Ashes, OTIs, and Pit Bulls: Saturday at the Shelter

I hauled dogs for transport to off-sites today.  The dedicated young woman who coordinates the off-sites at PetsMart Portifino was fuming about kittens.  Right now, about 40-50 kittens (most too young to be weaned) arrive at the Shelter each day.  We do not have enough space or care available at the Shelter for this many babies and ourdedicated fosters are juggling anywhere from eight (a couple of litters) to 30 kittens in a last-ditch effort to save as many as possible.

The Shelter was in full swing for euthanizations this week and the young woman was there when the staff was emptying the incinerator used to consume the bodies.  The young woman gave me a hard look as we were going off her transport list.  "I have a new idea for publicity," she said.  "We should bundle the ashes from the incinerator into little baggies and hand them to each person who comes to turn in kittens."  I had to agree it would be an eye-opener for our clients.  "And it is recycling, too," the volunteer added grimly.

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The Shelter Rescue Coordinator has been valiantly trying to place the uptick in OTI (Owner-Turn-In) animals.  We're getting an inordinately high number of healthy, middle-aged, well-socialized pets coming in as surrenders.  The major reason?  People are moving and say they can't take their dogs.  The Rescue Coordinator has a name for it:  "They're moving to the State of No Dogs."

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We've got a new Pit Bull Rescue Group to help us deal with our wonderful Staffies and Pibbles!  Guardian Pit Bull Rescue may not be the biggest outfit in Rescue, but they are heroes to the dogs they pull from the Montgomery County Animal Shelter.  The big Staffie pictured above is a perfect example of the kind of dog our volunteers would like to save, but the kind that are harder to place under the County guidelines.  Guardian Pit Bull had a comprehensive application form for interested prospects to fill out--one more suited to the needs of these dogs than the Shelter's boilerplate form.

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Coda

Sunday morning at the Emergency Vet office is never a fun experience.  People filled the waiting room, with animals needing assistance for things ranging from high fever to broken legs.  I came to the Conroe Emergency Vet Clinic to be with Arabella, our little distemper dog, in her last moments.

On Saturday, I took the little Chihuahua from a Vet clinic in the Woodlands to the Emergency Clinic since The Woodlands Clinic would be closed for the Memorial Day weekend holiday.  The dog's sponsor was willing to keep trying to bring Arabella around.  But after receiving an estimate that began at $1,400 with a high of $2,500, and no guarantees or end to the critical care (the estimate was good through Tuesday morning, when the EC Vet would close), the sponsor was forced into making that tough but familiar decision.

"Every time I started thinking about that bill, I'd get a cold knot in my stomach," she told me on the phone this morning.  "I'd spent so much already, and the dog wasn't improving."  I agreed:  it was time to stop, and do the best thing for Arabella.  I had already made it clear to the sponsor that  I would go and be with Arabella at the end since the sponsor was out of town and was handling the dog's treatment via phone and email.

So Sunday morning, instead of going to church, I went to a service of a different kind.  I took a little red collar that Arabella had worn, a pink squeaky toy that she had enjoyed and the softest fleece blanket I own.  At the  EC clinic, the staff was awesome.  Unfortunately, I don't have anyone's names, but every staff person, from the presiding Vet to the Techs and Desk Staff treated Arabella and I with the greatest compassion and respect.

I was ushered into an exam room.  I couldn't take Arabella outside (she was still shedding the distemper virus and would put other clients' animals at risk) but I spread the fleece blanket on the exam table, and when she was brought to me, I removed her Elizabethan collar and slipped a red dog collar around her skinny neck, because in my house, we never have "nekkid dogs"--every foster gets a collar.

She perked up and wagged her tail as I cuddled her.  I showed her   the small pink squeaky toy I'd brought her, and made it squeak.  She reached for it and took it into her mouth.  She didn't have the strength to squeak it, so when she dropped it, I squeaked it and gave it to her again.  She seemed happy and held it contentedly in her mouth (at my house she had walked around with that toy in her mouth, just squeaking and squeaking).  After about 10 minutes, the Doctor and Tech came in with the syringe of pink fluid.

