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Chapter 4. The Pound: The Rescue of Sheppie and a Silent Promise Made
About a year after Ronnie died, relatives presented my grandmother with a one-year-old Purebred Cocker Spaniel named "Taffy" who they claimed they "had no time for." The truth was that between their ignorant care of the dog (locking him up for 9 hours each day in a tiny bathroom) and the antics of their two spoiled and extremely rowdy, bratty kids, Taffy was a biter.
Taffy was especially distrustful of kids.
Although I tried to be kind towards Taffy, he bit me several times. It seems he viewed hands coming towards his head as some sort of threat. He was a dog one could not pet on the top of the head -- something most people are inclined to do to a "cute" dog. The result is that over the years, Taffy bit a number of people and on one occasion winded up in the ASPCA as a reported "bite case." My mom and grandmother had to beg and finagle to get him back. Nevertheless, Taffy loved my grandmother and never bit her.
I enjoyed taking Taffy out at night and running with him on the leash up and down many city blocks. It was great to have a young dog who could keep perfect pace with me and run for what seemed miles. It was a fantastic sense of freedom to run with the wind, a cute, blonde (albeit sometimes "vicious") dog at my side. When he was running, Taffy wasn't "vicious" at all, but rather a picture of sheer joy and liberty.
Taffy developed an inoperable form of cancer at only seven years of age and with shattered heart, Nannie was forced to have him put to sleep at the vet. She cried for days following and swore she would "never get another dog." I too, felt a void in my life after Taffy died. Despite the fact, I could never pet and play with him like a normal dog I missed Taffy as my devoted and "always there" running partner.
So it was, on a cold winter day in 1964 I went to the ASPCA to adopt a dog. I was 18 and old enough to adopt an animal on my own without a parent.
The ASPCA was then known as the "City Pound." They handled animal control in New York City and had the unfortunate duty to put to death over a hundred thousand dogs and cats a year. The method of "euthanasia" in those days was the horribly cruel decompression chamber, something I and thousands of other New Yorkers later successfully campaigned against. (Decompression chambers were finally banned in New York State in the early 1980's, but are still used today in many states nationwide.)
I answered some questions on a brief application at the ASPCA and a young man then led me into a dog adoption ward. "Let me know if you're interested in something," he said nonchalantly and then turned and left the room. I was suddenly alone in a seeming sea of chaos. Immediately, a chorus of barks rang out and desperate dogs ran to the front of their cages, each one seeming to plead, "Take me!" "Take me!"
I was overwhelmed and somewhat numb. I stood there for what seemed hours thinking, "Oh God. How can I make a decision for just one dog, when there are so many who deserve to be saved?
There were large dogs, small dogs, scruffy ones and clean, smooth-haired dogs. All were beautiful in their own individual way and all had one thing in common: Their desperate seeming sense that their lives were on the line and they had to beg for them.
I tried to get my mind to focus on a few dogs that fit the general description of what I was looking for. A medium sized mutt as I was a little fearful of purebreds due to the experiences with Taffy. As such, I had quite a choice of dogs, but in the end my decision came down to two: A black and tan female Spitz mix and a smallish brown short-haired male dog whose sad face and big eyes called out to me. Both dogs were solicitous of my attention. Both were friendly and licking my hand. I agonized over the choice, but in the end, did a "meeny moe" thing with "moe" landing on the black and tan Spitz mix. I pulled out a small camera in by bag and took a picture of the small brown dog with the huge sad eyes -- the one I did not take.
I notified the ASPCA worker of my choice, paid a small adoption fee and left with the scruffy, black and tan dog literally pulling me up the block. The dog I quickly named, "Sheppie" couldn't wait to get as far and as fast away from the ASPCA as possible.
Some days later I picked up pictures, one of which was of a small brown dog with huge sad eyes staring out from behind the bars of a shelter cage.
I pulled out the picture and tucked it away in a special, safe place to be looked at many years later.
Meanwhile, Sheppie would spend the next 15 years with me. Through jobs, an almost fatal bout of illness, relationships, a brief marriage and even a baby.
But, the picture remained, hidden away, reminding me years later of something important I had to do.