by Jon Katz
She also reached for one of the food bags before heading down the hallway. She heard a male voice from inside the new-arrival room, but it wasn’t Sam’s. She froze. The hallway lights were kept off as a budget-saving measure, turned on only when necessary. She knew she couldn’t be seen as she tiptoed to the window and peered in. She barely allowed herself to breathe. Slowly, she put the food and medical equipment down on the floor and edged closer.
An enormous man in a black leather motorcyle jacket—his long black hair down to his shoulders—was sitting on the floor in a corner in profile to her.
An empty cat carrier sat at his feet.
He looked to be in his early thirties. He had a thick neck and broad shoulders and a big belly that pushed against his weathered black jacket. The jacket was covered with studs, and he had a ring hanging from one side of his nose. She saw a tattoo—a dragon’s head—protruding from his chest onto his neck.
A large tortoiseshell cat with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen was sitting in his lap. The door to the crate next to the two of them was open. The glass was thick, but his voice was loud and guttural. She could hear him.
“Hey,” he growled, “I’m sorry to be leaving you here. I’ll come back for you if I can. They say they’ll try to find a good home for you. But I don’t know if they’re bullshitting me or not. I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”
The cat snuggled in his lap and looked up into his eyes.
Emma didn’t move. The man seemed to look the cat over carefully, as if wanting to remember every detail.
Emma wanted to get away, but her legs didn’t quite know how to move.
The biker looked back at the cat and stroked her chin.
“You’re a great cat. I can’t believe some of the rats and mice you got. I’ll miss you.”
Emma could see that he was choked up.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The cat looked up at him again curiously. His words were abrupt, but his tone wasn’t. Emma had been through a lot of these surrenders, and people rarely wanted to be alone with the animals they were leaving. Giving them up was hard enough.
“I have to leave, Cleo,” he said. The cat was curled up comfortably in his arms. It was always tough, Emma thought, when people realized how much the animals trusted them, how safe they felt with them. That made it harder to let them go.
“We have to move. No more jobs here, and we don’t know where we’re going. The landlord put us out. Can’t put you through that kind of a trip.”
He looked up at the ceiling, and Emma was surprised to see tears streaming down both sides of his face. He’s about had it, Emma thought. She had seen it before. There was a point where people just had to get out. He was about there.
Emma shook her head, fidgeting with the bottom of her green smock.
He put the cat back in the crate and got up quickly, starting toward the door. Emma left the food and supplies on the floor and backed up quickly, stepping into one of the other new-arrival rooms. She heard the biker open the door and head out into the hallway. Seconds later, she heard Sam’s voice saying, “Hey, you aren’t supposed to be in here,” and then she heard a bellow and some cursing and a loud noise.
She ran out into the hallway and flipped the lights on. She saw the biker with one arm on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam, looking white as a ghost, pinned to the glass wall.
“Who the hell are you to tell me I can’t go say good-bye to my cat? It’s my cat, and you people can’t even promise me you’ll find a home for her, and now you tell me to get out!”
The biker was red with rage, and Sam, as skinny as a popsicle stick, was nearly paralyzed. Dogs were barking all over the shelter.
Without thinking, Emma strode up to the biker.
“Hey!” she said, and both men turned toward her. She put her hand on the biker’s wrist and pulled his arm off Sam’s shoulder.
“I saw how much you love your cat. I know how hard it is to let her go. How angry you must be, and frustrated. We see it all the time. But you just can’t take it out on us. We’ll care for her. We’ll love her. We’re her only chance.”
Sam looked at her as if she’d fallen out of a spaceship.
She moved forward a step.
The biker was breathing normally now, and he stepped back.
“Sorry,” he said to Sam. “I just lost it there.”
Sam nodded, then offered his hand. The two shook.
Emma put her hand on the biker’s shoulder.
“Mister, I know you feel guilty. But you shouldn’t feel that way—what’s your name?”
“Howie,” he said.
“You’re one of the good ones,” she said. “Some people just abandon their cats on the street. We have a whole room of those. You thought to bring her here. It’s the best you can do. We’ll take good care of her. You should feel good about what you’ve done.”
Howie met her gaze. “She was like our kid, you know? We move from place to place; we aren’t very connected, but she’s special to us.”
Emma nodded. “Listen to me, Howie. Give yourself permission to let her go. The people who come here are good people in bad situations. We have to remember that.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Emma.”
His eyes filled with tears again.
“What are the chances—”
Emma shook her head. “We never know. But she’s a beautiful, healthy cat, and that’s good news. She’s got a chance. A lot of them don’t.”
“And how long—”
“Look, Howie. You have to walk away and not look back. You gave her the best life you could for as long as you could. You start over every single day. Every day there’s a win, every day there’s a loss. You have to go on. We’ll take it from here. You’re not leaving her alone or starving on the street.”
Howie listened, looked at Emma more closely, and nodded. Then he went into the new-arrival room one last time. He opened the crate, held Cleo’s face up to his, hugged her, put her gingerly back in the crate—she fought him a bit, but he managed to get her in—and then he shut the door and stood up.
