Paw it Forward: “Love, rescue me”

I’ll never forget Thanksgiving 1991.

I was in school at Kent State and working the graveyard shift at a group home for developmentally challenged adult women. I volunteered to stay that morning until all the ladies had been picked up by their families or friends of families to spend a few hours of the holiday out of the group home.

One by one, they left smiling until only Shirley was left. The two of us finished watching the parades on TV, and then started watching movies. We got some snacks as the afternoon began because we were getting hungry.

I wasn’t sure how much Shirley, who was 63 and our oldest resident, was actually aware of regarding the time, and that her friends were late, and of the possibility that they may not show up at all. I remember that she looked out the window often. Finally, at about 2 o’clock they showed up and took a very excited Shirley away for the rest of the day.

I drove home to my tiny apartment over an eye doctor’s clinic, heated up leftovers from my family’s Thanksgiving, which we’d celebrated the weekend before since I couldn’t come home, lit a candle and watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” on TV as the snow fell outside.

Fast forward to 2005, Santa Fe, in school again as a grad student and working at the animal shelter. My work days often fell on holidays, and when they didn’t I often volunteered so my coworkers could be home with their families and kids. There was always something special for me about working on holidays.

Aside from the fact that the bosses and administration people weren’t there, and despite the fact that the animals likely had no concept of it being a holiday, there always seemed to be something poignant for me about being there for them on a day when others gathered in the warmth of homes with family and friends and laughter and love all around while these, the lonely, the forgotten, had no one — no one except me that is.

Some, especially the older ones, had memories of that warmth, of being part of a family. They suffered the most. You could see it in their eyes, and you could feel it when no matter how hard you tried to love on them and cheer them up, there was always just that sadness, like the way we feel when we’ve lost a friend, which is exactly what had happened to them.

Adding to the weight of what we felt was watching all the kittens and puppies and younger animals get adopted first, leaving our elders behind — a bittersweet feeling of joy and sadness all at once. Since shelters are consistently overcrowded, and because many older animals are relinquished due to health issues owners don’t want to deal with, and because they get overlooked for the younger ones, the longer they wait the less chance they have of surviving.

Janet Phillipson, founder and director of June’s Senior Cat Rescue, which takes in senior cats, mostly from shelters, knows this all too well.

“Some don’t live very long,” she says. “I can tell you that they do have feelings and I believe that many of them die of a broken heart …”

It’s true. I’ve seen it, too. Animals can die from a broken heart; so can people.

But if hearts can break, they can also be healed. June’s newsletters always include stories of their senior cats who’ve lived, loved, and thrived in their new homes or under the care of their forever fosters, their gratitude and devotion as palpable as the fur on their faces.

When they pass, the grief of their caregivers is tempered knowing that these precious souls died surrounded by love, not heartbreak. The same is true in shelters.

I clearly remember how that emptiness would disappear, and a spark return to a senior cat or dog’s eyes when they’d get adopted. Dogs would walk with more confidence, and cats sometimes walked right into a carrier like, “Let’s go home!”

Animals know things on a level we don’t, and somehow you could see it in their eyes when they knew they were once again going to be wanted and loved. We always celebrated when one of our seniors went home!

If I had one wish, one request it would be this: don’t forget the seniors — the ones living with you, and the ones living in shelters waiting for that second chance to live and love again.