Shleter of Hope

The worn brown tiles of the Shelter of Hope entrance echo with laughter from small children running through their parents legs, the legs clearly testing the children’s agility at weave poles. A solemn group of elderly women in long skirts and flowy blouses huddle together over a carrier containing a yowling orange tabby. A loud clank sounds from the heavy industrial door that beckons visitors to find their new “family” beyond its opening. The overwhelming smell of urine and bleach assault my nose. I wriggle my nose back and forth with my index and middle fingers. A small girl peers up from the middle of, I assume, her mother’s legs and shoves her finger into her nose. Is she mocking me? I am NOT picking my nose. I look around at the entrance filled with waning patience and snap my neck back toward the girl, her braid over her right shoulder, and I stick my tongue out at her. Take that. She mirrors my move and sticks hers back out at me. I am thinking of what I can entice the small creature to do next.

“Emmy Woodson.” A male voice calls out.

I look up and raise my hand, old elementary school behaviors so engrained. “That’s me!” I answer aloud. I take a few steps toward the portly middle aged man.

He extends a hand and I reluctantly shake it. “Nice to meet ya. I’m Dave. What kind of friend ya looking to get today?” he jots notes on his weathered carboard clipboard. The snap of the silver clip secures paper in place.

“A companion.” I answer. “I’m open to see what’s available.” I decide.

“You don’t know what you want?” he asks curiously.

I look back to the crowded entrance. The small girl now thrusting her chubby tiny fingers into the carrier of the elderly lady. The audible yowl of protest echoes through the lobby. The dogs beyond the doors are barking, louder and louder as we approach a small metal desk. Dave beckons for me to sit.

“Just gotta review your app.” He states, so monotone I am not sure he is even speaking to me, but I nod in agreement to be safe.

“I live alone. Own my own townhome so no chance of a landlord evicting me because of my new furry friend.” I explain, trying to throw in their own lingo to win favor.

He grunts and strikes his thick fingers with force against the keyboard. “Good.” He gruffs. He flips the page of the application I prefilled and signed prior to arriving.

Eight relationships of those- two failed marriages along with a handful of dead houseplants, I am determined to find an animal that will love me as unconditionally as I will love it. I know, I know. If I can’t keep a houseplant alive how will my track record with an animal fare? But as I told my best friend Nina, plants don’t bark or meow when they need something. You have to stare at the dirt and the leaves and determine, in my case very poorly, what it needs. If I wasn’t drowning a plant, I let it starve. I gave it too much sunlight or not enough.

I supposed my relationships were the same in some essence. Too much love in one so I dialed it back the next time only to be told I didn’t love enough. Why couldn’t the men in my life just bark, you know a little woof woof meaning they need to be held or fed a home cooked meal instead of going out again.

“Young or old?” Dave interrupts.

Is he asking about the age of the men in my life? ”Ummm, a mix?” I answer.

He studies me as if I answered this wrong. “Well do you want to potty train or not? It’s a lot of time and dedication. Or do you want a senior companion?”

“Like one that is going to die on me?” I ask shocked.

“They all die. WE all die.” He emphasizes. He clicks the top of his pen impatiently as he waits for my answer.

Click click. Click click. Click click.

The barking beyond the doors pierces my thoughts. The laughter of the little girl in the waiting room heightens with glee as she pounds her pink sparkling sneakers into the dark brown tiles.

“I’m open to any age up to three. Four even.” I answer, staring at the small child weaving through the leg’s of the adults huddled in whispered conversation.

“Alrighty then. On back you go. Here’s a board -dry erase- just write the cage number and name you want to meet. Bring it out when you’re ready and we’ll let you play for a bit before making a final decision.” Dave stands, handing me a tattered five by seven white board. Black smudges from marker stain the surface, remnants of previous hopeful adopters. People like me perhaps. Trying to save something. Make something right. Or perhaps something to make you feel whole.

I nod at Dave, stand, and accept the board and small red marker. Then I lean my weight onto the push bar of the door and step through to find my match.

The stench beyond the doors is stronger than the waiting room area. The struggling air conditioning units pump out air that is just a hitch cooler than the outside temperature. My quiet steps are cautious, my eyes divert grazing quickly to assess the dog inside the kennel run, trying not to make eye contact. I don’t want any of them to get their hopes up. I don’t want to lock eyes and feel their life story, their heartache at being left stranded and waiting for their owners to return, or for someone to rescue them and love them.

Number forty-two, a female spayed dalmatian mix is three years old. Her body sags on the PVC cot, a pile of feces fermenting in the corner. She doesn’t lift her head to meet my brief gaze, it’s as if she knows I am not meant for her.

