CHAPTER TWO
AFTER THE DECISION—PROMISES MADE
(12TH installment, Scruggs and Samantha, by Mary de la Pena)
As anger consumed me from the
rudeness exhibited by Precious Princess One and Two, I stalked back inside the
office at the Humane Society. Precious
Princess One and Precious Princess Two looked up from their computer screens to
stare at me, both sniffing and rolling their eyes in unison. The young man
continued answering phones; apparently he was oblivious to what had just
happened.
Given my recently acquired short fuse at incompetence and
arrogance, I was deathly afraid of starting a confrontation with either of the
two younger women. I knew I would challenge their officious attitude if they
pulled it on me. But, I also knew they would win if such a contest ensued. They
stood between me and Scruggs.
But the third, more kind-looking woman, apparently in her
mid-to-late thirties, with long blonde hair, soft voice, and efficient manners,
was finishing with her phone conversation.
She may not have heard what had just transpired. As I had listened to her end of the
conversations, I could tell she was speaking to people calling into the
shelter, presumably inquiring about lost animals. From where I stood I could
hear her voice and watch her demeanor. My impression was she not only cared
about the animals but also was concerned for the people who had lost their
animals. Finally, she looked up from her computer screen and inquired if any of
us had questions that didn’t have anything to do with licensing. I boldly
stepped up to her station.
“Hello,” I said,
thrusting the card toward her. “I also
would like to adopt the dog in kennel number 83.”
She smiled and tapped something into her computer. Cocking
her head slightly she looked hard at the computer. “It says there are three dogs in kennel 83.
Which one did you want?”
“Pardon?” I answered.
“There was only one dog inside the kennel, not three.”
She pursed her lips, sighed, and then looked up at me. “Was
the gate to the outside closed?” she asked.
I paused, not quite sure what she meant, but then remembered
how the Rottweiler in space 80 had moved freely between the inside and outside.
Scruggs had only the inside cage in which to move about. Of course, that was my
answer.
“Closed,” I said.
“Well, there are two more dogs, for a total of three,” she
said. “Which one did you want?”
“He looks like a golden retriever mix,” I answered.
The woman behind the counter
frowned at her screen. “It says there
are a Labrador mix and a pit bull mix,” she
said.
I thought about Scruggs long,
golden-colored hair and his plumed tail. His nose was long and pointed, almost
like that of a collie or shepherd. He
was definitely not a Labrador or pit bull mix.
“I’m sorry, but neither of those descriptions describe the
dog I want,” I said, irritation beginning to reassert itself.
With the throbbing starting behind my eyes, I recognized my
building anger. I began to panic. I had already seen someone run headlong into
the bureaucratic nightmare at this shelter.
More importantly, I worked with enough people in my profession who have
the power over life and death to know not to challenge authority when I really
need something. I had seen the wreckage caused by cantankerous judges when
defense lawyers challenged their authority. Or, worse yet, a misplaced word or
two could cause a district attorney to decide to add a year or two to a
sentence of one of my clients. Just like the caged animals at the shelters,
defendants were helpless before the whims of those with the power. This woman
had the power to let me have Scruggs. I needed her help, not her ire, so I
smothered my gathering irritation and softened my voice. I called upon my more than twenty years of
experience of butt-kissing and humble -peonism to find the right tone to assure
her help.
I tried again. “I
really don’t know which dog I want. He doesn’t look like either a lab or a
pit. He’s golden color, with long hair
and wire-haired whiskers. He’s thin but sweet.”
The woman looked up at me. She must have heard the catch in
my voice because hers became softer as she spoke to me. “The dog will have on a
tag. If you could get his tag number for
me, I can figure out which one he is.”
I don’t know what was wrong with me but I almost started to
cry. The thought of going back out to the cages overwhelmed me. I just couldn’t
do it. My courage was gone, dissipated by the number of times I had to stand
next to young men in their teens, sentenced to life in prison for killing
someone over nothing. As a lawyer
practicing in criminal justice, I had seen lives torn apart and the wreckages
of unspeakable acts perpetrated by one human against another. I had also witnessed too much injustice over
the years, leaving me broken and unable to summon my strength. The thought of going back into the kennels
was more than I could bear.
I started to inch toward the
door. I was going to bolt and run. But I thought of Scruggs. I couldn’t leave
him behind.
The woman must have read my
mind. Her smile softened, “Why don’t you
go back to kennel 83,” she said. “I’ll
call an attendant for you. We don’t get
many takers for our large dogs and, if you found one you like, we need to make
sure he goes home with you.”
Her calm demeanor comforted
me. I felt a smile surface, the first in
what felt like ages. I hurried back to
the large dog building.
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