Animals are near and dear to my heart. During 2007 and 2008, I had the privilege of working at our local animal shelter. From this
experience I got the idea to write Lost and Found,
Book One of my young adult teen psychic series, Mysterious Tales from Fairy
Falls. It was through my love of animals that I met fellow author and kindred
spirit, Janis
Flores, who I found loves our furry friends just as much as me. Janis has
had some wonderful experiences, especially with shelter dogs, and I asked her
if she’d be so kind as to share them with you. Take it away, Janis…
Eight years ago, I walked into our local
animal shelter and changed my life forever.
It wasn’t easy. In fact, volunteering to walk shelter dogs was one of
the hardest things I’ve ever done. I
know that will probably sound silly to a lot of people: after all, what’s the
big deal about walking dogs? Put a leash on and go.
For me, it wasn’t that simple. Blessed (or
cursed) with a writer’s super-active imagination, I didn’t know what would be
waiting behind the reception desk, locked away out of sight of the public. I
pictured rows of dogs in wire kennels, unloved, unwanted, dropped off by owners
who abdicated responsibility because the dog was sick, or old, or injured, or
ill-mannered, or just something to be thrown away because it was, after all, only a dog.
I’ll admit it: I was anxious—scared that
I’d make a fool of myself by bursting into tears as soon as I saw the dogs;
sure that I wouldn’t be able to turn away from all those sad faces, begging for
rescue. I was positive I’d have nightmares about frightened
and confused dogs, who didn’t understand what had happened to them, or why.
Then I saw a poster that made me feel like
a coward, writing checks to assuage my conscience, donating money instead of
time so I wouldn’t have to see what I didn’t want to know. The poster showed a
dirty, skinny little dog with a huge chain hanging from a studded collar around
a neck that looked too frail to hold it up. I couldn’t look away from the depth
of pain and hopelessness I saw in that dog’s eyes. The caption under the
picture read:
You might not be able to help all the lost dogs in the
world, but you can help the one in front of you.
That day I walked into the shelter and
volunteered to walk the dogs.
Things have changed at the shelter where I
volunteer as a dog walker. It now has a Behavior and Training Department, whose
members evaluate the dogs that come in to determine if they have any medical
and/or behavior problems before advancing them to the adoption floor. But when
I first started, it was just me, the dogs, and a slip lead (For those who don’t
know what a slip lead is, it’s a long piece of material about half an inch wide
with a metal “D” ring at one end. To use it, you thread the end through the
ring, forming a circle that substitutes as a collar. The “slip” of the lead
means that it can be adjusted to any size dog).
In those early days, I quickly learned that it wasn’t so simple as: put on a leash and go.
I chose to work with the clinic/hospital
dogs instead of those already up for adoption because they seemed to be most in
need of help and attention. They didn’t know where they were, or why their
family had left them behind in a strange place.
I wasn’t a familiar face, but I could be a helping hand, letting them
know—for the brief time I was there on my volunteer day—that they weren’t
alone.
It was an experiment for both of us. In
those early days, I had no way of knowing when I entered a kennel what I was
about to face. Some dogs “shut down” in depression and turned away; others
became aggressive because they were uncertain and scared. But most were so glad
to see me that they almost vibrated with excitement. A leash,
a leash, we’re going for a walk! I could see it in their faces, and it
makes me smile every time. Their joy at
such a simple act almost makes me forget why they are here. Almost.
It was a shock to learn that only a
minority of the shelter dogs are strays (at least in our shelter); the majority
have been brought in by owners with various excuses about why they can’t keep
the dog any longer. But one justification I’ll never understand, is “We just don’t want him anymore.”
How can you not want a dog who has been a faithful family member for years? How
can you throw him away for someone else to take care of just because he has
silver around the muzzle, or cataracts in his eyes, or limbs crippled with
arthritis? To see such a dog watching his former family walking away without
looking back is simply gut-wrenching.
I always pay special attention to these
old dogs. The look in their eyes just breaks my heart.
On a brighter note, here are some of the
special dogs I’ve met at the shelter:
HOLLY: (so named
because she was found in a parking lot at Christmas). We never knew what
happened to this white, bright-eyed little Maltese cross—whether it was abuse,
or being hit by a car—that caused paralysis in both hind legs. I admit to mixed
emotions when they fitted her with a canine version of a wheelchair. It seemed
so unnatural to me. But when I saw
Holly’s joy at being able to race around—sometimes on one wheel—I had to admit
that, for her, it was the right prescription.
LEO: a small boxer cross that came from
Mexico with what appeared at first to be a tumor the size of a small grapefruit
under his chin. I won’t go into the medical details this dog suffered; suffice
to say he became one of the most loved because of his resilience,
determination, and sheer refusal to lose to a deadly disease.
STEVIE: a black, blind
terrier cross with eyes that looked like silver coins. He was found wandering
on a busy thoroughfare. It was a miracle he wasn’t killed. The shelter vet
reluctantly determined that it was too late to restore his vision, but he
didn’t let his blindness stop him. Whenever he heard the jingle of a harness
and a leash, he whirled in circles, eager to go outside for a walk.
CHANCE: a beautiful
25-pound American Eskimo, with the blackest eyes and a blindingly white coat
(once he’d had a bath to wash away the street grime). He had many physical
problems, but he didn’t let that stop him. Sometimes he just wanted to sit with
my arm around him while we watched the world go by.
FLOWER: an abused pit
bull with so much potential. Black with a little white on her chest; eyes
gleaming with intelligence. We worked hard getting her aggression under control
so she could be adopted, only to have her returned in a semi-crazed state with
no explanation about what had happened. Despite our best efforts, she quickly
developed “shelter stress”, and even though it was the best thing for her, it
was a sad day for us all when she was put down. Such a loss for a dog who had
tried so hard.
ABBIE: an extremely shy
Aussie, with a beautiful “Autumn” coat. She would retreat to the opposite of
her kennel and shake when anyone tried to get near her, but with a lot of
patience we brought her out of her shell and into a new life.
BRIE: another Aussie.
She had to have her front leg amputated because her owner left a home-made,
too-tight bandage on and left it on too long, destroying the circulation in
that leg. She was a brave and uncomplaining girl who just wanted to be loved.
That’s what we gave her—until her new family came along, fell in love, and
adopted her.
There are so many more that I could go on
and on. They pass through my mind like a fancy shuffle, with the cards falling
in a waterfall, moving so fast I can’t see the faces. But I know they were
there, and I believe I did my own small part in helping them. What they did for
me—and continue to do—is more than I can say.
Janis
Flores
was born in Montana, and raised in Colorado and California. After graduating
from college, she received her license in Medical Technology, married Ray
Flores, and they moved to northern California—she to supervise a laboratory, he
to establish his horseshoeing business. She found time to take a class on the
short story, but instead wrote her first book—a Gothic suspense titled
HAWKSHEAD, which was subsequently published in hardcover by (then) Doubleday
and company. Thirty-four novels—from historical to contemporary
mainstream—followed.
On Twitter: @JanisOFlores
Writing is such a solitary profession. Humans need human contact. Period.
Face it, we weren’t born to live a life of solitude. Like attracts like, and
writers are no exception. I connected with other writers through courses,
social media, my publishers, writing groups—I could go on, but you get the
gist—because of our common love of books and writing. Writers know what other
writers go through. They feel each other’s pain, know what it’s like to be
rejected, and invest a lot of time, energy, and money into a profession that
may or may not pay off in the long run. 
