3WW (Ebb, Negotiate, Random): Feeling Better

the state pays me to make tax payers feel better. the divorced couple who can't keep their 4-year old mutt. the self-aggrandizing grad student who can't deal with the calico that scratches furniture. the recently unemployed family who can't afford the pit bull they had rescued. the middle-aged son who awkwardly carried his deceased mother's tabby.

and i make them feel better. i give them the smile i gave to the brat i babysat when i was in high school. it's a smile found somewhere between mocking and sympathy. a smirk of partial superiority.

each person wants to hear a different story.

that their beloved pet will roam freely on some open range. i envision them thinking about their rosy the rottweiler loping along beside cattle in wyoming.

that even though we're a 'kill' shelter, we only actually kill the ones who really need to die. no one asks what that means.

that nearly all animals left at the shelter get adopted. i asked my supervisor why she was lying about it. she replied that we're never supposed to give a number. and that sometimes lies aren't all that bad, especially told to people who are trying to negotiate their feelings.

i love to exaggerate with these stories. i have one gem i use all the time. a random farm out in eastern connecticut owned by animal lovers. in fact, it's a family of animal lovers that have housed unwanted pets for over a century. that the farm receives donations from around the world to keep such a wide variety of pets housed and fed. in fact, the family is now entirely sustained by those monies. no one ever asks where that farm is.

recently a young couple came in with their cat. they told me that the cat had a problem with hairballs and that said hairballs were messing up the new carpet they had just installed. they wanted to trade him in. the woman went off to search for another pound pet that suited her needs. meanwhile, the guy stayed back and started asking questions about what would happen to the cat. since i was having a shitty day, i decided to tell him the truth. how old's the cat, i asked. what, eight, ten? well, we'll keep him locked up in a cage in the back. and then, if no one shows an interest, we'll kill him. inject him until his eyes close. until his life ebbs. then we get rid of the carcass. he looked up at me angrily. i hadn't given him the experience that he wanted from this visit. as if i were some kind of entertainer paid to provide his illusion.

it just so happened that it was the same day when i watched my dog, bobbie, stare at me while gasping his final breath on the vet's table. because the cancer was just too invasive.

that day, i didn't think they had the right to feel better.