How saving pitbulls requires so much empathy I could kick you in the face with it.
Laundromat Guest-Star, Leah
My sister is here keeping my company in the laundromat! I’m thrilled and grateful to her for taking the time to organize her thoughts and share something about where her heart is. My sister is every bit as steely and squishy as she said she is. Her insight and her empathy give my brain back to me, but nicer. I’d pick her for my team with all the choices in the world. ~Camille
I have always been soft. I grew up constantly hearing that I needed to “have thicker skin” and “not let things get to me so much.” I have yet to fully do this, and I’m not sorry. It never really seemed like a choice; I always have felt things perhaps just a little too deeply. It’s always been a point of confusion with my mother and a differentiator from my sister, who is way more badass than me. In a previous post, my sister described her oldest child as sensitive, concerned with the rules, and troubled by injustice. Well, his aunt can relate, and he’s got some tough times ahead of him. When I was in eighth grade, I remember coming home crying to my mother because kids in art class were being overtly homophobic. I was so troubled, despite not identifying as LGBTQ myself, that people could have such nonchalant yet aggressive opinions about someone’s innate identity that I almost canceled my birthday party scheduled for that weekend. It was the first time I remember being outraged to my core at social injustice. It hasn’t really stopped since then.
Not all of this softness has been noble. My twenties, while largely good, were hard too. I am an oversharing, heart-on-the-sleeve, terrible liar level of squish. I found it extremely difficult not to take criticism personally, or even worse, take a direct insult without spiraling. I thought I was a nice and well-intentioned person, so people should see those intentions and honor them with respect, as I did theirs. That’s not how the world works. It took me 30 years and two therapists to decide that not everyone was going to understand me and like me, but enough people did, so I was just going to have a great life with those folks. I’m still working on it.
But we’re not really here to talk about my wounded ego or how many times I’ve interjected when someone says something particularly bigoted. We’re here to talk about puppies. Yup, puppies.
I started volunteering at my local humane society when I was 25, when I just had a massive breakup and was feeling a little lost. I’d always liked animals (except when a cocker spaniel bit me when I was a preschooler; it took my baby brain a moment to get over that, even though I probably had it coming), and it felt like something tangible that I could do in my own community to make a difference. Sure, roll your eyes because it’s not helping people. But, in some ways it is. In other ways, I find it just as critical.
I am an Adoption Counselor. This looks different for different organizations, but for mine, it’s a bit like matchmaking. If you come to the shelter and decide you would like to adopt an animal, you fill out an application, which gets put in my cue. You’d join me in a little room, where I’d talk about humane society policies, what your life and expectations are, and things to know about adopting they kind of animal you want. We’d then talk about the animals you’re interested in, and see if they suit what you told me about your life. If all goes well, I bring the animal in the room, and the two of you decide if it’s love or not. I’ll get you what you need and swap out animals until you decide if you’re going to adopt. I help people mindfully and responsibly rescue new fuzzy family members. It’s basically an extroverted animal lover’s dream. On a good day.
On a bad day, you get covered in puppy poop, a dog you bring in gets too excited and bloodies someone’s nose, you see your favorite animals returned back to the kennels to no fault of their own, people take an hour of your time only to say “yeah, my roommate isn’t here and I need her permission,” a potential adopter physically grabs by the shoulders to get your attention, a big dog gets out under your watch, the kitten that was so cute in the window turns out to be semi-feral so it scratches you, and your favorite dog gets passed up in favor of something “not so pitbull.” Again.
It’s high adrenaline, high reward, and sometimes, it breaks my heart. Just this week, a family came in, and the mother looked at me and said “we were hoping you had shih tzu puppies. I want one but they are like eight hundred dollars. I’d get a pitbull puppy that you have if I didn’t know about them, but I do, and I have kids. Sorry, it looks like I’ll have to buy a puppy.” In the moment, I smiled, said I’m sorry we don’t have what she is looking for, and encouraged her to keep checking the website. On the inside, I seethed. It’s not the first, second, or twentieth time I’ve heard something like this. I’m exhausted by it.
In order to unpack this, let me give some context. There are currently about 15 dogs and 45 cats born to every human in the world. This means that there are not enough homes for all of these domestic animals, and there never will be. In the shelters, we are always, always swimming upstream. An adopted dog means a different dog gets put in the kennel the next day. My shelter is decently-funded and lucky; adoptable animals (healthy enough for quality of life and safe enough to be a pet) are not euthanized even if they take a long time to be adopted, and that’s a privilege. Other shelters are not so lucky, and that’s its own kind of trauma that I cannot speak to.
