Discarded Dog Day Afternoon

Early in 1989, I faced a mid-life crisis. I surrendered my lease to a rent-stabilized Manhattan studio apartment and moved to Boston with my two rescued dogs, Scottie, and Maxine. Was I off my rocker? I lived in a wonderful neighborhood, but my apartment had cockroaches who waited in line to enter my roach motel. A crooked ceiling worried me. Would I wake up covered in soot, dust, and the neighbor above me? Nearby Boston seemed like a good place to resettle. Once I found another social work position and an apartment that accepted pets, I called the MSPCA (Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) to ask about volunteering. That began my shelter career.

I preferred working with unwanted dogs and cats. Jean, the manager, urged me to learn front desk operations anyway. To start off on the right foot, I agreed. I didn’t want to come across as testy or unduly picky. On my first day, a woman arrived to surrender her cat. The clerk asked why, a question posed to everyone surrendering animals. Details like the animal’s age, temperament, medical history, etc. assisted in placing them into new homes. The woman signed the relinquishment papers citing the reason as her cat meowed. Dumbfounded, I asked what were you expecting, a Gregorian chant? From the corner of my eye, Jean frantically waved at me as if I should have shut up. I grew up in NYC and am often opinionated. Later, the manager encouraged me not to challenge pet owners surrendering cats or dog, no matter how trivial the reason. Owners got into snits and walked across the street to a park to abandon their pets. I never worked at the front desk during my two years at the MSPCA.

In addition to unwanted animals entering the shelter daily, there were disturbing abuse cases. Employed as a social worker, I experienced more child abuse cases than I cared to remember, but that’s for another sobering discussion. The MSPCA introduced me to animal maltreatment. The shelter investigated abuse in and around Boston. Pets seized from abusive owners often lived at the shelter for weeks or months because they were needed in court cases. Removed from his abusive owner, Buster, a young lab mix, lived at the shelter for months while his owner’s case worked its way through the justice system. To give Buster a break from confinement, staff members let the dog spend time among the various departments. Buster greeted customers at the animal hospital’s front desk. He was quite the receptionist, barking out greetings and soaking up affection from customers, staff, and other volunteers. A judge finally freed Buster for adoption and he landed in a good home. Sadly, a year later Buster became sick and died. At least he escaped further abuse in his last days, and he died in a loving environment.

Each week, I checked out the residents. Unlucky ones lingered; others were new, either strays or owner surrenders. To shield my heart from shattering, I stopped asking staff about pets I liked. If they burned in the crematory, I didn’t want to know. I caved in now and then. Once I took interest in Barney, a senior mix of who knows what, brought in by Boston Police. The dog’s aging owner, a single man, suffered a massive heart attack and was rushed to a hospital. Rather than strand Barney, EMTs called the police who escorted him to the MSPCA. The shelter searched for the owner’s family, but no one turned up. Every few days, management checked with the hospital, but the owner remained in serious condition. Family never came forward. I took Barney for an extra walk and rewarded him with special treats and a fluffy blanket. We all feared the owner might not recover. By this time, my heart belonged to Barney.

Nearly two months later, the owner showed up saying he felt much better. I missed the wonderful reunion, but the manager said he was so thankful we took care of his dog. In fact, he left a generous donation of $200. Barney wagged his tail as he left with his owner. Hearing the story made my day.

In the summer of 1991, I left Boston for an adventure in Colorado. I enjoyed my time at the shelter, learning about pet overpopulation, animal care, and community support. I had a wonderful time attending shelter fundraisers with my dogs, especially one called Mutts and Stuff day. My dog Maxine and I won a prize for owner/dog look alike. We were quite a team.

How I traveled across the country with three dogs scrunched in a Subaru wagon loaded with my stuff was a miracle. Finding a motel to accept my canine trio wasn’t an issue although I once was given a smoker’s room. Rest stops on interstate highways set aside fenced-in areas to exercise dogs. My canine companions traveled well, adjusting to the tight quarters. None got carsick but me. Now and then, I indulged my dogs with French fries and burgers. Maxine preferred hers without pickles.

Once I settled in Boulder, CO with a job and an apartment, I called the local shelter, then known as Boulder County Humane Society, and signed up to volunteer.