One month ago, I had to put my own dog down.  It was chaotic and hard because my daughter panicked when the dog jerked as the needle went in.  This Vet didn't do a pre-sedate, but she was good at this procedure.  Arabella did tense and jerk once, but I was ready when her head flopped limply into the crook of my arm.  She went easily and fast.

Both the Doctor and Vet Tech were attentive and gentle.  They talked to Arabella through the entire procedure, calling her a good, good dog.  She was a good dog. A very good dog.

Making the Call

Today, I delivered an old, ill, befuddled male chihuahua into the arms of the Shelter Vet Tech for euthanization.  I made the decision on an animal that people had been fretting about for two days.

One volunteer thought the dog was just "despondent."  Another admitted that the animal was near its end, but felt that someone should take the dog home and let it "pass away" on its own.  A staff person desperately wanted the dog to have time "outside the Shelter" before it died.

The dog in question was a stray-hold dog whose time was up today.  He was a tiny, old, cinnamon-colored male chihuahua, coated in flea dander, gummy-eyed, disoriented, shaking, and hacking with advanced heartworms.  The poor old man couldn't even stand--when I set him on the grass outside, his hindquarters quivered and he staggered once, then collapsed.  His ears were at half mast and his head was as jiggly as a bobble-head toy.

I have two foster dogs.  My own dog just died (and this little guy's staggers looked suspiciously similar to what I saw in my own dog during his last hours).  A staffer gave the old dog a Capstar with a bit of wet cat food.  Cat food works wonders with ailing dogs--he perked up and ate a few more bites.  I gave him a bath to wash off the bulk of the flea crap and rubbed him warm with a clean towl, then wrapped him in a piece of fleece.

I took him outside and set him down on the grass.  He staggered, then collapsed.  He didn't whine or complain.  He just worked himself into a down position and lay there, blinking blearily in the warm sun.  I watched him, tears filling my eyes.  I couldn't take him home.  No one else had volunteered.  We had no way to diagnose what was wrong with him.  After about twenty minutes, I bundled the old dog up and took him back into the Shelter.  I showed him to the Shelter Director, who is a Vet.  She watched him wobble and sag.  She told me to go to see the Vet Tech, neatly avoiding pronouncing the death sentence.

I admire our Vet Tech immensely.  Some of the volunteers think she is harsh and curt with people, but she is focused on doing what she can with exceedingly limited resources.  I unwrapped the little guy, set him on the floor.  He listed, then fell.  The Vet Tech looked at me and said, "There are two options for this dog.  Take him out of here, make him comfortable, and let him die.  Or put him down now."

"I can't take him home," I said, which was not an excuse.  "I want to put him down." The Vet Tech nodded. I carried the dog and we walked out of the receiving area, up the hall to a door marked "Private."  The Vet Tech unlocked the door, took the dog and his paperwork and turned.  Just before she closed the door, I said, "Wait. Let me say goodbye."  I kissed his little head and rubbed his flea-scarred ears.  "You were someone's good Chihuahua," I said, "You are a good boy.  It will be better now."  She turned away with the dog.  The door shut with a click.

I have a message on my phone from a volunteer praising me for "taking that poor dog home."  She won't be happy to know that I made the decision to have the dog put down.   He had as good an end as I could give him--he was cleaner, warm, fed and stroked.  He went to the Euthanization room wrapped in a clean fleece blanket.

Some people will consider me the villain.  But I hate the way we throw energy and resources at dogs that come to us in such horrible shape.   The person at fault is that dog's owner.  If that dog was abandoned or turned in as a stray, it was because his owner was too cowardly to make the difficult decision I made this afternoon.  That dog's suffering is over.  I sent him off with as much dignity as I could muster.

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I didn't have my camera with me today or I would have taken a dozen photos of that old Chihuahua.  This photo has been altered from an Internet image.

How Some Things End

On September 16, 2009, JoJo, a three-year-old fawn American Pit Bull Terrier was euthanized, thus ending a dog’s life. He lived long enough to touch the hearts of several people in the Shelter, entering the system on January 30, 2009 as a stray. JoJo’s dog-on-dog aggressiveness was his undoing. His Pit Bull bloodlines were a liability. His unknown background and experiences were a hindrance. But the spirit in his dog heart remains, burning pure and bright, flickering as a reminder that as human we pay for our hubris in the deaths of dogs deemed unsafe.