I’m going to focus on dogs more than cats here, just as my heart does, for two key reasons. The first is that we as a species domesticated dogs, but cats domesticated themselves. That is, we bred dogs to be friendly and serve us, whereas cats waltzed into homes themselves and our two species decided it was mutually beneficial. This is where I get especially squishy. I believe that because we made dogs for ourselves, humanity has the responsibility to care for them. Unlike cats, dogs cannot survive well without us. We as people messed it up by not spaying and neutering, overbreeding, neglecting, and so forth.
I cannot watch the aftermath of this and agree that there is such a thing as responsible dog breeding. Unpopular opinion: there isn’t. This brings me to my second point as to why the dogs always get my heart: the counter to this argument for breeders is that often people care about dog breeds and want to know where their dogs came from. Rescuing a lone kitten found under your neighbor’s porch or adopting a cat from the shelter tends to be the normal way of acquiring cats, but those same people want to have meme-worthy shiba inus or all-American golden retrievers, and they want the papers to prove it. Breeds are just clusters of physical traits, and we all know that people usually can’t get past the physical impression. So, more “purebred” dogs contribute to overpopulation numbers every day while breeders profit. Do not get me started on trendy french bulldogs, who cannot be bred or give birth naturally. It sends me into a hot rage that embarrases my husband.
I recognize that tipping the balance so that those who seek bred puppies instead adopt requires a cultural shift that people are not ready for. But even if we were, there would still be more dogs than homes. However, we could put a big dent in the homeless pet population if this shift was more prominent. I’d like to believe that people just don’t know, and if they did they’d consider rescue. That’s probably naive. Meanwhile, millions of dogs sit in shelters each day.
Of these dogs, a disproportionate number are pitbulls. Pitbull is a category of dog, rather than breed, that colloquially refers to any short-coated dog with a stocky build, small straight tail, and blocky head. There are pitbull breeds, but lots more dogs than these get put into this category. I could spend an essay twice as long on pitbulls and their false stigma (they’re often excellent family dogs, gentler than most, bonded closely with their family, and often love other dogs), but that’s not the point, and that information is already out there. How it trickles down to me is ignorant comments, the task of clearing misconceptions, and seeing my favorite dogs sit while happy labs and howly beagles prance quickly into new homes. I can’t be eloquent about it. It sucks. At my shelter, there are always at least a dozen pittie dogs wiggling their butts and hoping for some attention. So, we do the work.
Often, it pays off. Recently, a woman came in and fell head-over-heels with a deaf pit. With tears in her eyes, she renamed her Karma, because “I’ve waited, and she is my good thing.” I have on more than one occasion helped a child younger than 7 pick out their own puppy. I’ve watched dogs pick people, and seen instant connections. I’ve performed numerous “freedom walks,” taking an adopted dog out of the kennel for the last time and handing them to their new family. It doesn’t stop making my heart soar. Softness means big ups, too.
Lots of people say to me things along the lines of “I could never go into the shelter so much, it’s so sad,” and “I could never do what you do. I’d bring them all home” Well, I see their good intentions (like I’ve practiced since I was a wee tot, see above), but I don’t agree. I love coming to the shelter. It’s not a home, but it’s full of wonderful people who give their love and time to these animals. They are the warmest, toughest people I know. The dogs go on multiple walks a day, get favorite toys and cozy blankets, and even get enrichment sessions with special puzzles. We’d rather they be in homes, but where some see sadness, I see, as Mr. Fred Rogers said, “helpers helping” and a decent stepping stone into being someone’s family. At least they’re here, safe and cared for. At least they have a chance. As for the taking them all home part, well, I did get two dogs since the start of my volunteer work. My dogs include a big neurotic pitbull named Bob, who I am pretty sure is cut from a piece of my soul, and a coyote-like shepherd, Tonks, who came from a hoarding situation where she was kept with 52 other dogs, including her babies. I love my little pack, but tell others, and myself, that I cannot have more dogs than arms, so that’s that.
It is because I’m so soft that I am so tough for these animals. This is my laundry, because it is exhausting. I sometimes wish I cared a bit less deeply. It is because I care so much about them that I do not foresee stopping my volunteer work, even when it sometimes chews me up. If I had thicker skin, I might turn away and let the folks on TV solve the problem. But just like when I was little, I don’t think I have a choice. I know, so I care. I care, so I fight. The hugeness of the task and its obstacles sit heavy with me, and it makes my will stronger. My empathy is a super power. And if you mistake my softness for weakness, I might kick your ass.
This story is so much bigger than me. Visit your local humane society and see for yourself.
XO
Leah
