Free Saving Gracie by Carol Bradley Page B

two or three weeks of care, some dogs began to respond, but others never came around. They remained shy and skittish for the rest of their lives.
    The staff understood that Wolf’s dogs needed as much TLC as they could give them. The animals were grubby and covered with infections and parasites. But it was the emotional suffering evident on the faces of Dog 132 and the others that weighed on Bair the most. The dogs were still on her mind that evening as she drove home to her century-old Victorian house in nearby Shillington, and again after dinner, when she settled onto the sofa with her own two dogs, Dudley and Odie. Basset Hounds, they were shelter rescues, adopted just in time to spare them from euthanasia. “Thank goodness neither suffered anywhere near the degree of neglect Michael Wolf’s dogs experienced,” Bair thought. Like most of the dogs headed for the “sleeper,” the Bassets had committed the unforgivable sins of being old and inconvenient. “Now that he’s five or six and housebroken and perfect, I don’t have the time,” is what their owners might as well have been saying when they dropped their pets off at the shelter.
    There was no sense dwelling on the regrettable facts of life that came with shelter work. Bair learned early on that you just had to roll with it, because the next day would present a brand-new cat or dog who needed to be cared for. Still, it helped to be able to go home to her own fortunate dogs, whom she knew were free to lollygag away the hours until the mistress of the house arrived at the end of the day to feed them dinner. Seeing these carefree survivors always managed to bring her mood around. “You guys have no idea how good you have it, dust bunnies and all,” Bair thought as she aimed a mock evil eye in Dudley’s direction.
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    Dogs thrive on routine. For Dog 132 and the other puppy mill survivors, life at the Berks County shelter would revolve around routine. The dogs were given two meals their first day at the shelter. Day two began with still more food—a small bowl of dried kibble mixed with canned food for each. Food was plentiful at the shelter. That was one of Bair’s rules: As soon as a dog emptied the bowl, she told workers, fill it up again. Dog 132 picked at her portion, but she stared at her bowl as if to marvel, Every day?
    After breakfast it was time to scrub the kennels. The dogs hadn’t been at the shelter twenty-four hours and already their kennels were smeared with feces. One of the biggest perks of the boarding wing was the small guillotine doors in the kennels that, when raised, enabled the dogs to step out into a graveled run. One by one that morning, the techs opened the doors, guided the dogs outside, then lowered the doors behind them and hosed down the kennels with a disinfectant powerful enough to kill the most potent germs. They wiped the kennels down with towels and let them air dry, then raised the doors again and let the dogs back in.
    The rest of the day was consumed by paperwork and physical exams, including one emergency. The tail on one of the Bulldogs had grown backward into her rectum, causing a hideous-looking abscess; the tail would have to be surgically removed.
    As workers strode up and down the aisle, they ran their fingers playfully across the kennel doors and squatted down to try to connect with pair after pair of bewildered eyes. Dog 132 wasn’t used to having anyone seek out her attention. Like everything else about the kennel, the friendly faces and soothing words were new and strange. They made her uncomfortable. She refused to meet anyone’s gaze. Some of the other Cavaliers avoided eye contact, too, a habit that kennel tech Sandy Lambert, for one, found enormously frustrating. She was going to have trouble bonding with dogs who wouldn’t even look at her.
    On top of their confusion, the dogs simply didn’t feel very good. That afternoon they were examined by the shelter’s veterinarian, Carl Veltri.