The Little Bandit That Stole My Heart: The Perils Of Taking A Stray To The Pound
The September morning that we made our acquaintance, it was unseasonably cold. My breath frosted in the air. It was early — the sun just peeking over the horizon — and I’d just come home from dropping my husband off at the train station.
I was almost inside when I heard it.
Mew.
I ticked off possibilities. I had two cats, one fairly young, but they were both indoor cats. My landlords had three cats, but that tiny me could not possibly have come from them.
Mew.
A stranger at my door…
There, blinking up at me with wide green eyes was a tiny black and white kitten.
My heart melted.
When I knelt down beside him, I could see his ribs. No more than six weeks old by my best estimate, he was shivering in the cold, his tiny body shaking.
I lifted him up and tucked him under my jacket until he warmed up. In spite of everything, I could feel him purring against me.
My dilemma…
I wish I could say that I brought him right inside and we lived happily ever after, but the bottom line was that my husband and I already had two cats in a one bedroom apartment, and my landlords would surely kill me if I even brought this kitten indoors for awhile.
Instead, I scrounged for something this baby could eat, and sat with him on my front steps, trying to keep him warm until it was time for me to go to work.
After work, he was still there, and I knocked on neighborhood doors, hoping to find his home.
No luck.
And each day, this tiny kitten would jump up my steep porch steps and try to follow me inside.
What a little bandit, I would say to the kitten as he looked up at me beseechingly. I’m sorry. You just can’t come inside.
In the meantime, my husband and I made an appointment at a local animal shelter. It was quite a drive, but Saturday, we would take the kitten there and put him up for adoption.
But one morning I went out only to find my little bandit friend gone. I peered behind bushes I checked in the tall grasses across the street. I looked under all the cars.
The kitten was gone.
I’ll admit that a part of me was relieved. It was out of my hands…but I couldn’t help but wonder — and worry — about what had happened to the little bandit that had stolen my heart.
Oh where oh where did that little cat go?
As I prepared for work that morning, all I could think about was that tiny kitten. Did he find his way home, or did something awful happen to him? Did he get hit by a car? Was he trapped somewhere? Was he hurt?
By the time I was ready for work, I was sick wondering what had happened to that kitten.
An answer I didn’t want to hear…
As I was getting into my car, my landlady pulled her car up alongside mine. She was visibly upset, and she told me she’d taken the kitten I’d been feeding to the local pound.
They’d been closed, but had taken the kitten from her anyway, and they’d told her that they were out of space. There was no room for the kitten, so they’d be putting him to sleep before morning’s end.
This was a healthy, feisty, beautiful little kitten. Very adoptable, and they were going to — for lack of space — put him to sleep.
Forget the euphemisms. They were going to murder him.
So what’s the punchline?
The punchline to this, my friends, is that pounds do not always have an animal’s best interests at heart. Your local pound is there to provide a public service. That service is, first and foremost, to take stray animals off of the street.
Now granted, many pound employees love animals and would do anything for them, but they cannot take every animal home with them, and policy is policy when you are an employee of the county government.
So before you take that stray to the pound, thinking you are doing your good deed, I beg you to reconsider.
It doesn’t matter how adorable, healthy, personable, well-behaved, intelligent, or just plain lovable that animal is. It doesn’t matter if it’s a purebreed or a mutt. It doesn’t matter if it’s a tiny kitten or an aging Rottweiler. If that animal is not adopted, it will — at some point — be put down.
Sometimes, as in the case of my little stray, it’s sooner rather than later.
That precious kitten would never have a chance, even a remote one, of adoption.
Furthermore…
Some pounds will even sell animals to scientific laboratories for research subjects. For me, this is too horrible to even contemplate.
So what are the alternatives?
I’d love to tell you to adopt the animal yourself, or at least keep it until you can find it a loving home — and if you can, then, by all means, do. Put up signs in supermarkets and on telephone poles. Take out an ad in your local paper. The animal may simply be lost and loving owners may be desperately searching for it.
But if you can’t, then call your pound first. Find out their policy on euthanasia and on selling them for research.
Look in the yellow pages. There should be listing for shelters, which differ greatly from pounds in purpose and practice.
Many shelters have no-kill policies. They will not put down an animal unless it is so badly injured or so sick that nothing can be done to help it.
One local shelter where I used to live had many battle-scarred critters. One-eyed cats and three-legged dogs were given ample opportunity for adoption. In the meantime, they were cared for — and loved — by dedicated volunteers.
Again, make sure to check their policies on selling for research and euthanasia.
Check with neighborhood veterinarians or your local animal emergency clinic. Often, if you bring an injured stray in, they will house and feed it until the animal is claimed or adopted.
The Bottom Line
There are options, though some are time consuming. If, like me, you’re an animal lover, then it will be a labor of love.
For those who may be wondering…
My landlady and I went back to the pound that morning. We had to bang on the door since they were closed, and after half a dozen employees ignored us, someone came and opened the door. We were told to come back when they reopened and begin the adoption process. It would cost $40.00.
By then, we pleaded, it will be too late.
The kitten would have been put to sleep.
A shame, we were told — but that was procedure.
Well, with some cajoling, a lot of sweet talk, a dose of common sense, and a few thinly veiled threats, we got the kitten back.
The little bandit that had stolen my heart rode all the way home in my arms.
Bandit…
In case you haven’t guessed, we never kept that shelter appointment we’d made.
Bandit, as he came to be named, is now a happy, healthy senior cat. He is waiting for me by the door every day when I come home from work, and at night, he sleeps on my pillow.
He likes to drink from the bathroom faucet, and he’s so vocal that he often sounds as if he’s singing to me.
A fairy tale ending?
Bandit and I had a fairy tale ending, but many animals taken to pounds do not.
So please, please, before you take that stray to the pound, think twice. An animal’s life is at stake.
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