[JCarlson2004]

Part 2

Leaving the room, you remember something you wanted to tell a co-worker. She's working alone in the cat room, putting down several dozen to start her day. You open the door, but the scene makes you forget what you wanted to say. There she is, sitting in a corner, crying, surrounded by dozens of dead cats that litter the floor. You make eye contact and get ready to say something, but she waves you off. It's a quick shake of the head that says, 'I'm fine; just leave me alone.' So you do. For those who do this for a living, it's mostly business as usual, life goes on. But there are occasional meltdowns. Not to mention divorce, denial, alcoholism, nightmares, antidepressants and all sorts of other ugly side effects.

Walking away from the cat room, a simple question forms in your head, one that plagues you often throughout your days here: Does anybody care about animals? Anyone at all?

Inside, you know there are thousands of people, just like you, who cherish their pets and treat them like family. Or even royalty. Working here, you rarely see those folks. They take care of their animals.

Instead, you get the people who before business hours drop off a cardboard box of mangled kittens that were used to train pit bulls to fight dirty. Usually, they just toss the dead alongside the road somewhere, but for some reason, someone brought these in. You open the box to discover all but one are dead, and the only one alive is using its front legs to crawl toward you because its back legs are crushed.

Or you get the people whose hobby is trapping feral cats and bringing them to the shelter. Once you asked about strange lines etched into the stick they use to hold the trap shut, hoping you were wrong. But, yes, like notches in a gun, that's how they track how many cats they've captured. It's a game to them.

Or you get the man who brings in three kittens in an ice chest he placed in his trunk. In the middle of summer. When you open the lid, most of the horror has played out. You look up and scold him, asking him what he was thinking. And he shrugs. Not like it matters, he says, they didn't belong to anyone.

Or you get the people who pull up in a moving van to drop off their family pet, saying that they can't take the dog with them and that they were unable to find the animal a home. They drive away, conscious clear, leaving the dirty work for you. Like you're some kind of sin-eater.

And to think, you took this job because you wanted to save animals. Standing there at the kennels, lost in the flashbacks, you ask yourself again:

Does anybody care?

Anyone at all?

A friendly face pops into your mind. Yes, there is one, you finally remember, trying to cheer yourself up. That poor young woman from the west side, the one who's been coming by twice a week for the last six months, looking for her beloved red Doberman pinscher. She keeps asking you, 'How long should I keep looking?' And you keep telling her, 'As long as your heart needs to.' Who are you to take away hope?

And now, come to think of it, you did notice a nice-looking Doberman in the back kennels this morning. Nah, couldn't be, you think. He disappeared six months ago. But, needing a miracle, you go and check anyway. You look him over for a while. There is some red in his coat, but you're not certain.

Cautiously, you have someone call the woman. Be sure to tell her we're not sure, you say, but let her know we might have her dog. An hour later, the woman is scurrying through the hall toward the back kennels. You can barely keep up with her.

I think I hear him, she keeps saying excitedly. She keeps calling out his name. All you hear is what you always hear: the deafening din of scores of barking dogs. When you get to the back kennels, a lowered metal guillotine door is keeping everything outside. So you raise the door, and 80 pounds of frenetic dog come bounding inside, wildly running around the cage. You think to yourself, how would he even know she was coming? Yes, on some level, they always know.

Just like that, this huge dog plasters itself against the chain-link fence, licking the fingers of a woman who's pressing herself against the fence, too. The scene is reminiscent of lovers on a beach. It's him, it's him, she keeps saying. All the while, this enormous dog is emitting the strangest high-pitched yipping you've ever heard, almost like a puppy.

Overcome with emotion, the woman sinks to the cement gutter and starts sobbing into her hands. You sit next to her to offer some comfort. Then, before you know it, you're right beside her, bawling uncontrollably. She's crying because her life is complete again. And you're crying because, after working this job, your life never will be the same. Because for every animal that leaves with its owner, half a dozen are hauled off in garbage trucks.

No, you think, wiping away the tears, this is no place for an animal lover.

Written by Ty Phillips, the Modesto Bee