Defending Your Life: When a Shelter Dog Protests His Death

This happy ending story starts with a chubby, cheerful, little American Staffordshire terrier mix. He was a short, stalky, squatty, dog that looked more like an overgrown piglet, than an actual dog. He made happy little grunts when we took him out for his walks, and cheerfully pushed his head into our laps to lap up the attention that would ensue from his plea for head-pats. He had been in our adoption kennels for about a month, and had truly done his best to charm the pants off of passers-by who had come to peruse the kennels; looking for that dog that seemed the perfect fit. Unfortunately this little guy had a few things working against him. First, he was an adult with many puppies available for adoptions around him, and adopters tend to favor the babies. Second, he was mostly black, which, statistically black cats and dogs have a harder time getting adopted. Third, even though he was an American Staffordshire terrier mix, he had that blocky head that many equate with a Pit Bull. This little guy was up against some big odds.

After about a month, our adoptions kennels were full, and we had an influx of dogs come in that were ready to go up for adoption. At times like these, we have to clear space in our adoptions kennels, which unfortunately means that adoptable animals have to be euthanized. Unfortunately, for our chubby little friend, we usually chose to euthanize the dogs that had been there the longest.

That particular day, it was me and another veterinary technician, Tara, performing the euthanasia’s. Usually there was one person in charge of doing the euthanasia aspect of it, meaning the person drawing up the euthanasia solution, logging it in the controlled substance journal, and performing the injections. The second person was the “runner”, who was in charge of retrieving the animals slated for euthanasia that day, and making sure that their paperwork was in proper order. On that day, I was performing the euthanasia injections, and Tara was the runner. We were just at the end of our list, and were both mentally and physically drained because that day’s list had been a particularly long one, and was comprised of mostly larger dogs. Tara left to get the last dog for the day, while I prepared to draw up the euthanasia solution. I tried to put myself into a very clinical, non-feeling, frame-of-mind, because I knew that our final dog of the day was our cheerful, chubby, little friend in the adoptions kennels.

Sometimes, thoughts can creep in, that you try to stave away, but can’t. Thoughts like, “He is probably going to be so excited when she takes him out of the kennel because he thinks he is going for a walk, but he has no idea that she is walking him to his death”. I bitterly plunged the needle of the syringe into the bottle of euthanasia solution, going on one of my then-common silent rants about having to clean up society’s discards, and assuring myself that I would someday live on a deserted island with no people, just my animals. Seeing the worst of how people treat animals on a daily basis has a tendency to make you a little resentful towards society.

Just then, Tara started to walk through the doors of the euthanasia room, with our cheerful little friend in-tow. One thing that I always did when I was euthanizing was put the previously euthanized dog on the floor, in the corner, wrapped in a towel. I hated to put them in the “deads’” freezer right away; for fear that I would inadvertently do so when one was not yet deceased. In retrospect, that is silly, because I could always listen to their lack of a heartbeat with my stethoscope. But I suppose it was a practice that made me feel better. Unfortunately, this time, I was somewhat careless, and paw from the previous dog was showing beneath the towel. Our cheerful little friend happily pranced about 3 feet into the room, saw the paw of the deceased dog, and immediately whipped back around and ran to a kneeling Tara – plunging his face into her lap; hiding. Tara looked at me, wide-eyed, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. It was like he knew exactly what was going on. I threw the syringe full of euthanasia solution down on the counter and said, “I refuse to kill this dog”.

Tara and I put him in a holding kennel near the euthanasia room, while I began to make frantic phone calls to other rescue groups and shelters. Unfortunately, most rescue groups are breed-specific, taking pure breeds only, and many shy away from taking anything resembling a Pit Bull because they are hard to place into new homes; even if they aren’t Pit Bulls. I finally called the East Bay SPCA in hopes that we could do what is called a “shelter transfer”. This is where privately-run animal shelter facilities, such as Humane Societies and SPCA’s, will take a dog from another shelter, usually a county-run facility, as they will sometimes have more room.

I spoke to my contact at the SPCA and explained the situation to him. I relayed what happened in the euthanasia room, and told him that I just didn’t have it in me to put the dog down. He agreed immediately and said that he and another shelter representative would be down to our shelter within the hour to pick up our chubby little friend. Sighing with relief, I hung up the phone and ran off to tell Tara the good news.

Our chubby little friend was adopted by a single woman in Berkeley who needed a companion to keep her company. She found that in him, and in her, he got his forever home and a second chance at life.

We ended up naming him “Presto”, by the way, after a family friend of mine who is an attorney. I felt that he had done a pretty good job of pleading his case. And he won.