Proof.
Proof that what looked hopeless for one week can look completely different three weeks later.
Proof that “difficult” is sometimes just a living thing telling the truth in a way no one wants to hear.
After that, I started doing something I probably should have done sooner.
I began reading more files.
Not just the medical notes.
Not just the intake codes.
The little lines people barely notice.
Owner deceased.
Brought in with littermate.
Found after eviction.
Surrendered after divorce.
Housemate dog died two days ago.
Transferred from home of elderly owner entering long-term care.
I started seeing it everywhere.
Not in every case.
But enough.
Enough to make me sick.
There was a hound mix who wouldn’t leave the back of his run after being brought in from a house where his owner had died alone.
There was an older calico who batted at anyone wearing boots because the last person who wore boots around her had carried her out of a home she never got to see again.
There was a rabbit who stopped eating after her bonded mate died in transport.
And every single time, somewhere in the notes or the hallway talk, somebody would say the same kind of thing.
“She’s not adjusting.”
“He’s deteriorating.”
“This one isn’t adoptable in this condition.”
I know how that sounds.
Like I’m blaming shelter workers.
I’m not.
