the art of dedicating yourself
Yesterday I spent my usual Thursday evening volunteering at the MSPCA shelter in Jamaica Plain (a southern part of Boston, for the non-locals). I had been neglecting my weekly visits for a while, making them more like bi-weekly, while searching for apartments, and am very glad I finally found a place and will be going back more regularly.
Some of you might know that working in animal rescue and advocacy is my career goal. That said, I don't have a whole lot of shelter experience, mostly because it was difficult to impossible to get involved in it while at Simon's Rock, so it's been a few years of disconnect. I got into the MSPCA stuff in April with gusto - and I really should have started much earlier. In my lower periods where depression or anxiety take over, working at this shelter is the only thing I'm really motivated by, the one thing I can still be passionate about. It is constant.
Much of the time it is fun, relaxing, and refreshing to be there. I get to cuddle with cats, walk dogs, and see wonderful animals find wonderful homes, often as a result of my coaching, informing, and aiding the potential adopters. That said, an animal shelter is an inherently heartbreaking environment to anyone who loves animals. This shelter is a special one, with amazing facilities for the homeless animals and such dedicated staff; the animals are not suffering in any way. But they are, nonetheless, wanting. Sometimes I have to remind myself not to get too caught up in thought when I am there, because it is so easy to want to grab a cat and hide in a corner with my emotions.
One of the big hazards of volunteering there regularly is getting to know the animals really well, especially the "old-timers" who stick around for months without finding homes. I've been lucky enough to see most of mine get homes eventually in the time I've been there. I can't even describe the rapturous feeling of seeing 9-year-old calico Cassie, who'd been there from early March to mid-July, and been through so much trauma (she stopped eating for a while and had to be isolated, then in foster care, for a few weeks), finally get scooped into a cardboard box for a thrilled couple. Some others have been transferred to other shelters, in the hopes they'd find a more interested clientele there. But whatever good endings might be possible, there's nothing scarier than coming in to find one of your old-timers missing. You run around frantically...maybe he's been moved, maybe she's sick in iso. You want to know, you're dying to know, oh it's probably good news, he probably has a home, someone finally saw how great she is...but you're clammy. You freeze up. You try to let the news find you because you are afraid to ask, afraid that they may have decided there was nothing they could do for this one.
It's not cruel. It hurts the people more than it hurts the animals. Unlike some of the Yelpers who gave the place a cursory glanced and immediately judged the organization - and therefore, the people who work so hard for the animals - because their shelters are not "no-kill" (or more aptly, "limited admission"), I bear no ill will about this. But when Frankie, my last old-timer from my starting days (he'd been there since at least April and probably before) wasn't there last night, I was relieved when the staff were so busy that I didn't get a chance to ask. I have to, I know, because if I want this to be my life's work, I have to be willing to face the possibilities, the realities of it all. And you know, with the track record at this shelter, it's not like I'm convinced it will be sad news - but I have to be willing to deal with it if it is.
Some things remind me even more that every trip to the shelter is an exercise in dedication, and that I have to grow a little stronger before this can become my living. Yesterday, I wandered over to the dog receiving area to check out what was back there; I'm always curious about who's coming in. My eye was first drawn to the enormous harlequin Great Dane (oh, how I love those giants), but quite quickly I was distracted by him, because Luna's barking was too desperate to ignore. He was in the kennel next to the Dane, howling repeatedly, chilling me.
The dog was a pit bull-type, squat and with a long torso and very clearly inbred, displaying some awful deformities like joints splayed out in every direction and seriously webbed toes. And he was emaciated. Signs all over his kennel door ordered staff and volunteers not to feed him; if he ate too much too fast, he could develop "refeeding syndrome." He was on a special diet and a strict feeding schedule monitored closely by the veterinary team.
When I say emaciated, I'm not using that word lightly. This dog had some muscle, but every bone on his body and in particular, every notch of his spine, strained against his dull tan coat. Even his face was bony, the skin stretched taut over his skull. Even more, he had superficial injuries all over his body, especially his legs and face. His severely cropped ears were scabby. I've never in person seen a dog that was so badly abused in my life.
I couldn't look at him very long. Even turning my head towards the Dane, Luna's yelps started tears. I was there for perhaps 4 or 5 minutes saying hello to all the dogs in the back before I could not take it anymore. I could not look at him, think on what people had done to him, but the pathetic picture in my mind will, of course, always stick. I know that someday I need to build up some resilience, and learn to deal with these things. Someday, I will; no, I won't be immune (if ever you do, that is the day you quit the field and seek therapy), but I will be strong, and know that the strength of the people who do this work is what it takes to bring animals like Luna out of the dark.
