Let's Talk About Sex , Overpopulation and Recidivism, shall we?

I'll start in the middle.  Overpopulation.  If we're talking about animals in particular rather than the creeping infestation of our planet by mostly furless bipeds (the guy at the pool sporting a full pelt notwithstanding), then we're most likely discussing the severe and continuing problem of gonad intact cats and dogs and their ability to produce multiple copies of themselves at a frightening rate.  Intact family dogs, who are rarely as sneaky or clever as intact family cats, nevertheless seem to posses a secret button to some sort of canine teleporter that allows them to hook up, (you may wince at my mildly dirty puns if you like) in spite of our best efforts to keep them apart. I like to imagine the popular phrase, "Beam me up Scotty", was originally written into a certain sci-fi television script as, "Who beamed up the damned Scotty?!" after the writer found his pearly white Westy under the bed giving birth to onyx black puppies.  

My own darling pack-founding pit bull, Asia, whose excellent blood-lines could be traced back to the turn of the century, managed to get herself knocked up through an 8-foot chain-link fence, her first season no less.  All bitches in season are absolute hussies when the pickin's are slim so I had absolutely no confidence in her choice of paramour.

She was fairly typical as far as purebred pit bulls go.  Beautiful, compact, proportionately put together well, almost dainty, as many pit bull females are. She had a beautiful tawny brown coat, and sported black Cleopatra eye-liner to die for.

The puppies she whelped were ridiculously large compared to their mother, heavily furred, kinda wrinkly-fat, and had faces only a mother could love, which she did, of course.  I, on the other hand, was horrified, if secretly smitten, by the appearance of their Sasquatch cuteness.  I'm fiercely against cross-breeding when it comes to the gladiators of the domestic canine family, particularly pit bulls.  But that's a whole 'nother Blog entry.

I had what I considered a serious dilemma on my hands.  What to do with eight mixed-breed pit bull puppies whose paternal lineage was entirely in question.  My favorite suspect for baby daddy, considering their size, coat, and odd head shape, was a chicken-killing, horse-chasing, neighbor-menacing, child-flattening, stroller-tipping, goat-harassing Goliath of a Malamute mix(120 lbs easily) that lived a few acres behind us. 

You can imagine why I was so upset, can't you?  Sasquatch cuteness be damned. This was baaaaad.

1. Consider the suspect dog's temperament.  I could only hope it was nurture, and not nature that made him so awful.
2. Consider the temperament of a purebred pit bull:  Yes, an almost goofy, unwavering devotion to hanging out with unfurry bipeds, whether friend or stranger; an amazing work ethic and a natural propensity to be calm and well-mannered.  But let us not forget to factor in an amazingly high tolerance for pain, a bite any shark would envy and an almost giddy, even flirtatious desire to pick fights if not socialized properly.
3.  If the DNA mix went against me, I had eight potentially lethal little stinkers on my hands.



Do I keep all eight puppies with the family until I'm sure they're properly socialized, been desexified (not cheap), can reasonably gauge their adult temperaments AND find  EIGHT OWNERS who can be trusted to raise them with a diligent eye on their temperament?  Yes.  Do you know how much WORK that is?  Of course you do.  But I had no choice. Why? Because any other course of action would most likely have resulted in the very issue we are still facing in the 21st century in spite of 35 years spent spreading the gospel of Saint Fixyerpet. To whit, irresponsibly or accidentally bred puppies, in their thousands, being pulled from their mother and siblings long before they've learned anything about being a good pack member, sometimes as young as 6 weeks old, and dropped into the hands of  adoring, and often clueless, owners. Mind you, probably the most critical time of their puppyhood and learning curve is looming ahead.  The time when they learn good social skills and how to navigate the world outside their den without mishap and fear.  

Some of those puppies will get lucky and have families who take them to puppy class and get them socialized, walk them daily for more than the amount of time it takes to pooh, teach them good dog manners, get them fixed and love them for EVER.

Some of those puppies aren't going to be quite so lucky and will grow up with little help or interest from their owners, banished from the house for "bad behavior", often chained up and barking mad, mostly ignored by their once adoring family until the day they die.

Some of those puppies will grow up with such severe behavior issues born of owner ignorance and bad breeding that they're simply thrown out on the street like yesterday's newspaper. Around here they dump them on remote country roads.

Of those abandoned dogs, some will end up in a pound, and dead shortly thereafter; a lucky few will make it to a foster home, a last-chance ranch, a breed rescue group, or the rare No-Kill shelter.

Simplified overview of just one issue, but accurate just the same.


And this is where we come to the end bit, the part of all this that keeps me awake at night: the dogs that keep coming back.

It's the achingly difficult task of ignoring the most prevalent part of my personality every time I walk into our No-Kill shelter to do the volunteer work I signed up for, but couldn't have known would be so emotionally wrenching. It doesn't sound like much. I walk the dogs considered adoptable.  It's a two-hour shift, twice a week.  All I'm asked to do is walk the dogs. But it isn't that simple. Not for me, not for any of the volunteers who understand what we're really doing, and the opportunities we're missing.   I can't even figure out how to express why it's so emotionally hard to do without sounding like the shelter is a bad place.  It's not a bad place.  They do amazing work, mostly for very little pay.  The place is always filled with animal-loving volunteers.  They have a mission and a vision and work like mad to further it.  They sacrifice time and space at home to do their best for the animals.  They raise money, fight petty bureaucratic legislation, go to court, defend the defenseless, every day.  They're good, brilliant, animal-wise people.  I admire them.

And yet, and yet... I feel and hear and smell and see so much misery in those kennels.  I don't want to go anymore.   I can't look into their eyes sometimes.  And it would take more than the flat empty space of this page for me to explain it to you properly.  Then again, perhaps you already understand.

I'll be at the shelter in the morning, walking dogs. How could I not?