Tears still streaming down his cheeks, he walked quickly back out into the hallway, past Sam, and over to Emma.
Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek.
“Thank you, Emma,” he said, and left.
IT WAS EVENING, and the shelter was at its quietest. The animals had been fed and medicated. There were still a few hours before the cars would start pulling up to the Surrender Bay, and it would begin filling up with newly homeless pets.
Emma had looked at the Black Friday list again, and afterward, she shook her head, took a deep breath, and choked back a few tears.
She told Sam she was going out for a few minutes. He’d asked her if she wanted to join him for dinner on the way home, something the two of them did once or twice a week, as both lived alone and often—mostly—ended up talking about the animals at the shelter anyway. Emma didn’t even know where Sam lived.
But tonight, Emma said no. She had other plans. Sam smiled. He understood.
She drove to the Burger King a few miles down the road. The assistant manager knew her there and waved. “You want the usual?”
She nodded, and he ordered her a Giant Whopper, the big kind with three slices of beef, gobs of cheese and mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, and bread. She also got a small tomato-wedgie salad and a Diet Pepsi.
Emma drove the short distance back to the shelter, now locked up and deserted, except for the din the animals made whenever she opened the doors, and made her way to the holding room where Brownie’s crate was. The room was dark, and she heard the whimpering of the animals—six mutts, two beagles, an aging German shepherd, four cats, some Lab-mix puppies, and two pit bulls unlikely to find a home.
After the initial barking and yowling and mewing—“It’s just me,” she said, “ssssssh,”—she turned on the lights, still clutching the greasy bag of food.
She walked to th
e far corner, took out a blanket, and spread it on the floor, then opened the last crate on the left.
“Hey, Brownie,” she called out quietly, “you free for dinner?”
Away to Me
ZIP WAS EXCITED. THE FARMER HAD JUST COME OUT OF THE farmhouse. First thing every morning, before the mist was burnt off by the summer sun, he emerged from the house and called out, “Hey, Zip, let’s get working.” He quickly ducked into the barn and returned again with feed for the goats and chickens. Then it was time to move the sheep from the barn to the outer pasture, where they would graze until the sun got too strong.
Zip ran back and forth in front of the sheep, which were all struggling to their feet, baaing loudly. Zip loved work more than anything except, perhaps, sunning herself or getting her head and ears scratched. The sheep were her responsibility, she watched over them day and night. It gave her life focus and connected her to the ancient ritual of working with a human being, and serving him.
Some of these characteristics were in her bones, but she had learned much more from Fly, the farmer’s border collie, who had grown up with Zip on the farm, and who had herded the sheep with great energy and skill until she lay down with them in the pasture one summer night and died in her sleep.
Zip, who was not a border collie, was lonely. She missed her companion, but she had watched Fly and studied her, so she knew what to do. Fly and Zip had been inseparable, working the sheep day and night, protecting them together. Fly had been generous, working happily with Zip, passing on her experience, showing her how to understand and move sheep, and Zip had taken to the work as naturally as Fly had. Zip was not quite as agile or quick as Fly, but she was determined and had great poise and authority, and the sheep did what she wanted them to do.
Zip loved the way the sheep reacted, their heads going up when she and Fly had appeared in the mornings, how they’d bunched together anxiously, how they’d come to associate Fly and Zip with grass and moved eagerly along with them.
One or two would always break away for something greener, and Fly, so quick, would head them off, turn them, nip them on the nose if necessary. Zip saw how easily the sheep could panic—when a coyote appeared, or another animal moved in the brush, or lightning struck a tree in the forest, or a plane roared overhead—and she and Fly would sense this, get ahead of them, turn them, keep them together, calm them.
Zip saw how the sheep’s heads would go down when they found good grass, and then go up when they were full and it was time to return to the shade, to water and the safety of the barns and fences. The lambs loved to play, refusing to be herded, and they made their mothers crazy with worry and responsibility. It was hard to keep them together with the flock and away from dangers and predators.
Zip learned to be careful around the rams, who could get belligerent and territorial, and would often butt her if she wasn’t paying attention.
In the middle of the night, especially on hot nights when the farmer let her stay in the pasture outside the barn, Zip would stand in front of the herd, watching for the coyotes that often came creeping around. At the sight of them, she would get to her feet and move forward to confront them, making as much noise as she could, staying between them and the herd. She sensed they were cowards and opportunists, and when she came forward to confront them, they fled.
The farm sat in a flat lush valley surrounded by soft green hills. There was a big white farmhouse, and a pasture for milk cows, and a milking barn. Zip was not allowed near the cows. They were dangerous, as they would kick her. The sheep were in a larger pasture to the south, with their own gates, fences, and barns. They lived outside almost all of the time, except when it was raining heavily or very cold. Twice a year, the farmer lambed. Two or three times a year, trucks came and took some of the sheep away—Zip never knew where, and the farmer always locked her up in one of the barns when this happened. When she came out, she would look for them, but they would be gone. They never came back.
