WRITINGS FROM THE SCHOOL OF ENGLISH
Shelter LAURIN WOLF | VERMONT When I first saw her, she was curled up on her little pad, her back to the gate of her enclosure, presenting a stark contrast to the tiny chihuahua mix next door who was maniacally pawing at the linoleum, trying to dig itself out of purgatory. As I looked around for someone to facilitate an introduction, one of the volunteers took a larger dog a few stalls down away on a lead. Suddenly, she leapt up and began barking wildly in their direction, in what I interpreted as an encouraging vocalization for a fellow wayward traveler; “Godspeed!” perhaps. In retrospect, I surmise that it was probably closer to “Fuck you.” She had been in and out of the shelter. She’d gone home with two different owners in the last four months. I’d lived with as many men in as many years and was achingly alone once again. I figured there was something to this numerical synergy; it felt as tangible as anything to hold onto. I accepted the leash and led her outside. Her passivity turned to frantic, nose-to-the-ground sniffing. I sat, doing my best to embody centered energy amidst her chaos, when in a fleeting moment she placed one paw on my chest and looked into my eyes. I had built relationships on less. Her eyes were gummy, her coat greasy, and her mouth was a land mine of rotted nubs passing as teeth. Her massive ears stuck straight out from her little head, and her round, taut trunk made for a solid drum with nipples, reminders of a litter of puppies she’d had at some point along the way. There was a large tumor tucked into her right armpit which, though benign, required removal in order to avoid a full amputation of the limb. When I took her to behavioral classes, the trainer described her as having “no skills.” The “fuck you” I’d misunderstood at the shelter now became exceedingly clear. Many outings ended with me carrying forty canine pounds across varying distances, sweating and fighting tears. I’d wake up sore and battered, and then refuse to make eye contact with neighbors who looked on with gentle concern while we “walked.” The inevitable question arises: did I keep her? Of course. Rather than hinging on a single, pivotal moment, her continued presence represented a series of yeses I just kept saying during a period now blurred by grief. Each day was a new day; each walk, a new walk. But as a chronic saver
SUMMER 2022 | 39
