This is old Fido, writing from the fear and discomfort and relentless frustration of instinct of my life now, in a little cage at the incredibly stressful and incessantly noisy and confusing no-kill shelter.
Would that I had gone deaf and not just incontinent in my old age, I wouldn’t mind quite as much, but alas, ’twas not to be. I just grew old and frail and useless, precious little joy for you from my company, just work and expense — vet bills, pee pads, doggy diapers, ruined carpets, paper towels and enzyme cleaners.
I don’t like the food here. When you unceremoniously dumped me off the other day, you failed to mention my preferences to the guards, I mean kind strangers, I mean my new guardians.
I hope the little human who pulled my tail so hard and painfully that I growled is fine, and does not feel bad for me, or confused by my sudden absence from the family. Would that you may have considered training the child to not pull my tail so hard, or better yet, at all.
The strain of my body has grown heavy as my heart now is; the light of my spirit has grown dim, and here in this prison, I mean shelter, dimmer still. I overhear them talking about me. They say I am not adoption material. Who would sign up for the financial responsibility and care requirements of an old sick dog such as myself?
There is a thread of hope to which I cling, a dream — that some kind soul in the foster program will take pity on me and take me home with them — O home, people I know and trust, the comforts and safety, the familiar smells — how my old tail wagged when you came in, oh, but I digress.
So yes, it is possible, possible. I hear them say I am a strain on the foster system, which is intended for homeless animals (oh right, that’s me now). That precious few are willing to take hospice dogs (that’s me now).
I thought my humans would be more humane. I would rather have been peacefully released from this failing body in the comfort of my own home. Or, as a second less expensive choice, in the company of my trusted family at the vet’s office. I thought my forever family would have had more loyalty, courtesy and cojones to see me through to the end. ‘Twas not to be.
Languishing and lovelorn (and feverishly stressed out)
and still with affection (every time the door opens I am hopeful, I look for you),
Your faithful friend and good pup (remember when?)
— Fido (please come back)
via Dawn Eareckson