It is always hard walking through animal control. There are so many pit bulls. And when we are walking thru we usually only have one open foster home available. It isn’t often that we see a senior pit bull. The sad reality is the vast majority of pit bulls don’t see the up side of two years old. When we do see a senior pit bull our hearts ache in a whole different kind of way.  It is difficult enough to place seniors let a lone one who happens to be a pit bull.

In the beginning of last November I was taking a walk thru MAAC. So many happy slutty pit bulls came to the front of their runs to greet me. I like to stop and acknowledge each one. I almost left the first bay when I got close to the end because there did not appear to be anyone in the last kennel. No one anxious to make my acquaintance anyway. Yet something made me take a peek just to be sure.

There in the back of the kennel was an old, rickety, crusty gal. She was laying on a soft blanket that had been provided to her by the caring staff. I knelt down and coaxed her over. And she hobbled on over to appease me. Such soulful eyes. There was a pang in my heart as I walked away. There was nothing I could do for her.

The next night as I was walking out of ARLP’s offices with fellow volunteer Michelle K., I thought about the old girl. Michelle is a “big picture” thinker who has one of those big open hearts all creatures are welcome to fall into. So I asked her. I asked her if she would consider giving “Diggs” some quality time before she left this earth. She didn’t hesitate, “I can do that”, “I would like to do that”.

On November 6th, 2009 Michelle met me at animal control. She was there to pick up a beleaguered old lady and Amora became ARLP’s first ever compassion hold.

Last week I emailed Michelle and asked her how our old gal was doing. Here is what she had to say:

Amora is still doing wonderfully fantastic.

She loves her some attention & scratches & cuddles & love, and she’s all about the begging. She loves to eat–especially if it is chicken or anything good that might come from the kitchen. She hangs out on her dog bed in the middle of the house. I think that she just likes to feel like she’s a part of the action, like she’s included, rather than being kept away from things and people. So she pretty much stays on her bed and rests, unless she wants to do some begging action in the kitchen.

She’s just so easy to have around, besides a little loving a few times a day, taking her out to do her business and feeding her, she is, as Brian calls her in a very affection way, a piece of ‘furniture.’ That is how easy she is–when you walk by her she wants you to stop and acknowledge her, she loves to roll on her back to rub her belly, but that is all that she really asks from us.

I never intended to add a third dog to my house, and that’s still not my plan. I don’t imagine her being with me for months or years…but the thing is that selfishly Amora makes me feel good. In so many ways I feel powerless to really make a difference, an impact or a change in everything that is wrong with the state of animals in our society today. There is just so much need out there. And in so many ways I really am powerless, but all I have to do is look at Amora and she makes me happy because she is so incredibly happy. With her I have something in front of me everyday to make me smile. After only a few days with us Amora’s story no longer was a sad one, but a happy one. That’s the one thing that I stress to people about Amora, her story is only a happy one–if Amora is anything at all, she is happy. And I want to keep letting her be happy.

We’re just going to keep hanging for as long as she’s feeling well and doing well, whether it’s tomorrow or a month from now.

Pictured above: Amora, Michelle & Amora

Thinking about Amora reminded me of one of my favorite stories.

Excerpt from the Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

(this starts at the point when the Skin Horse and the Rabbit are talking)

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Thank you Michelle.

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