Some of you might know that working in animal rescue and advocacy is my career goal. That said, I don't have a whole lot of shelter experience, mostly because it was difficult to impossible to get involved in it while at Simon's Rock, so it's been a few years of disconnect. I got into the MSPCA stuff in April with gusto - and I really should have started much earlier. In my lower periods where depression or anxiety take over, working at this shelter is the only thing I'm really motivated by, the one thing I can still be passionate about. It is constant.
Much of the time it is fun, relaxing, and refreshing to be there. I get to cuddle with cats, walk dogs, and see wonderful animals find wonderful homes, often as a result of my coaching, informing, and aiding the potential adopters. That said, an animal shelter is an inherently heartbreaking environment to anyone who loves animals. This shelter is a special one, with amazing facilities for the homeless animals and such dedicated staff; the animals are not suffering in any way. But they are, nonetheless, wanting. Sometimes I have to remind myself not to get too caught up in thought when I am there, because it is so easy to want to grab a cat and hide in a corner with my emotions.
One of the big hazards of volunteering there regularly is getting to know the animals really well, especially the "old-timers" who stick around for months without finding homes. I've been lucky enough to see most of mine get homes eventually in the time I've been there. I can't even describe the rapturous feeling of seeing 9-year-old calico Cassie, who'd been there from early March to mid-July, and been through so much trauma (she stopped eating for a while and had to be isolated, then in foster care, for a few weeks), finally get scooped into a cardboard box for a thrilled couple. Some others have been transferred to other shelters, in the hopes they'd find a more interested clientele there. But whatever good endings might be possible, there's nothing scarier than coming in to find one of your old-timers missing. You run around frantically...maybe he's been moved, maybe she's sick in iso. You want to know, you're dying to know, oh it's probably good news, he probably has a home, someone finally saw how great she is...but you're clammy. You freeze up. You try to let the news find you because you are afraid to ask, afraid that they may have decided there was nothing they could do for this one.
It's not cruel. It hurts the people more than it hurts the animals. Unlike some of the Yelpers who gave the place a cursory glanced and immediately judged the organization - and therefore, the people who work so hard for the animals - because their shelters are not "no-kill" (or more aptly, "limited admission"), I bear no ill will about this. But when Frankie, my last old-timer from my starting days (he'd been there since at least April and probably before) wasn't there last night, I was relieved when the staff were so busy that I didn't get a chance to ask. I have to, I know, because if I want this to be my life's work, I have to be willing to face the possibilities, the realities of it all. And you know, with the track record at this shelter, it's not like I'm convinced it will be sad news - but I have to be willing to deal with it if it is.
Some things remind me even more that every trip to the shelter is an exercise in dedication, and that I have to grow a little stronger before this can become my living. Yesterday, I wandered over to the dog receiving area to check out what was back there; I'm always curious about who's coming in. My eye was first drawn to the enormous harlequin Great Dane (oh, how I love those giants), but quite quickly I was distracted by him, because Luna's barking was too desperate to ignore. He was in the kennel next to the Dane, howling repeatedly, chilling me.
The dog was a pit bull-type, squat and with a long torso and very clearly inbred, displaying some awful deformities like joints splayed out in every direction and seriously webbed toes. And he was emaciated. Signs all over his kennel door ordered staff and volunteers not to feed him; if he ate too much too fast, he could develop "refeeding syndrome." He was on a special diet and a strict feeding schedule monitored closely by the veterinary team.
When I say emaciated, I'm not using that word lightly. This dog had some muscle, but every bone on his body and in particular, every notch of his spine, strained against his dull tan coat. Even his face was bony, the skin stretched taut over his skull. Even more, he had superficial injuries all over his body, especially his legs and face. His severely cropped ears were scabby. I've never in person seen a dog that was so badly abused in my life.
I couldn't look at him very long. Even turning my head towards the Dane, Luna's yelps started tears. I was there for perhaps 4 or 5 minutes saying hello to all the dogs in the back before I could not take it anymore. I could not look at him, think on what people had done to him, but the pathetic picture in my mind will, of course, always stick. I know that someday I need to build up some resilience, and learn to deal with these things. Someday, I will; no, I won't be immune (if ever you do, that is the day you quit the field and seek therapy), but I will be strong, and know that the strength of the people who do this work is what it takes to bring animals like Luna out of the dark.