as she tiptoed to the window and peered in. She barely allowed herself to breathe. Slowly, she put the food and medical equipment down on the floor and edged closer.

An enormous man in a black leather motorcyle jacket—his long black hair down to his shoulders—was sitting on the floor in a corner in profile to her.

An empty cat carrier sat at his feet.

He looked to be in his early thirties. He had a thick neck and broad shoulders and a big belly that pushed against his weathered black jacket. The jacket was covered with studs, and he had a ring hanging from one side of his nose. She saw a tattoo—a dragon’s head—protruding from his chest onto his neck.

A large tortoiseshell cat with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen was sitting in his lap. The door to the crate next to the
two of them was open. The glass was thick, but his voice was loud and guttural. She could hear him.

“Hey,” he growled, “I’m sorry to be leaving you here. I’ll come back for you if I can. They say they’ll try to find a good home for you. But I don’t know if they’re bullshitting me or not. I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”

The cat snuggled in his lap and looked up into his eyes.

Emma didn’t move. The man seemed to look the cat over carefully, as if wanting to remember every detail.

Emma wanted to get away, but her legs didn’t quite know how to move.

The biker looked back at the cat and stroked her chin.

“You’re a great cat. I can’t believe some of the rats and mice you got. I’ll miss you.”

Emma could see that he was choked up.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The cat looked up at him again curiously. His words were abrupt, but his tone wasn’t. Emma had been through a lot of these surrenders, and people rarely wanted to be alone with the animals they were leaving. Giving them up was hard enough.

“I have to leave, Cleo,” he said. The cat was curled up comfortably in his arms. It was always tough, Emma thought, when people realized how much the animals trusted them, how safe they felt with them. That made it harder to let them go.

“We have to move. No more jobs here, and we don’t know where we’re going. The landlord put us out. Can’t put you through that kind of a trip.”

He looked up at the ceiling, and Emma was surprised to see tears streaming down both sides of his face. He’s about had it, Emma thought. She had seen it before. There
was a point where people just had to get out. He was about there.

Emma shook her head, fidgeting with the bottom of her green smock.

He put the cat back in the crate and got up quickly, starting toward the door. Emma left the food and supplies on the floor and backed up quickly, stepping into one of the other new-arrival rooms. She heard the biker open the door and head out into the hallway. Seconds later, she heard Sam’s voice saying, “Hey, you aren’t supposed to be in here,” and then she heard a bellow and some cursing and a loud noise.

She ran out into the hallway and flipped the lights on. She saw the biker with one arm on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam, looking white as a ghost, pinned to the glass wall.

“Who the hell are you to tell me I can’t go say good-bye to my cat? It’s my cat, and you people can’t even promise me you’ll find a home for her, and now you tell me to get out!”

The biker was red with rage, and Sam, as skinny as a popsicle stick, was nearly paralyzed. Dogs were barking all over the shelter.

Without thinking, Emma strode up to the biker.

“Hey!” she said, and both men turned toward her. She put her hand on the biker’s wrist and pulled his arm off Sam’s shoulder.

“I saw how much you love your cat. I know how hard it is to let her go. How angry you must be, and frustrated. We see it all the time. But you just can’t take it out on us. We’ll care for her. We’ll love her. We’re her only chance.”

Sam looked at her as if she’d fallen out of a spaceship.

She moved forward a step.

The biker was breathing normally now, and he stepped back.

“Sorry,” he said to Sam. “I just lost it there.”

Sam nodded, then offered his hand. The two shook.

Emma put her hand on the biker’s shoulder.

“Mister, I know you feel guilty. But you shouldn’t feel that way—what’s your name?”

“Howie,” he said.

“You’re one of the good ones,” she said. “Some people just abandon their cats on the street. We have a whole room of those. You thought to bring her here. It’s the best you can do. We’ll take good care of her. You should feel good about what you’ve done.”

Howie met her gaze. “She was like our kid, you know? We move from place to place; we aren’t very connected, but she’s special to us.”

Emma nodded. “Listen to me, Howie. Give yourself permission to let her go. The people who come here are good people in bad situations. We have to remember that.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Emma.”

His eyes filled with tears again.

“What are the chances—”

Emma shook her head. “We never know. But she’s a beautiful, healthy cat, and that’s good news. She’s got a chance. A lot of them don’t.”

“And how long—”

“Look, Howie. You have to walk away and not look back. You gave her the best life you could for as long as you could. You start over every single day. Every day there’s a win, every day there’s a loss. You have to go on. We’ll take it from here. You’re not leaving her alone or starving on the street.”

Howie listened, looked at Emma more closely, and nodded.
Then he went into the new-arrival room one last time. He opened the crate, held Cleo’s face up to his, hugged her, put her gingerly back in the crate—she fought him a bit, but he managed to get her in—and then he shut the door and stood up.

Tears still streaming down his cheeks, he walked quickly back out into the hallway, past Sam, and over to Emma.

Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek.

“Thank you, Emma,” he said, and left.

I
T WAS EVENING
, and the shelter was at its quietest. The animals had been fed and medicated. There were still a few hours before the cars would start pulling up to the Surrender Bay, and it would begin filling up with newly homeless pets.

Emma had looked at the Black Friday list again, and afterward, she shook her head, took a deep breath, and choked back a few tears.

She told Sam she was going out for a few minutes. He’d asked her if she wanted to join him for dinner on the way home, something the two of them did once or twice a week, as both lived alone and often—mostly—ended up talking about the animals at the shelter anyway. Emma didn’t even know where Sam lived.

But tonight, Emma said no. She had other plans. Sam smiled. He understood.

She drove to the Burger King a few miles down the road. The assistant manager knew her there and waved. “You want the usual?”

She nodded, and he ordered her a Giant Whopper, the
big kind with three slices of beef, gobs of cheese and mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, and bread. She also got a small tomato-wedgie salad and a Diet Pepsi.

Emma drove the short distance back to the shelter, now locked up and deserted, except for the din the animals made whenever she opened the doors, and made her way to the holding room where Brownie’s crate was. The room was dark, and she heard the whimpering of the animals—six mutts, two beagles, an aging German shepherd, four cats, some Lab-mix puppies, and two pit bulls unlikely to find a home.

After the initial barking and yowling and mewing—“It’s just me,” she said, “ssssssh,”—she turned on the lights, still clutching the greasy bag of food.

She walked to the far corner, took out a blanket, and spread it on the floor, then opened the last crate on the left.

“Hey, Brownie,” she called out quietly, “you free for dinner?”