Walking around the corner and down another row of kennels, there is number thirty-three, a neutered two year old male puggle. It’s so disfigured my head snaps back for a second look. A designer crossbreed that got all the wrong crossings, its hind legs too short, its front legs too long, its tail long with a half kink in it. His sad eyes droopy as he picks his front nails with his teeth.

Laughter, the laughter of the little girl from the entrance echoes through the kennel area. Dogs awaken and bark as she runs past them. Her hand sliding across their cages. Her mousy voice screaming out “Hi hi hi” as her pink sparkling sneakers smack the concrete walkway.

I keep strolling. A sad sort of gate walk among the discarded and forgotten pets. The little girl runs past me, her head spinning to coax me to follow, as if she is saying, come on, follow me. I spin my body right, then left, then right again. No parents in sight. No other adults on this row. The dogs bark with enthusiasm. My steps quicken as I follow her.

Past number twenty-one, the female eight month old mixed breed that is jumping vertically in attempts to scale the wall. Past number nineteen, the male one year old mastiff who is barking and shaking long thick saliva shoelaces that stick to the wall and slide like slime. Past number seventeen, a pair of bonded boxers, one male and one female, both six years old. Their jowls twist in excitement as the little girl squeals in delight.

My pace picks up to chase her now. She glances back at me, her braid flying in the air as she laughs from the depths of her belly. A smile grows on my face. A smile grows on the faces of the dogs she passes.

We run past number fourteen, a male six month old black lab mix who thwacks his tail with ferocious excitement against the wall. His foot stepping into the water bowl in the corner and spilling the contents everywhere. Past number eleven, the female gray wirey dachshund chihuahua mix whose floppy ears flap with every jump it attempts to make.

The little girl slows, her cherub cheeks pink with delight, her hand grabs the corner of the wall and end kennel. Number ten, a large two year old great dane unbothered by her energy, his interest purely in the bone he is chewing.

“Hurry.” The little girl’s lithe voice beckons me. The shock of hearing her angelic voice stops me in place. The great dane peering up at me, he throws his head back as if to say Go, it’s alright. So I nod at the great dane, regal number ten, and step closer to the girl.

Her eyes a blue that remind me of the Aegean Sea. Her fingers release from the wall and her hand grabs mine. Again, I turn and look for her parents or one of the shelter workers who may know who she belongs too,

“Hurry Emmy.” She whispers.

Shock registers my face. How did she know my name? There are only the two of us, and the dogs. She pulls me, her tiny body trying to force me to step one foot in front of the other. Before I know it we are through another set of double doors, the sun gleams from the sky overhead. My free hand flies up to my face to shield my eyes from the brightness. A fenced pen sprawls before us, four, no five dogs are pouncing on each other, chasing a ball, chasing a handler. The little girl looks up at me, smiles, her small teeth straight in a row bright white in the sunlight.

She points at the dogs. At the handler.

“Is this your mom?” I ask, not sure if she is pointing to the human or the animals.

“Doggy.” She releases my hand and runs through the gate, the handler waving at us.

I turn to see if the girl’s parents are with her, but again, no one is around.

“She’s a cutey.” The handler says as she approaches me, a small dog cradled in her arms.

“She is.” I agree, petting the top of the dog’s head, the soft fur tickling my palm. “How old is she?” I ask.

“About three I think. Would you like to hold her?” she asks me, but before I can answer she has placed the dog in my arms with the precision and carefulness of placing a newborn in its mother’s arms.

The dog has a pink paper collar around it’s neck, like a larger version of a festival bracelet. Number eight, female. She nestles into my arms, placing her head into the crook of my elbow, as if she always had belonged there.

“They think she is a mix between a yorkie and a poodle and perhaps something else. Hard to tell.” The handler tells me. She walks away from me, opens the gate at the opposite end and the other dogs follow her through, a hand off to another handler who leads them back inside.

“The girl.” I stammer, turning about looking for the little girl.

She smiles at me, pointing to a bench where the little girl is patiently sitting, her legs dangling off the edge of the bench as she swings them to and fro. I hold my arms up, as if to show her the sleepy snuggled dog in my arms. The child claps enthusiastically.

“Is she available?” I ask the handler. Number eight, fitting. Took eight failed relationships to bring me to her.

“She is. Although we don’t know her name, she’ll need a new one.” The handler relays to me, turning on a hose and aiming it at spots in the grass.

Taking a seat on the only bench in the pen, the little girl scoots in close, nestles into my side and carefully places her hand on the dog’s head.

