Recently the humane society decided to put “to sleep” this animal that I wanted to adopt. “To sleep” is a nicer way of saying “killed.” I rescued the animal at my school and called the Nebraska Humane Society in the hope that its owner would claim her. In the hour it took them to pick her up, I was able to spend some time with her – she became comfortable in my warm lap and kneaded my legs with her sharp claws. She probably enjoyed the warmth, and I’m sure she felt safe.
She was friendly to everyone who entered. She purred and rubbed on all of us. When I left the room I could hear her cry, and when I returned she instantly was drawn to my lap, purring and looking up at me. I have a feeling that she was a special animal.
When the man came to get her, I gave them my name and number. If the owner didn’t claim her my wife and I would have adopted her, or find someone who would. After a week of hearing nothing, I went to the Humane Society to check on her, hoping my wife and I could come and visit her at some point and discuss adoption. That’s when I was told she was put to sleep. She never made it into the adoption stage, even though they told me she was perfectly healthy.
She was never given a chance to live. I was never given a chance to make a difference in her life.
I’m not unrealistic. I do know that in this city, animals are “put down” every day. “Put down” is yet another nice way to say “killed.” I know that not every animal can find a home, and shelters can only hold so many strays. I know sometimes it’s the right thing to do when starvation, disease, and over-population are the alternatives.
But this animal had a home waiting for her – mine.
She never even had a name, or the chance to slide along our wood floor, chasing her two feline friends we have at home now. Maybe I’m being naïve – it might have never worked out at home. Maybe the dream of her getting along with the other two cats would not have happened.
But I would have tried, and sometimes that's enough.
