Sam is the last one. He may be the first to go, but for the now he is mine. Time is all around us, and in this space of time, it is my task to create for him a future. A photograph is his message to the world. I am his translator. His language is foreign to many, heard by few, understood only with exception. It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. In rescue a life can be worth one picture. A picture becomes a chorus singing out through fears and tears in hopes of making the invisible seen, to make the seen loved. With Sam the chorus has faded to a whisper, and it is just his life before me. While for the now he is mine, by the end I am his.
Scotty is easy. He is the first of the day. The husky mix has presence, as though he knows his family is out there wanting him. How rather rude it was to interrupt his daily ramble, bringing him to this place of cinder block and wire: an animal shelter. His eyes are the blue of the ice that edges Lake Michigan in deep winter. He is easy with the camera and easy with my company, even in the close quarters we share. His body speaks of assuredness and the expectation that he’ll survive. Each click of the shutter, each flash stutter, cements his vision. The photographs, his voice, are clear.
Sadie is joy and mirth, even for one living such left-behindedness. I’d met her the week before. She’d been more cowed then, disheveled and gaunt. And abandoned. Her people moved. Away. Gone. As if she were worthless and invisible, she was left to the shelter system. Another pit bull in the shelter system. Our American shelter system is glued together by the bones and ash of pit bulls.
In the space of a week, though, Sadie is new. She is not what she was. Somehow in this system she has found some light. They have fed her well, and she looks clean. She smiles. Sadie is obedient and effervescent. Our conversation via the camera is one of reunited friends, alternating between giggles and sighs. Her mirth is infectious, and I find myself excited to share with the world her transformation. Surely someone will feel it, feel her pulse through a picture, and realize she is a piece of their puzzle. Without her they are not complete.
That’s right. A piece of a puzzle. The human life is such a thing. All too often we seem to view domesticated animals as add-ons to a life. A little bling here and there. But they aren’t. They are to be woven into our life, facing with us the calm and the turbulence, bracing us in storms of tears and rage, opening us to quiet moments of grace, and everything in the in-betweenness of living.
Sadie dazzles me, and I step away happier than I’d been before. She gives me hope.
There are more. There are plenty. There are too many. Some see the camera and put on a show. Some seem resigned to the intrusion. A couple dogs leave me deflated. I fail them. I am not up to the task on this day to capture who I see they are. Patty. She’s one of those. Last week her pictures spoke of fear. She hunkered in a corner. She was pretty, don’t get me wrong, but the fear reverberated without hope or the thought that comfort could be hers. Black dog. Even more frustrating. The sad black dog that this camera in my hand and I fail because we cannot capture her warm heart, the loyal friend, the fellowship she is seeking among this world of humans. All I capture are sad eyes and a shadow of a being. This week is not much different. Her pictures are not speaking her story. I am a beggar for her story. I beg for naught. I fail.
So come around to Sam. The last of them. His kennel card reads of a potential dismal future: “aggressive towards animals.” Yes, a small, old dog is dead now. Why a small, old dog was roaming about, I do not know. Why Sam was chained up, I know not either. All I know is in this story he gets off his chain, meets a canine friend, a little dog dies, and Sam ends up surrendered to bricks and wire. “Aggressive towards animals” is his scarlet letter.
Stepping behind the gate, I enter another story, the timeless one. Sam strikes me as a dog who should be at the feet of his humans, stretched out before a crackling fire on a cold winter’s night. He is shepherd/husky, the kennel card says. And it says he is only 3. He sports quite the white on his muzzle. I don’t look at his teeth to check the age. And the first clicks of the shutter cause him to shudder. Ah, weary and wary, do you think that I steal your soul?
I so want to capture him, that dog I see at the feet of the humans. But in this journey of capturing pictures-that-are-words we know the things to be looking for – a twinkle in the eyes, ears flopped forward, an inquisitive head tilt. From Sam I get the turn of a head away away away. And I feel so sorry for him. I reach out, and even as he looks away, his paw lifts and is in my palm. This is his conversation. It speaks volumes. I click away with the camera as much to capture these moments of giving as to capture the beat of my heart, and then I am on the ground. My jeans are a sponge to the damp kennel floor, and I really don’t care a lick. I can smell like animal shelter all day for this.
His head is on my lap.
He rolls onto his side, a paw in the air. Submissive to the humans. The humans who as a society have failed him and may fail him still.
I am his.
And where twinkle-eyed, floppy-eared, tilted-head pictures are not to be seen, maybe my words will make him visible. I write them to give space for my tears to flow in this quiet timeless space of the written word. I write them in hopes of saving his life. I write them to tell his story, all the time remembering a paw in the palm and a head on my lap. I write this for Sam and for all the others who are here because of us, who need us to be better than we are. This is for Sam. I am part of his story.All of these beautiful creatures are available for adoption at Jackson County Animal Shelter in Sylva, NC. 828.586.6138. Spay, Neuter, Adopt, Adore, and Share.
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