Early bird Ron almost always arrived before the starting hour of 7:00 a.m. and loaded a large plastic bucket with donated dog food to serve our occupants their daily meal. Whoever arrived next fed the cats. The third person vacuumed the hallways and front office. Staff then collected the uneaten dog food and headed outside to recycle the food to a motley collection of unwanted farm animals. We had two horses, Patches and Joey, who was blind, three goats (Carmelita, Gandhi and Sassy), a giant pig named Remus, and a flock of chickens. Ducks and geese swarmed around the tiny pond, especially at feeding time.

Remus, his large girth and noisy snorts, amazed me. A prank at a campus fraternity party, police brought the pig to us. Pigs were usually slaughtered for meat when they were around six months of age or sooner. Remus grew and grew until he weighed probably over seven hundred pounds.

“He leads a good life,” Leslie, the assistant manager said.

I glanced at the slumbering swine as he snoozed on a large pile of straw in the barn. “What’s to complain about?” I asked.

A social worker monitored a mentally ill client living independently, checking on him daily to make sure he took his medication. The patient owned a black lab mix named Baby. Off his medication, the client lost self-control and beat up on Baby. The social worker felt sorry for Baby and pressed the client to surrender him. He always refused. With a lot of persuasion, the social worker finally convinced the client to relinquish Baby. She brought him to us. The pathetic dog cowered in his cage, fearful of everyone. He whined and whimpered. I treated him to a nice blanket and snacks but that barely calmed his fears. I wondered how many times his former owner had whacked him. Clients refusing medication and therapy often hurt people and animals.

Weeks passed and Baby wasn’t adopted. I feared that he’d end up on the dreaded euthanasia list. Baby deserved a second chance but didn’t they all?

To place him into a loving home, the shelter made him pet of the week. The Boulder Camera newspaper offered free weekly space to feature one special pet. Baby’s story appeared and magic ensued. A kind family showed up and gave Baby the great home he deserved. My eyes watered when I heard the story. Baby owed his life to the brave social worker who saw he was in trouble and to the family who adopted him.

Euthanasia duty rattled nearly everyone. Volunteers didn’t participate but I watched the supervisors when they compiled the ‘E’ list. Supervisors scrawled a yellow ‘x’ across the cards of the doomed. Sometimes the choice was obvious due to illness, injury, age, or bad temperament. On days when not enough strays were not reclaimed, too many pet owners surrendered animals and few people adopted, gut wrenching choices were made. Life was unfair but the shelter had neither the space nor the resources to keep every unwanted animal alive. Euthanasia tore me apart every time I saw a kennel worker lead a tail wagging dog or carry a purring cat to the back room. I knew what awaited them.

After each euthanasia session, Leslie, the assistant manager, barged through the back door to puff away. I once followed her.

“I thought you were trying to quit,” I said.

“I only smoke at work,” Leslie said, sucking hard on a cigarette and exhaling slowly.

“It’s the stress,” I said, acting the role of social worker.

“I hate putting animals down, especially when there’s nothing wrong with them.”

“Not for me,” I said.

“I didn’t think I could either, but it’s better to be put down by someone like me than starve, get hit by a car or live with a sadistic owner.”

I totally agreed.

A delivery man worked for a local pet food supplier. A “sell by” date didn’t mean the food was rancid or stale. Legally, it couldn’t be sold after that date just like food for human consumption. The driver’s cheapskate employer tossed the outdated food into the dumpster rather than donate it. I was at the shelter when the delivery man showed up with a yet another load of pet food.

“If he knew I brought the food here, he’d fire me,” the driver said. “With all the animals you have, I can’t see that food wasted.”

“Have you talked to him about it?” Leslie asked.

“He said he paid for the food and if he can’t sell it, no one will get it.”

“I appreciate what you’re doing but please watch yourself,” Leslie said.

“He has no idea what I do. I intend to keep it that way,” the driver said.

“Thank you again for your kindness,” Leslie said.

Of note, the driver never had pets. He was simply thoughtful.

