bodies of all the dogs and cats euthanized had been laid out in neat rows in the garage in preparation for transport to the city dump. There their bodies would be tossed into an earthen pit, alongside any road-killed animals, and some dirt would be bulldozed over them.
Lest you think this heartless, the city did what they could with what budget they had. There was not enough money to cremate the animals, this method of disposal was quite common in rural areas. It was tough to stay, but I hung in there, feeling as though my presence at least bore witness to the lives of these animals, victims in a quiet war on overpopulation, and gave them some honor in their passing. They did not go unmourned, I cried for them, and for the countless others who had gone before, and the untold numbers yet to come.
Here is the original beginning to “The Animals Are Waiting At the Shelter,” and the epitaph that I wrote for the puppy:
“Number 4714 waited for her owner for five days.
“No one came.
“She waited another five days for someone to adopt her. Again, no one came. She was given a shot of Sleepaway, and at the age of eight months the black and white puppy went permanently to sleep with her head resting on the feet of the only person who cared, an officer of the Laramie Animal Shelter.”
At the time that article was submitted to my professor, Donald Murray, he thought it well written but suggested that there could be more emotional appeal in it. I disagreed, wanting to reach people with logic. In retrospect I realize that deep down I was scared to expose myself emotionally, I just was not brave enough.
Now, years later, I realize that someone else besides the shelter workers did care; I did, and I still do. I now