I drew the portrait on myWacom tablet. I’m still a beginner with this tool, so don’t know how to blend the colors yet. JoJo’s spirit rests easier now, even if mine doesn’t.

Queeny's Story

This is a long post, but this story is what prompted me to launch a blog. I hope you’ll read through it for Queeny’s sake.

I haven’t written about “Queeny” in this blog because she crept through my life before I launched. But Fred’s post today on “One Bark at a Time” http://onebarkatatime.blogspot.com/ struck me and I want to make sure Queeny is never forgotten.

The Queensland Heelers and Australian Cattle Dogs who arrive at our Shelter rarely fare well. Bred as Thinkers, these dogs seem to sense the horrific end that could be theirs. Many react to the chaos of the Shelter by withdrawing into themselves—slumping in the back of the kennel, their ears at half-cock, their eyes full of reproach.

Queeny (our Shelter lacks imagination when assigning dogs a name, but at least a name is generally bestowed), a little Queensland Heeler mix, was like that. I didn’t see her at first—she was nearly invisible in her grief. When I took her out of the kennel, she slouched toward the door, quietly desperate. Already in the Shelter for three weeks, she came into my view too late. This was right before Valentine’s Day in 2009.

Not that I didn’t try to save her. I took her to an Off-Site event, which, when I am in charge is like a Day Out for the Dogs—with brushings, collars and kerchiefs, a spritz of doggie perfume, good treats, and walks and head pats and time to sit between my knees while I ruffle ears and massage shoulders. But Queen didn’t care. She looked at me with eyes that asked one question: “Who betrayed me?” And I couldn’t give her an answer.

So I tried to tempt her, but nothing worked. She was thin and coughing—I figured it was Kennel Cough, which vexed the Shelter animals all winter. I opened a can of dog food (bought inside the PetsMart where we had set up). She sniffed, licked, and then gave up on it. By the end of the afternoon, she was sliding downhill and I was determined.

Back at the Shelter, it was too late to find a staff member to give her medicine. It would have to wait until Friday morning. So Queeny came home with me, along with another foster (Sweetheart, the hound mix I’ve written about several times). I made them scrambled eggs, mixed it with kibble. She ate the offering and her mood picked up, but only a little.

I kept Queeny and Sweetheart at my house after the Off-Sites through the weekend. I gave her meds for Upper Respiratory Infection and good food. But my husband didn’t want me fostering—he was cranky about the dog hair, the size of the dogs, the crates in the main room, the occasional bark. Plus, he said he didn’t want stinky Shelter dogs in his vehicle, and my old Soccer-Mom van had to go the shop Monday for transmission work.

So I had to take both dogs back on Sunday night. It was 9:00 p.m. at the Shelter. There is nothing worse than the Shelter after hours. When we unlock the dark kennels, and flip on the lights, the dogs wake up and bark in confusion. The barking sounds harsher at night. Shadows pool, even with the lights on. The Shelter is Hell after hours.

Queeny gave me a stoic look—“You, too, have betrayed me.” Exhausted from four-days straight of Off-Sites (it was a special promotion), I wept. I wept all the way home because I knew Queeny was right. I didn’t stand up to my husband. I wasn’t willing to take responsibility for the relationship I’d started with Queeny. I told myself: “The Staff will continue her meds. It’s just a mild URI. She’s eating again. She’ll be fine.”

By the time I had my car back, it was Thursday. I went straight to the Shelter. The Vet Tech told me she was glad I was finally here because “your dog, the Heeler” hasn’t eaten since Monday.” Queeny was in the Surgery kennel because she had faded too much to remain in the chaos of the Adoption Room kennel. She didn’t stand, but lifted her head when she saw me.

I went into the kennel, crouched and cried in her fur. A Staff person brought me a can of dog food and asked me to see if I could get her to eat. She ate for me, then slowly rose, wobbled forward, drank water, then peed by the door of her kennel. I put on her harness and led her out. She wasn’t coming back. I didn’t care what my husband said.

