It wasn’t the noise that surprised me or the presence of so much poop. It wasn’t the rows of sad faces, the callused elbows, the defeated and desperate postures of dog after dog. I expected visiting shelters in the rural south to be hard.
What I hadn’t expected were the people. People with giant hearts who have sacrificed their lives for these animals. The Shelter Directors and Rescue Coordinators I met spend their days playing an endless shellgame to keep animals alive. Moving dogs out through rescues, doubling and tripling up kennels, finding room where there is none.
As a foster mom for an all-breed rescue, I’ve sheltered 130 of these dogs now. I’ve seen the scars, both external and internal that mark these dogs. I’d traveled here to see for myself where the endless stream of homeless dogs originated. To me, it seemed a tide that was never ending.