...my tribute? The other day I saw a dog that was kept in this shelter near my house for 11 years! She was an older pit bull so no one wanted her! I got so choked up after hearing her story, as she deserved so much better. No dog should have to go through that. She was a great dog, so friendly, I wish I could have saved her but she had to be put down, I decided I wanted to do something for her to honor her memory so I decided to write for her. I am a novice and not so great at this, but this is for her, and is the least I can do. Just wanted to know if this strikes a chord with my fellow dog lovers. Its a story from a dog's point of view, how he is stuck in the shelter as well.
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It is that smell which I hate the most about this place.
The fear smell. It is a chilling scent, there is something coppery about it, the putrid scent of urine and feces with a metallic undertone.
The shelter reeks of it.
I am not confined by the kennel so much as that scent. It glides around like a phantom, solitary and jealous, banishing all else, haunting me forever, and shaking me with its two hands whenever I wish to turn my head away or to close my eyes.
But before, a lifetime ago, I was a being like any other.
I remember there was a farm. It smelt of the sweet, musty scent of hay, and the sweet perspiration of horses. Never will I forget the lovely fields of yellow, the gurgling creeks, and, of course, my sheep. And oh, how I loved to herd those sheep. Loved it. Herding was my passion; a nip here, a nip there, a good hard run and soon the sheep were penned and bleating in their corral. Then came the most glorious part, the master would pat my head and say gruffly “Good dog Shep, good dog.”
And I was in heaven.
In the evening I would lie by the fire and count the minutes until the next herding, the next pat, the next “Good dog Shep.”
Shep. That was my name, the shelters gave me other names: Duke, Buddy, Jack. But inside I always will be Shep, the good dog.
Those were golden days. Every hour, every minute, every second had its idea; my mind was rich and free, it was full of fancies and thoughts of the sheep, the rabbits, and the master, my alpha.
I should have known it would never last, in this world nothing like that ever does.
I will never forget the day I awoke and found that my master’s scent was gone. I remember the meticulous way in which I searched every creek, every field, and every corral. I felt so frustrated; I had tried so very hard to be a good dog, but I simply was not able to herd my master back home.
Thanks you guys
Yeah I help out every weekend at a local rescue, just the fact that the poor dog had been sitting for 11 years really got to me, she could have been such a perfect dog.
I have seen so many dogs go down like this, it really eats at me, because I know that each and every one has a perfect family somewhere out there but its so hard to find them in the time given!
--------------------------------------…
It is that smell which I hate the most about this place.
The fear smell. It is a chilling scent, there is something coppery about it, the putrid scent of urine and feces with a metallic undertone.
The shelter reeks of it.
I am not confined by the kennel so much as that scent. It glides around like a phantom, solitary and jealous, banishing all else, haunting me forever, and shaking me with its two hands whenever I wish to turn my head away or to close my eyes.
But before, a lifetime ago, I was a being like any other.
I remember there was a farm. It smelt of the sweet, musty scent of hay, and the sweet perspiration of horses. Never will I forget the lovely fields of yellow, the gurgling creeks, and, of course, my sheep. And oh, how I loved to herd those sheep. Loved it. Herding was my passion; a nip here, a nip there, a good hard run and soon the sheep were penned and bleating in their corral. Then came the most glorious part, the master would pat my head and say gruffly “Good dog Shep, good dog.”
And I was in heaven.
In the evening I would lie by the fire and count the minutes until the next herding, the next pat, the next “Good dog Shep.”
Shep. That was my name, the shelters gave me other names: Duke, Buddy, Jack. But inside I always will be Shep, the good dog.
Those were golden days. Every hour, every minute, every second had its idea; my mind was rich and free, it was full of fancies and thoughts of the sheep, the rabbits, and the master, my alpha.
I should have known it would never last, in this world nothing like that ever does.
I will never forget the day I awoke and found that my master’s scent was gone. I remember the meticulous way in which I searched every creek, every field, and every corral. I felt so frustrated; I had tried so very hard to be a good dog, but I simply was not able to herd my master back home.
Thanks you guys
Yeah I help out every weekend at a local rescue, just the fact that the poor dog had been sitting for 11 years really got to me, she could have been such a perfect dog.I have seen so many dogs go down like this, it really eats at me, because I know that each and every one has a perfect family somewhere out there but its so hard to find them in the time given!