The sheep were different from dogs, or even from cows. They were simple. They ate, chewed their cuds, slept. They never anticipated what might happen to them, or remembered what had already happened. They never quite understood that Zip was there to take care of them, so she often had to reestablish her authority. They had little memory and often made the same mistake twice. Falling into holes, getting snagged on fences, tripping on rocks, running into fence posts. They needed watching.
The farmer was a tall, weathered-looking man. He wore the same thing just about every day—lace-up waterproof boots, Carhartt overalls, a plaid flannel shirt, a hooded sweatshirt with a woolen cap. He was a gentle, confident man. He never panicked, or got upset, which Zip appreciated. Over time, the two of them had built a strong and comfortable relationship. The farmer always spoke to her clearly and softly. He’d grown up on the farm, as had his father and grandfather, and he knew every inch of it. And he understood animals—livestock as well as dogs. He knew how to talk to them, knew what made them nervous and what calmed them. His farm was a well-run place, and a sense of that permeated the barns and pastures and was absorbed in the animals who, like the farmer, generally went about their business and did what they were expected to do.
Zip loved working with the farmer, loved his smell, his gentleness, and most of all, the work that he brought her. When he commanded, “Away to me!” or “Get the sheep!” her heart felt like it would come right out of her chest, and she took off as quickly as she could run, trying to get around the herd so that they would stay together, and she could follow them up to the pasture and stand guard.
Sometimes, Zip could sense, the farmer got frustrated. Zip was not as fast as Fly had been, not as instinctive. Sometimes the sheep got ahead of her, or didn’t turn, or ran off to the far rise of the pasture. The farmer would shake his head, mutter a bit, and go up and get them with Zip. He never yelled at her, though she could sense his disappointment.
But Zip knew she was, without a doubt, the smartest thing on the farm with four legs. She knew the sheep far better than any farmer could. She could smell things the farmer couldn’t even imagine existed. She saw their eyes when they were frightened, saw their heads go up when they were hungry, heard the sound of pain when their hooves were cracked, could read the messages when they called out to one another, or to their lambs. She knew the smell of the ewes when they were pregnant, understood when they were about to give birth.
She also heard the farmer’s footsteps hit the floor in the morning, the running water in the shower. She could read his mind before he even conceived his own thoughts.
ZIP’S LIFE had not always been this good. It had taken her a while to trust this farmer. She had been born on a nearby farm, with a different kind of farmer, who was angry and frightening. He threw rocks and used a stick; and Zip was, to this day, fearful of sticks even to the point of biting anyone who came near her with one.
Fly had come to that farm as a puppy, and grown up right alongside Zip. Zip and Fly had quickly grown attached to each other. Life was rough there and each provided the only companionship for the other. Food was not always regularly available, and the farmer was brusque, angry, and could sometimes turn impatiently violent.
But then Zip’s life changed. The farm was sold. A truck came, and a rope was tied to her neck, and she was dragged and pushed into the truck and taken to another farm. She didn’t know then that Fly was going too.
The new farmer was so different. He was gentle and spoke to her by her name. He fed her twice a day, brushed her, talked to her, scratched her ears and, once in a while, even kissed her on the nose. He brought her treats, all kinds of cookies and feed. It was a different kind of life, but it still centered around work. Every morning, Zip and Fly marched the sheep out to pasture, and stayed with them all day, and every evening they brought them back, sleeping near them all night.
From the first, Zip wanted to sleep in the house, to follow the farmer there. She knew there were good things to eat there; she could smell them. And she wanted to c
ome in especially when it was cold or raining, but the farmer always turned and held up his hand as he latched the pasture gate. “Only people in the house,” he said.
And by now, years later, Zip knew all of the farmer’s commands by heart: “Come bye”; “Away to me”; “That’ll do, Zip”; or “Let’s bring ’em in.” She knew when it was time to take the sheep out, and she knew when it was time to bring them in, to move them into a different pasture, or keep them in the barn.
At night, when the sheep were well-fed and sleepy, the farmer would give her a biscuit, scratch her head and back, and thank her for her hard work that day.
But one day, a border collie a lot like Fly appeared on the farm. At first, Zip was excited. But this was a different dog, and unlike Fly, the dog seemed to pay no attention to Zip. He was focused entirely—almost obsessively—on the sheep and on the farmer.
He was a black and white dog, sleek and fast and low to the ground. Not at all like Zip, who was large and had heavier bones and big ears. The new dog watched the farmer closely, and reacted so swiftly to the farmer’s commands. The sheep reacted powerfully to the new dog, bunching together, staring at him, locking eyes in the same way that Zip had seen Fly do but that she had never quite been able to figure out herself.
The farmer paid a lot of attention to the new dog, taking him out into the farmyard, working with him, getting him to lie down, sit, and stay, things he had never really taught Zip to do.
Zip was confused. She still took the sheep out in the mornings and brought them back. But after that, the farmer left her behind. He put her in the barn and worked only with the new dog.
Zip was more and more disturbed. She became anxious, sometimes refusing to leave the sheep and not allowing herself to be brushed. She wouldn’t take treats or permit the farmer to come close anymore.
