Shelter day is never very much fun. It consists of walking back in front of kennels full of desperate dogs, taking each and every one out for a walk, trying objectively to weigh each one’s adoptability and eventually making difficult choices about which dogs we can help.
The day I met Nyla, her bark was the very first thing that caught my attention when I walked through the kennel doors. It sounded ferocious. When I looked to see who was making that noise, I saw a 70 pound beast jumping and lunging at her kennel door. I decided to steer clear and started my evaluations on the other side of the kennels.
Nyla never stopped barking, never eased up on the frontal assault to her kennel door. I wondered why she wasn’t housed back in the quarantine room. It seemed dangerous to have her in with all of the adoptable dogs. “No way this one is adoptable,” I thought.
I dismissed the notion of walking Nyla without a thought. I wrote a big “NO” next to her name on the list.
Eventually, I had to walk the dogs in the kennels surrounding her, however, and something shifted. When Nyla saw me coming in her direction with the leash, she took a moment’s pause in her barking each and every time. Her eyes honed in on that leash like two lasers and for a millisecond she was quiet. When I passed, she resumed the attack dog routine and I shook my head.
But I began stopping for an extra few seconds each time. Just to see. Each time she stared so hard at that leash, I thought it might catch fire. And each time I walked away she resumed her threatening behavior. Except I started to see it differently. Maybe it wasn’t so threatening. Maybe it was more desperate than anything else. I looked at her kennel paper. She was an owner surrender and she had already been in the shelter more than a few weeks. Being an “owner surrender” means she might have been snatched up off of a comfy couch without warning and dropped unceremoniously here in a concrete kennel with no access to outside and no human contact apart from cleaning and feeding. Being an “owner surrender” means a housetrained dog is forced to soil his or her tiny living area on a daily basis because no one comes with a leash.
The leash. “She wants to go for a walk,” I thought. “She just wants out.” But the cautious part of my brain warned that it would be crazy to open the door and enter a small space with a very large, angry dog. A very bad idea, indeed.
I did it anyway. I entered ever so cautiously, just an arm at first and then a leg, hand on the door at all times, never taking my eye off of the dangerous animal before me. I had no idea what Nyla would do and I kept thinking “this is crazy.”
The ferocious beast responded by sitting down and wagging her tail. I put the leash around her neck to make a no-slip collar and we walked out of the kennel together.
Well, truthfully, Nyla joyfully drug me the entire length of the hallway and burst through the doors like she was shot out of a cannon. Once outside, she tried to run in circles and go in every direction at once. I put her in an outdoor pen and she ran and ran and ran in the tiny space.
The day I met Nyla, her bark was the very first thing that caught my attention when I walked through the kennel doors. It sounded ferocious. When I looked to see who was making that noise, I saw a 70 pound beast jumping and lunging at her kennel door. I decided to steer clear and started my evaluations on the other side of the kennels.
Nyla never stopped barking, never eased up on the frontal assault to her kennel door. I wondered why she wasn’t housed back in the quarantine room. It seemed dangerous to have her in with all of the adoptable dogs. “No way this one is adoptable,” I thought.
I dismissed the notion of walking Nyla without a thought. I wrote a big “NO” next to her name on the list.
Eventually, I had to walk the dogs in the kennels surrounding her, however, and something shifted. When Nyla saw me coming in her direction with the leash, she took a moment’s pause in her barking each and every time. Her eyes honed in on that leash like two lasers and for a millisecond she was quiet. When I passed, she resumed the attack dog routine and I shook my head.
But I began stopping for an extra few seconds each time. Just to see. Each time she stared so hard at that leash, I thought it might catch fire. And each time I walked away she resumed her threatening behavior. Except I started to see it differently. Maybe it wasn’t so threatening. Maybe it was more desperate than anything else. I looked at her kennel paper. She was an owner surrender and she had already been in the shelter more than a few weeks. Being an “owner surrender” means she might have been snatched up off of a comfy couch without warning and dropped unceremoniously here in a concrete kennel with no access to outside and no human contact apart from cleaning and feeding. Being an “owner surrender” means a housetrained dog is forced to soil his or her tiny living area on a daily basis because no one comes with a leash.
The leash. “She wants to go for a walk,” I thought. “She just wants out.” But the cautious part of my brain warned that it would be crazy to open the door and enter a small space with a very large, angry dog. A very bad idea, indeed.
I did it anyway. I entered ever so cautiously, just an arm at first and then a leg, hand on the door at all times, never taking my eye off of the dangerous animal before me. I had no idea what Nyla would do and I kept thinking “this is crazy.”
The ferocious beast responded by sitting down and wagging her tail. I put the leash around her neck to make a no-slip collar and we walked out of the kennel together.
Well, truthfully, Nyla joyfully drug me the entire length of the hallway and burst through the doors like she was shot out of a cannon. Once outside, she tried to run in circles and go in every direction at once. I put her in an outdoor pen and she ran and ran and ran in the tiny space.
Clearly, Nyla’s “no” needed to bceome a “yes” and this girl needed out of the shelter! That was a no-brainer, but this tale wasn’t easily transformed into a happy ending, Nyla was large. And loud. There was no space for her at the Lost dog Ranch and more kennel time was not going to do her any good anyway. She needed to get into a foster home where she could be reminded how to be a family dog and someone with a good eye could observe her and make sure there were no real aggression issues.
I knew who I wanted right away. Caitlyn was a relatively new foster, but one with tons of energy and an appreciation for big, energetic dogs. Her Duke is young and playful and appreciates rowdy playmates, so I figured if Nyla could get along with other dogs, this would be ideal. Texting and photo sharing began right there in the play yard at the shelter- Operation Nyla’s Freedom was underway!
Caitlyn came through and the rest is sort of history. Well, it is at least someone else’s tale of transformation. It took some time to get Nyla out of the shelter and into Caitlyn’s capable hands, but as I had suspected, Caitllyn loved Nyla on sight and Nyla loved every minute of her time with Caitlyn and Duke. It was unexpectedly short, however. Nyla was such a well-behaved and beautiful dog that she found her forever family in no time.
As of this writing, Christmas 2010, Nyla is back on the couch where she belongs, at the center of a loving family. I’m fairly positive they have never heard that ferocious bark and I pray that Nyla will never, ever again be so desperate that she has to communicate with such sound and fury.
1 comment:
Thank God you have the sensitivity and openess of heart to hear what animals are saying, even when they shouting at you!
Post a Comment