STEPPING IN: In this series of occasional stories, New Era staffers walk a mile in other people's shoes.
New Era staff writer Jane Holahan
(left), introduces
Dillard to Amber
Shiflett and her sons, includ
...(more)
As I enter the Humane League on Lincoln Highway East, I have one thing on my mind: I hope I get out of here without a new addition to my family.
For me, going to the Humane League can be a dangerous assignment.
About 18 years ago, when I volunteered to clean cat cages, I fell in love with a long-haired gray kitten who looked like she'd been through the wringer.
Day after day, nobody chose her. By Thursday evening, a Humane League worker told me that because there was no more room, she'd have to be put down the next day.
Reader, I took her home. She was cat number three.
Today, with a dog and a cat at home, I am determined not to get emotionally involved.
Helping pets find a home
But oh, the minute you walk in the door of the Humane League, that promise goes out the window.
Those dogs who look at you with sad eyes, wondering what in the world they are doing here, and the cats who bat their paws outside of the cage so you'll notice them — they can break your heart.
But kennel manager Bernadette Meszaros can't have a broken heart.
And as I step into her shoes for an evening — well, that's simply not possible, but let's pretend — I begin to see how she manages her feelings.
There's just too much work to do.
"My job is to do everything," Meszaros says with a laugh.
She is constantly putting out fires. Phone calls come with little break. A private rescue group is calling to make sure the dogs they're picking up will be ready. A volunteer doesn't know where to put a new arrival. The state police are calling because a dog is running loose on the highway.
Sadly, cruelty calls come in regularly.
Meszaros, who's been working at the Humane League since 2001, answers the calls assertively and quickly.
In the midst of these never-ending calls, she does whatever is needed in both the facility that houses cats and other smaller critters, like guinea pigs and birds, and the one housing the dogs and quarantined kittens.
Animals need to be fed. Dogs need to be walked. Cages need to be cleaned. Medicine has to be administered.
Pets are reunited with their owners or surrendered to the Humane League. Strays come in all the time.
The laundry is another constant.
"We do tons and tons of laundry," Meszaros says.
The Humane League has about 35 employees and a slew of volunteers.
All the animals are examined when they arrive. The dogs get baths and some, if they need it, are groomed or shaved.
Then they each get a blanket and a toy for their cage.
"Not every shelter does that," says Megan Gallagher Clark, the vice president of development and community outreach for the Humane League. "But we think it makes their stay a little easier."
Some animals, Meszaros points out, appear to be relieved to be in a safe, warm place where they are fed regularly. It's the ones who are being surrendered from nice homes who have the toughest time of it.
Since I can't put out the fires, I go and feed the cats.
"It's kitten season right now," Meszaros says.
And there are tons of them. Cute as all get out, they squeak out their meows and vie for attention.
Every single one scarfs down the canned food I've slipped past the bars.
A young couple with their infant daughter, looking to adopt a pet, are looking through all the cages, but they leave empty handed.
You look at the number of cats and you look at the number of people trickling in and you know the odds aren't good for the dozens of adoptable felines.
Meszaros and I commiserate about people who don't get their cats spayed and neutered. How, I declare, can people be so stupid? Meszaros is more diplomatic, but frustrated.
I head over to the other facility, where the dogs are housed.
People are wandering through the front kennels, checking out the dogs who are ready for adoption.
There's also an area off limits to the public. It houses the dogs who've just arrived (there's a 72-hour hold on all new arrivals) or who are still being evaluated. Some will prove to be unadoptable. When you enter this kennel, there's a lot of barking and growling.
Scratches and cuts and bites are par for the course for employees and volunteers. Staying calm is important. As she's showing me a few scars, Clark eyes my sandals and notes that everyone is expected to wear closed shoes.
"A Rottweiler steps on your foot and you won't be wearing sandals anymore," she says with a chuckle.
A number of people are here looking at dogs. One family is in the process of adopting a boxer/pit bull. A lot of paperwork has to be filled out.
"Being at the front desk is the hardest job," says Clark. "You've got people coming in whose dogs were taken away and they want them back. You've got animals coming in in very bad shape."
But you also help with the adoption of dogs, and that can be a happy thing.
I meet Amber Shiflett, of Willow Street, and her three sons, Christian, 8 1/2; Camden, 7, and Colin, 3 1/2.
"The boys wanted a cat, but I want a dog," Shiflett says. "We're just looking now and if we find something, my husband will come back with us."
We go back into the kennels.
There are two Chihuahuas, but Shiflett is looking for a bigger dog. A sweet mixed breed looks longingly at the family as they stop at her cage. But at 10, she's too old and the Shifletts move on.
They continue down the hall. The boys check out a black Labrador Retriever, but then Shiflett sees Dillard, a small black puppy who's about five months old. He begins jumping eagerly when they stop at his cage.
"I like his ears," the young mother says as her boys watch him and laugh.
He's the one they want to see.
So I get a leash, which I am going to put around his neck in order to take the dog into the get-acquainted room, where the family can get to know him a little bit.
This proves easier said than done. Dillard is a squirmy guy. The boys laugh at me as I wrangle with the pup.
Finally, I succeed and we head to the get-acquainted room.
Dillard is a licker. All three boys get slathered.
This is pure kid/dog chemistry, that giddy combination of love being given and received in both directions.
"Too bad he doesn't like you," I say.
While Dillard passes Shiflett's test, her oldest son declares he still wants to see the cats. And they can't actually take Dillard home until dad sees him.
A Humane League worker warns her that another person is interested in Dillard and tells her, "We open at noon. Whoever gets here first..."
(It turns out someone else adopted Dillard.)
By now, it's close to 7 p.m. and things are beginning to wind down.
The Humane League closes to the public and Meszaros and I head over to the quarantine room, where about a dozen kittens are being held.
All but one of them are eating regular food and will soon be ready for adoption.
They meow like crazy when Meszaros and I enter.
I eye a little gray one who is climbing up his cage, meowing loudly, and I wonder how my other pets would take to him. (What is it about me and gray cats?)
But there's work to be done.
The litter has to be changed, the newspapers in the cage replaced and the kittens have to be fed.
I pull the cardboard litterboxes out and throw them in a trash can. I open cans of cat food and dump the smelly contents into bowls. The kittens gobble it all down.
Then I give one kitten his medicine, shooting a syringe into his mouth while Meszaros holds him.
A settled silence falls over the room as the cats eat.
"It gets pretty quiet after we feed them," Meszaros says. "They'll be asleep soon."
It's time to go home.
Meszaros has been here since 7 in the morning and it's well past 7 at night.
We turn off the light and quietly walk out.
Tomorrow, it starts all over again.
Staff writer Jane Holahan can be reached at jholahan@LNPnews.com or 481-6016.
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