On October 30, 2015, three weeks after my beloved German shepherd, Erde, died, I awoke early so I could catch the 9:00 a.m. train to New York, where I planned to take in an opera and a Broadway play before returning home and beginning the search for another dog.
Before leaving for the train, however, I wanted to check on the fate of a German shepherd named Thunder whose photograph and story I had seen posted the day before on a Facebook page. Thunder had been surrendered four days before to the high-kill Carson Animal Shelter, from which he had been adopted only the year before. The shelter was full, his time was up that night, and he was sick—all of which made his chances of getting out alive very slim.
The Facebook post opened with the words, “Thunder is gorgeous,” and then went on to plead for someone—anyone—to save him. All commenters expressed compassion, and several expressed interest, but no one had actually stepped forward. Not even the well-known Orange County German Shepherd Rescue appeared willing to take him. (So much for their purpose to exist.)
Without giving it any thought, I discarded my tickets to New York, called a friend and asked him to drive me to Dulles Airport, caught the first flight I could get to Los Angeles, rented a car, and hurried to Carson. The shelter was due to close in two hours. When it did, Thunder’s time would be up.
Fortunately, someone from Wings of Rescue, whom I had contacted along the way, was waiting at the shelter for me. If my flight had been delayed or I failed to arrive before closing, they were prepared to step in and save Thunder.
I made it.
Those who know me know the rest of the story, that Thunder soon became Donner—“thunder” in German—and that he and I went on to spend eight wonderful and adventurous years together.
What a magnificent dog he was.
And to think how close we came to never knowing one another.
Several days ago, I paid one of my rare visits to Facebook. After scrolling past a few mindless posts, I came across a posting from the same group that had posted about Thunder nearly eleven years ago. It, too, was about a German Shepherd, and it, too, opened with almost the same words: “Sheba is gorgeous.”
And she was.
Before noticing the small message in the lower corner of the screen, I read what little there was about Sheba. She was seven years old. Her owner had surrendered her, supposedly because of a move. A temperament assessment said that she tolerated other dogs at a distance but preferred to avoid them, and that she was not particularly trusting of people. She was underweight. One can only imagine how unpleasant her life had been before.
I don’t know what Sheba’s life had been like before she arrived at the shelter, and perhaps I never will. But those few details made it difficult not to wonder. Had she been neglected? Had she spent much of her life alone? Had she known kindness, affection, a comfortable place to sleep, good food, and the security of knowing that the person she depended upon would always be there for her? Or had she spent seven years waiting for a good life that never came?
As I read, I found myself beginning to consider what moral obligation I might have to Sheba. And I did feel an obligation, because now I knew her name. I had seen her face. I knew something about her. She was no longer an anonymous dog in some distant shelter. And, inevitably, I saw something of Donner’s story in hers.
Then I noticed the small word at the bottom of the screen:
“Euthanized.”
No one came for her. The shelter was full. Her time was up.
Had I been looking at the Carson shelter’s postings every day, I would have encountered the same fate over and over again—dogs whose great misfortune was often simply to have ended up in the hands of people who would eventually abandon them. We humans create these animals’ dependence upon us, accept their trust, and then too often treat that trust as though it carries no corresponding obligation.
Perhaps Sheba had known a good life once. I hope she had. But I cannot look at that photograph of an underweight, wary seven-year-old German Shepherd, surrendered by the person upon whom she depended, without wondering what those seven years had actually been like.
What I do know is that her story could have ended differently.
Had someone stepped forward for Sheba, as I did for Donner eleven years ago, whatever time remained to her might have been good time. She might have discovered that there were people she could trust. She might have had a warm bed, good food, long walks, adventures, companionship, and someone who thought that her life mattered enormously.
Donner got that chance. Sheba did not.
Because of nothing more profound than timing and circumstance, I happened to see Donner’s posting before it was too late. Eleven years later, I saw Sheba’s after it was too late. She was killed by the City of Los Angeles because there was no longer room for her and no one had come to take her away.
For reasons that should now be obvious, Sheba’s story affected me deeply. She had no one who knew her to mourn her when she died. But I know her name now, and I have seen her face. So I will mourn her.
I don’t know what I would have done had I seen Sheba’s posting before she was killed. I would like to think that I would have done exactly what I did for Donner—dropped whatever I was doing, gotten on an airplane, and gone after her. But dwelling on that question only makes her senseless death harder to accept. I didn’t see the posting in time. I cannot change that.
What I can do is remember her.
And so, as a reminder to myself of the obligation we humans have toward the animals with whom we share this planet, I am dedicating this blog to Sheba. It is more than a symbol. She has a real affect on me.
It is a very small thing for a life that deserved so much more. But perhaps someone will read her story someday and, when another Sheba’s time is running out, decide to step forward.
Perhaps Sheba will save a dog she never knew. And maybe a person.