On January 6, 1994, a car ran me over as I walked my dogs leaving me with a serious brain injury. I spent two months in a hospital/rehab center. Thankfully, my dogs weren’t hurt and my neighbors cared for them in my long absence. I’d have been heartbroken without them.

Due to memory loss and mobility problems. I never worked again. To escape the freezing weather and snow, I moved to Phoenix in 1997. I returned to animal shelter work as well as other volunteer jobs. Sitting home all day, watching TV, and snacking on crumb cake wasn’t my idea of living. I got a second chance, and I tried to make the best of it. My essay concludes with a few snippets from my experiences in Phoenix. There’s too many to include.

By mid-October, the extreme heat tapered off and Barb, the volunteer coordinator, sprang into action. The off-site adoption season began. Barb organized adoption events at public parks, libraries, animal boarding kennels, and more. Everything had to be transported, including office supplies, pet food, water, bowls, animal crates, folding tables, chairs as well as the dogs and cats available for adoption. Pulling off these events took massive planning. Barb was a master coordinator.

“Darling,” she called me one day. “I need you this weekend for a big event at Cave Creek Park. Can you be there?”

Cave Creek is in the northeast part of Phoenix.

“What time and how to I get there?”

Barb offered a vague set of driving instructions. The brain injury distorted what little sense of direction I had and naturally I botched my way to the event. About an hour later, I finally showed up at a gorgeous public park nestled in the sprawling desert.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said as I rolled up in my scooter.

“Don’t worry,” Barb said. “Ride to the parking lot and look for the county truck. Pick up the stack of towels in the back. Dogs and cats need something soft inside the cages.”

Barb treated me like a valued employee. “How’s your selling skills?”

“I guess OK,” I said.                                                                                            

“Good enough,” she said. “Got an important job for you.”

Barb’s dedication to the shelter extended beyond her paid employment. In her spare time, she assembled gift baskets to benefit shelter dogs and cats. At off-site events, volunteers like me hawked raffle tickets. She plowed the proceeds into the foster care program so that tiny puppies and kittens born to moms that either died prematurely or had to be put down would find a second chance.

Within a short time, I earned a place as one of Barb’s top sales agents. I peddled raffle tickets at adoption events and raked in at least $200 at each one. I loved it. The special part was the sight of dogs and cats on their way home with responsible loving owners.

Even Barb’s family chipped into her mission. At off-site adoptions, her husband Kenny helped in whatever ways he was needed, mostly hauling supplies, or buying her a hot dog. Her mom brought her organ and played music. Sometimes her niece sold raffle tickets. It was like a family affair.

I was deeply sorry when Barb passed away in February 2001. Not only was she my friend, but she was friend to the homeless animals of Maricopa County.

At Christmas time, PetSmart stores partnered with shelters and rescue groups for a fundraiser called Pet Photos with Santa. PetSmart provided the camera, film and frames then split the proceeds with the rescue groups. I jumped at the chance to volunteer for Pet Photos with Santa to be among people whose pets were cherished parts of the family. Because of poor mobility, a seated position worked best for me. I dressed in a Santa suit to pose with animals. Years of playing Santa still warm my heart, even if a scared little dog tinkled on my leg and a cranky cat clawed at my fake beard. I even posed with a horse outside the store. Now the pet photos with Santa are done digitally.

Around Thanksgiving one year, I met a man who came to search for his lost dog.

“Chickie’s been missing for months,” he said. “I always hope he’ll be here.”

“Don’t give up. Sometimes dogs and cats show up a long time after they become lost,” I said.

“My whole family has been heartbroken over his loss.”

“How’d Chickie get out?” I asked.

“The pool guy inadvertently left the gate open.”

I heard that story dozens of times. Repair men and women left gates open and curious dogs escaped. Those with tags, if caught, usually went home. Those without had a less certain fate.

If a pet owner found his dog or cat, they had to pay the fine. If the dog didn’t have a rabies vaccination, they paid an additional fee. No such law applied to cats.

A little later, the man blew through the door to the receiving area and ran up to me.

“He’s here,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”           

“I’m so happy for you.”

“Wait till I get home. My family will be so pleased. We’ll have a happy Thanksgiving this year. And Chickie will get a plate of turkey.”

This was a good day at the shelter.