“That’s nice and gentle. Very good.” I praise her, not really sure how to speak to a child. The only one I ever was close enough to speak to was my sister’s baby, but she was six pounds and couldn’t speak. And now, they are on the other side of the world it seemed like.

“I think,” I start, stroking the soft hair on the dog’s body. “I think I would like to adopt her.” I decide.

“Excellent choice. I think you two are a great fit together. We’ll let Dave know and I’ll go get her ready while you finish the paperwork.” She takes the dog from my arms.

The little girl jumps off the bench, squealing in delight, though I am not sure why, because she is not adopting this dog, I am. She grabs my hand again, a strange feeling. Her tiny fingers tickling the top of my hand.

At the main door, she drops my hand and runs toward the kennels again, I assume to find her family, and I go in search of Dave.

“Ah Emmy! Heard you found yourself a pretty gal.” he states, dropping into the chair and pounding his fingers again on the keyboard.

“I did. Number eight, she’s soft and cute and I believe almost three or about there?” I recall the facts.

He nods in my direction, not saying anything as he clicks and types and prints the documents required. He swivels in the chair and reaches up to the top of the printer, pulling off a stack of paperwork.

“Wow, that’s a lot of paperwork to get a dog.” I joke, trying to lighten his mood.

“We have to make sure you agree to the terms and that she will be safe. This is an important decision, we don't want the cause emotional harm with a return.” He glares at me as if I have misunderstood the process.

I nod quickly. “Of course. Of course.” Grabbing the only pen on the desk, I scribble my name next to every red arrow on the forty-six pages of documentation.

He stands, extends his arm and I shake his hand. “Congratulations Emmy. You’re gonna me a great mom.” He places a stack of documents into a folder and hands it to me, the other stack is scooped under his arm as he walks away.

I pace the now empty waiting room waiting for my new dog. I think of names: Luna, Lola, Winnie or Stella.

The click of the door opening catches my attention, and the little girl runs toward me, throwing herself into my arms. Her small hand finds mine, the other clumsily holds onto the handle of a small princess suitcase. No one accompanies her.

“Ready Emmy.” She beams up at me.

“Ready for what? How do you know my name?” I ask her.

“To go home.” She answers. She readjusts the suitcase which has flipped on its small back wheel. She pushes a stray hair from her face.

“Home? Where are your parents?” I ask her, seeing no one in the waiting room.

“Your home silly.” She laughs, squeezes my hand again.

“No. Oh no sweetie.” I squat down to meet her gaze, so I am on her level. “I am here to adopt a dog. That sweet little dog that I was holding.” I try to reason with the small girl.

“You don’t want me?” her lower lip juts out and her blue eyes widen and fill with tears.

I stand, looking frantically for any of the shelter workers.

“Hello? Hello? Dave? Anyone?” I yell out, pushing open doors and knocking on office windows for help.

The handler from the yard approaches, wiping her hands on an orange towel. Her name tag reads Anita, she has vomit on the shoulder of her shirt. “Is something wrong Emmy?”

“Yes. Yes Anita. I’m sorry this little girl is lost. We need to find her parents and I am still waiting on the dog…to take home.” I explain.

Anita cocks her head to the side. “But this is what you signed for.” She states, confused.

“Yes, I signed for the dog. The little almost three year old female. The one outside.” I remind her.

“Emmy, you agreed to adopt her yes?” Anita asks.

“Yes. I did.” I agree, finally thinking we are seeing eye to eye.

Anita looks form the child to me. “You decided she is not what you want?”

I look now from the child to Anita. “This isn’t what I signed up for. Not a child. A dog.”

Anita walks to the desk, picks up a phone and murmurs something into the other end. She looks back at me. At the girl who is holding my hand again. Her big Aegean blue eyes giddy with excitement.

“Don’t worry sweetie, we’ll figure this out.” I tell her, tucking her stray hair behind her ear.

Anita approaches us. “Well, if you aren’t willing to keep your end of the bargain, she has to go back.” She frowns, peering down at the girl.

“No. Emmy no. Emmy please I’ll be good. Please take me home. Please.” The little girl sobs and screams out my name and my heart shatters into a million pieces.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper. I was only meant to adopt a dog. I look around, the heavy industrial double doors still in place. The sad paint that reads “Shelter of Hope – Orphanage for Children.”

The gravity of the situation slams into me. This isn’t what I signed up for. I kept thinking over and over again. But when I look into the face of the small girl in front of me, I can’t imagine leaving her behind. Leaving her in a place without hope -without love.

I hold out my hand and let her small fingers interlace with mine, and we walk out of the front doors, together, Stella and me.