Am I Boring My Dog? (6 page)

Sometimes called “pounds” because they once housed only impounded animals, shelters vary in everything from their admission and euthanization policies,
¹⁰
medical services, and outreach programs to the size and cleanliness of their facilities. No centralized agency exists to set guidelines or even to collect data about them. Strange but true: shelters with names that include “SPCA” or “Humane Society” have no affiliation with the Humane Society of the United States or with the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The ASPCA does operate one shelter, in Manhattan, but it and the HSUS are primarily educational organizations, not governing or funding bodies.

The care of homeless or displaced dogs falls to three basic types of organizations.

These are government-owned and -operated and thus funded by state, county, city, or township tax dollars. They typically come under the aegis of health care or law enforcement departments. Historically created to protect people from animals, they often do the opposite these days. If, for example, they’re supervised by law enforcement, police officers may bring in dogs that have been abused—as well as those who’ve bitten neighborhood children (often one and the same pup). You can generally recognize municipal shelters by such utilitarian phrases in their names as “Animal Control” or “Animal Service.”

The only thing that these shelters have in common is that they’re designed to protect animals from people—or from the elements—and that they don’t make money by doing so. They may get some funding from municipal contracts or may operate solely on the basis of private donations, large and small.

These informal, privately funded organizations work with both municipal and private shelters, as well as with individuals who surrender their dogs. They may have a physical facility but more typically they keep the dogs they save from euthanization in foster homes or kennels.
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Many focus on a single breed and may therefore operate under the auspices of a breed club. However, because the goal of most rescue groups is to find good homes for as many dogs as possible, they aren’t always terribly strict about their categorizations.

For example, Frankie’s rescuer, Rebecca, was affiliated with Arizona Mini-Schnauzer Rescue. Although Frankie shows no signs of Schnauzer—mini or maxi—parentage, Rebecca fostered him anyway because she’s kind-hearted and Arizona Cute Fuzzy Dogs of Indeterminate Origin Rescue doesn’t exist. I shudder to think that Frankie might have been executed because of breed profiling—or lack thereof.

All this may matter little to you as a potential adopter, especially if you find your dog through the Internet—where shelters and rescue groups post their resident pups on sites such as
Petfinder.com
—and you only go to the shelter to retrieve her. But if you’re doing a search in person, it’s useful to know a shelter’s euthanization policy. You may not be comfortable going to a place where you’ll need to make a quick adoption decision—or, on the other hand, you may want to have urgency imposed because you’re a ditherer. And if you discover that your local shelter doesn’t have the resources to do temperament evaluations, you’ll know that you need to bring an expert along.

But the dogs are equally worthy at every facility. And after you’ve settled in with your pound pup, you can decide at leisure which shelter or rescue group deserves your donations and/or can best benefit from your volunteer efforts.

To prove that you’re not going to use your new pal as bait in a dog-fighting ring. Many people give away dogs with the best of intentions—and the best of results. But pups offered gratis to complete strangers too often end up in bad situations.

And if you can’t find the money to make the (generally) required contribution to a shelter, then you probably can’t afford to feed and care for a dog, either. Fees are usually considerably less than they would be for the same exam and neutering/spaying procedure done privately because many vets volunteer their services at local shelters. You’re unlikely to have to come up with more than $200 initially.

Not all rescue groups have time to do home inspections, but many require them, so don’t get insulted if someone wants to come check out your house. And don’t worry. The nice folks at the shelter want to make sure that your adoptee is not going to escape through that big hole in your fence and find himself homeless again. They are not, as I had assumed, judging your décor, your cleaning skills, or your domestic arrangements (unless these include living with two dozen cats—or children—and/or with a burly rifle-wielding person). While I waited for my dog’s rescuer to come over to evaluate the suitability of my house, I fretted that she would think it wasn’t tidy enough. If you want proof that I knew next to nothing about dog rescue before I got Frankie, there you have it in a nutshell.

That said, rescuers and fosterers have been known to make unreasonable demands on potential pet owners for a variety of reasons that all boil down to “bad human, bad human!” If you like a dog and are uncertain of the appropriateness of an inspector’s requirements, call the organization you’re working with and ask for clarification.

This question will only seem odd to people who have had a chance to get acquainted with their new pals before bringing them home. If, as I did, you fall for a picture that a dog rescuer e-mails you, it’s not an altogether irrational concern.

Rebecca, the aforementioned dog rescuer and fosterer, had told me that Frankie was sweet natured, which was true. Not having had the opportunity to observe his behavior long-term, however, she couldn’t know that he was a one-person pup, a canine serial monogamist. During the tour of my house, Frankie shadowed Saint Rebecca, avoiding me like

I was a large, unpredictable predator. When it became clear that she was about to take off without him, he looked at her piteously, silently imploring, “Don’t leave me here. She’s clueless.”

Nor did things improve soon. For the first few days, Frankie lay on the couch, languishing, a tiny furry Camille. I became convinced that he hated me, that, as I’d feared, I was an abject failure at dog ownership.

This story has a happy ending, if you consider having an 11-pound alien take over your life a happy ending. Frankie now adores me (and only me). As a result, I am entirely at his disposal.

But I only gave the little guy a chance because I knew that I could—indeed, was required to—give him back if things didn’t work out. My adoption contract, typical of most, reads: “I agree that if at any point I cannot keep the animal, I will return him/her to the original rescue without requesting a fee.” This stipulates no time limit and provides no definition of “cannot keep the animal,” which can thus be construed to mean “because he hates me and refuses to get off the couch.”

The bottom line: Don’t get a dog from a rescue group or breeder who says you can’t return him, unconditionally (although not uncommunicatively; you
do
need to explain what went wrong so that a shy couch-hugger isn’t mistaken for an aggressive teeth-sinker). But that doesn’t mean you should regard the adoption process as akin to shopping at Nordstrom. People who are serial and frivolous returners—most puppies
will
chew on shoes; you can’t keep trying to find one who’s allergic to leather—you’ll quickly become known on the shelter gossip circuit as someone who should be refused a dog.