Over the years, I witnessed dogs and cats that were surrendered for frivolous reasons. Dogs and cats came arrived with hideous wounds inflicted by cruel owners. Some didn’t make it despite our attempts to save them. One poor dog was given up on Christmas Eve because the family said they didn’t have time for him anymore. He whined and whined. I sat there and cried. On the other hand, I also witnessed selfless acts of kindness. A boy perhaps ten-years old brought in a carload full of pet supplies. At his birthday party, he asked guests to bring presents for the shelter. I was so proud of this boy’s humanity. Seeing dogs and cats leave for good homes was so worthwhile.

Chaining dogs always bothered me. I thought it was cruel and heartless. Dogs are social creatures. Why have a dog if only to chain it outdoors in the brutal cold or blistering heat? Around 2005 or so, I had read of a woman then named Tammy Grimes who started an organization called Dogs Deserve Better (DDB). DDB’s mission was to end dog chaining. Inspired by Grimes, I created a children’s creative writing/art contest called Breaking the Chain. The Phoenix Animal Care Coalition (PACC) sponsored the contest. Third grade children in the public schools read a short story that I wrote about a chained dog named Joey saved by the neighbor’s cat, the Great Harriet. For the next ten years, we at PACC judged the most thoughtful caring and clever stories/artwork then awarded small prizes to the top three finishers in each category. It was my pleasure to visit each school and talk to the children about kindness to animals and hand out the prizes. I felt like a rock star.

The Macerich Corporation, owner of dozens of shopping malls across the nation, stunned the animal rescue community in 2011 by not renewing pet store leases. That surprise announcement was the slow death of at least some mall pet stores. One by one, mall pet stores folded. More emphasis was directed towards rescued pets through dogged determination. There’s a long way to go. Millions of dogs and cats enter shelters every year and not all of them are adopted.

The former pet store in Chandler became an adoption center, an extension of the Arizona Animal Welfare League, a private shelter where I’ve volunteered since 2008. In 2014, I moved closer to the mall and started volunteering there. Each week, I checked out new arrivals. Sometimes there’s a dozen puppies and kittens needing attention and a few sad looking older dogs and cats bewildered by life in a cage. Sometimes, I wonder how an eleven-year-old dog or cat suddenly became disposable. For the older dogs and cats, both staff and volunteers comfort them with cozy beds and snacks to make their stay as pleasant as possible.

Volunteer duties are routine. I load a machine with soiled rags, towels, or blankets, I check to see what cages need cleaning. There’s always another dog or cat ready to occupy the space. There’s also feeding time. Most dogs, especially puppies, wag their tails and yip with delight when I dish out kibble. They can’t wait and dig their little heads into the bowls.

I check cat cages to make sure their food and water bowls are full. I once heard a desperate meow. I followed the source until I noticed a cat with an empty bowl. I filled her bowl. That satisfied the pretty puss.

After feeding, I take adult dogs in the yard, a small fenced-in area outside the back entrance. I sit while dogs take care of business or wander around. Some play fetch. In summer, it’s smothering hot outside despite a covering for shade and sprinklers to keep cool. I fill our little pool with water for the dogs to splash around. I later sniff for poop. We don’t take the puppies outside because they aren’t fully inoculated yet so they eliminate in their cage. Sometimes, we place puppies in an open enclosure inside the store called the “pit.” Visitors adore puppies.

Over the years, I have absorbed much about mall operations. The loading dock hums with activity every day, except Sunday, with deliveries. Workers enter and exit through the back. I’ve seen workers hang out to smoke or talk on cell phones. Loud noises from the trucks frighten timid dogs. So does the racket from the cardboard recycler. The machine grinds and grunts as it compresses the cardboard. Later, it’s picked up by a recycling company to turn into more cardboard.

I’ve become familiar with regular delivery drivers. A dog escaped from a volunteer one day. Employees and volunteers mounted a valiant search for the runaway. I asked a UPS driver with a local route to check for our wayward woofer. Thankfully, a Good Samaritan found the dog and returned it to our shelter.

