Did I Do The Right Thing?-- A Letter To A Shelter Dog

 It can be hard finding the right dog to adopt. Being a person who strives to match personalities and possibilities with that one animal that comes home with me, can also mean many trips to shelters or breeders.

After losing my dog of many years, I visited numerous shelters and rescue groups. This went on for months. During that search you meet dogs that are close, but for some reason or another you shy away from. The following letter was written to one of those special dogs that I left behind.

Even to this day I sometimes wonder if I did the right thing.

Dear Husky,

I can still see your gorgeous eyes; blue specks of sky in a sled-dog face.

You were petite and always on the move, whining as you paced along the concrete floor of your kennel space. Your slight frame reminded me of Mandy, a dog I used to have. Mandy was a collie-setter mix and weighed all of 25 pounds. She had a perky, cute face and silky fur. Her legs were fringed and speckled in setter fashion, and I used to love how her legs flowed as she chased fast moving balls.

Mandy was born of a collie mother and was the smallest of her litter. Aloof, she was often interested in whatever was going on somewhere else. Her lively attractiveness quickly overshadowed some neurotic behaviors like constant pacing and a nearly non-existent attention span, and included a list of fears of everything from rain, thunder, lightning, and fireworks to large trucks.

One evening, while at my parent's home, I needed to walk up the street to get something. My sister offered to hold Mandy on her leash during my absence. I was only gone for five minutes. During this short time, a four-door sedan came up the street. Mandy broke away from my sister and ran head-long into the moving car. The driver skidded to a stop, but Mandy was injured never-the-less. The driver apologized over and over again, but it wasn't his fault. This is what Mandy did, unreasonable, unpredictable things.

It didn't help that I made a lot of basic mistakes with Mandy. Failing to be the boss was the biggest one. Since she often seemed nervous about one thing or another, instead of instilling confidence, I sheltered and coddled her. This led to a series of behavior that I later learned forced her to believe that she had to be in charge because in her mind, no one was. From the outside, I'm sure her behavior and mine were easy to read. On the inside, not so much.

Over time, Mandy became unpredictable and snappy. One day her snarliness turned into a bite. It was a horrible day that brought all of her life crashing before me. I had screwed up big-time, and Mandy ultimately paid the price.

I came to the shelter often, and each time I came, Blue-eyes, you looked at me as if you thought I could help. One day I could resist your stare no longer and I reached for your adoption card. It was splashed with a "special needs" sticker on the front. The card read:

• Opens gates
• Opens doors
• Works latches
• Climbs fences
• Not good with children
• Needs experienced owner
• See kennel supervisor for further adoption details.

The word experienced leaped at me. I was experienced, wasn't I? After all I had made a million errors raising Mandy. I had learned the hard way what one has to do to make a dog a good family member, and the errors of my past were mistakes I hoped to never repeat again. It was a resolution I held firmly in my mind. But if I took this dog on, could I trust myself to deliver my staunch internal promise? What if everything I learned meant nothing, and I ended up messing up another dog?

The expression in your eyes spoke of high comprehension and intelligence. I am often drawn to the highly intelligent beasts. The ones that seem to know more than me, and those who appear to have a higher connection to the universe than I. It can be humbling at times to know your pet can read you better than you can read yourself, but it is also one of the most illuminating moments you can experience. As I looked at you, I felt your deepness, along with my doubt.

I returned to the shelter for many weeks, five, six, maybe seven looking for the dog that would fit my life and my needs.. Every time I came you were still there, pacing, peering past the bars, hoping to be set free. Your gaze always followed me. Your voice often called out to me. My heart would pull, and I'd bend down and talk to you giving you false hope. Finally after awhile I stopped because it seemed increasingly unfair to you. Unfair because regretably I didn't think I could adopt you. There were too many special needs listed on your card and I was looking for a docile, people friendly dog who wanted to be with me instead of running somewhere else or tearing the house apart.

On the last week I came, you were gone. Part of me wanted to ask of your fate, but I was a coward. I feared you had been put-down because the shelter was a kill facility. Frankly, I was surprised you were kept as long as you were. Isn't it more usual for shelters to keep their lots only a few days instead of many weeks? Realizing this always gave me hope. Maybe they thought you were worthy enough for that special someone to come and adopt you despite all the challenges on your card.

Your face was beautiful. A husky face with husky coloring. Vivid blue eyes that spoke in silence, and a slim frame that gave you agility and speed. Smart. Sorrowful. Your expression was haunting, your voice so plaintive.

To this day, many years later, I still wonder of your life. I still hope that a miracle saved you. I am very sorry it wasn't me.

Cindy

Photographs copyright 2009 Cindy Letchworth. Can not be used without permission of author.