The Shelter Director gave her injections of meds, gave me syringes and tablets, and a tube of Nutra-Cal. I put Queeny in my van and took her home, prepared a soft bed and put the crate in the main room of our house. Queeny stayed with me from February 19th until February 25th.

You know the story—injections (my husband, who was shamed into helping gave the injections while I held Queeny), liquids, tablets, a dozen combinations of taste-tempting tidbits, hand-feeding, finger-feeding, cajoling, slow walks in the grass, stroking and petting, begging and pleading, calling in favors from my best friend who is a Vet Tech, and even a donation from her employer who came out to the Van in front of her office to administer a power punch of injections: “It might work.”

I couldn’t save Queeny. On Ash Wednesday, February 25th, when I crouched by her crate, I could tell she had given up the fight. She was done. I lifted her in my arms and made her a bed on our couch. Weeping, I called a girlfriend, who came over and drove us in my van to the Shelter. I held Queeny on my lap. She wasn’t a big dog, but she had lost so much weight. Her eyes were smoky with Death but she was still breathing.

At the Shelter, there was the normal chaos. We arranged Queeny in the back of my van and my girlfriend stayed with her while I waded through the bureaucratic mud. No, I didn’t want to leave Queeny in a kennel where someone “would take care of it.” Yes, I could wait for the Shelter Director to finish a call. I had to break another promise I had made to Queeny: I had told her she would never go inside the Shelter again. But it is against the rules to perform the final deed in the parking lot.

My girlfriend waited with Queeny until things were ready, then I carried Queeny inside the Shelter to do the final thing. The Shelter Director had a cubbie for an office. We closed the door, and laid Queeny on a clean towel. The pads of her feet were thick: Distemper. We stroked Queeny. I told her how sorry I was.

They left me with Queeny, who I had planned to keep if she had lived, who I had renamed Sasha. She didn’t help or resist when I pulled her into my lap and wept into the brittle fur on her neck. I kissed her between her fox ears. The Vet Tech came for her.

Our Shelter doesn’t use the two-injection method for euthanization. Too expensive is the excuse. The Vet Tech did what she could, including holding Queeny (which is against the policy for some asinine reason) while the injection was made. On Ash Wednesday, February 25th, Queeny’s suffering ended.

I went to church afterwards, at noon. I needed to hear about ashes, dust and bones as brittle as potsherds. I needed to know my part in Queeny’s downfall would be absolved, and that through repentance (which is to turn around) I could do better. Queeny is not the first Shelter dog I’ve lost to death, as there have been others over the years, but she is the one who shouldn’t have died.

I will always remember Queeny, who is now Sasha.

The Dangerous Rainbow

We have color system on the doors at the Shelter—Green, Yellow, Blue, Red, and Purple. It is a dangerous rainbow.

The Green Room is the best room for the dogs—it’s the Adoption Room, and thus it provides the primary ticket out of the Shelter. The Yellow Room has cats (for adoption) and animals still being kept under the stray-hold. The Blue Room houses more of the same, but officially is meant be for the puppies—although this is not a hard-and-fast. The Red Room is for bite cases and other critical issues—the door is locked and you can’t go in without an Animal Control officer. I haven’t been in the Red Room yet. The Purple Room is for incoming animals and worse, it’s where the animals slated for euthanizing are put—at least for now. Our Shelter is expanding, and the door colors have changed several times.

The Shelter staff will be euthanizing animals this week. No one is happy about this. The month of February was an experiment in No-Kill, and the euthanasia rates were held in check through March. But the parade of animals into the shelter is up-ticking with the litters of puppies and kittens, so the killing will resume.

I did a walk-through of the Purple Room this afternoon. It was depressing and horrifying—three skinny mamma dogs with baggy teats and mange, a grey, scarred, crop-eared pit bull, an older lab with cherry eye, several terrified LBDs (Little Brown Dogs) of indeterminate breeding who lie curled up and unresponsive. Some kennel cards have the word “SAVE” scrawled across the intake information in yellow highlighter. Other cards have messages of hope—“Show to Dr. M.” or “Rescue Called.”

But most of the cards have no notes. Most of these dogs have no names. For these animals, death is near. We know. They know too. The rainbow is dangerous.

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Photo credit: Flickr; Creative Commons; Thank you-heureux- Vienna, Austria