COVID-19 turned the world upside down. Few people, if any, saw the encroaching invisible enemy that would cause havoc around the world. The mall changed too because of COVID. By early March 2020, crowds at the mall slowly thinned then nearly disappeared. One by one, stores closed. Soon, the governor ordered the closure of all non-essential businesses. The mall along with our adoption store shut down for over two months. I missed my routine of snacking on bread samples at Wildflower Café in the lobby and reading the newspapers before my shift. I longed to hang out with the staff, volunteers, and unwanted pets. Since I no longer held a job, volunteering at the pet adoption center was as helpful for them as it was for me. We re-opened in mid-June to many changes. Initially, we kept the front gate down and only opened it to customers with adoption appointments. Everyone -- including staff, volunteers, and customers -- were required to wear masks. Only one volunteer per shift was allowed to limit the number of people in the store. In the early days, the store was quiet without shoppers parading through mostly gazing at the animals. Several months later, we raised the gate and permitted a small number of masked people in at a time. We relaxed our rules and let in more people. More than one volunteer could work a shift, but the mask mandate stood until April 2023 after new guidelines went into effect. During the time we imposed a mask mandate, it created a not so surprising pushback. Let me give you examples. Social media and the press were full of stories about the rabid anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers. Some of those dandies shopped at the Chandler mall. As a rule, a staff member or volunteer like me manned the store entrance for mask patrol. In the beginning, we charged $2.00 for a disposable mask then we lowered the price to $1.00. Then we gave them away for free. We asked visitors if they had their own masks to save money. Some did; some didn’t. Not surprisingly, guests were often insulted by the question. I personally heard people say “It’s just cats and dogs” to which I responded that masks protected everyone’s health. One man claimed my request was just plain stupid. He stormed away then returned to remind me how idiotic I was. I didn’t take it personally. Another woman with a snarky attitude said she wouldn’t come in our store if I gave her a free mask. I said thank you and have a nice day. Also, I heard people spit out curses as they walked by our store that they’ll never adopt from us because you had to wear a mask. Good, keep going. I wouldn’t want to send one of our dogs or cats home with such belligerent people like them anyway. Another man cursed and said he’d never buy anything in our crummy store. I said to myself you probably weren’t going to buy anything anyway. I remain aghast at some people’s hostility and level of anger. Thankfully, no one was injured.

The Chandler mall is an exciting, interesting, and mostly fun place to visit, work, shop, and volunteer. At Christmas time, how can anyone not smile seeing children perched on Santa’s lap? Each week a special adoptable dog sits with Santa. Why no cats? Most cats are skittish around crowds, and we don’t want a cat to escape inside the huge mall. Security guards patrol the mall for everyone’s safety. They keep order and dissuade anyone from causing trouble. I regret that many malls face extinction from on-line shopping and the giant behemoth that sells everything. How can America be America without department stores and shopping malls? It’s our tradition; it’s in our blood. Online can never replace a day of shopping with your friends or plopping down in the food court for a sandwich or a cup of coffee. I never want to see that day happen. I hope Dillard’s, Macy’s and the few remaining department stores don’t meet the fate of Sears, Nordstrom’s, Brooks Brothers, Century 21, and other retailers that bombed because of COVID and on-line competition. I’d miss the store and its employees. I’d also be sad that another piece of America died and was buried. If the Chandler mall goes, so shall our store. How can we let that happen?

I’m older now, in my early seventies, and dealing with issues from aging and the lingering effects from the accident. I’ll continue as a shelter volunteer as long as I’m able to. Going to the mall store is as helpful to me as it is for the animals. There were days over the past years when I wanted to give up. The cruelty, the endless euthanasia of healthy pets and the appalling indifference to their suffering sometimes overwhelmed me and I swore I’d never go back. I always did. I’m so glad the accident on 1/6/94 didn’t end it all because look what I’ve have missed out on. My pocketbook became poorer, but my heart became richer because of unwanted dogs and cats and the people who care for them.

About the Author: Debra J. White's social work career ended suddenly on 1/6/94 due to a pedestrian car accident. After a long recovery from significant brain trauma, she moved to Phoenix and found a new life in creative writing. Her webpage is: www.debrawhite.org

Image credit: Kelly Wright via DALL-E, Ideogram, and Midjourney