The Island of the Misfit Pets

These islands are in every community, parish, suburb and city, though they are often called “animal shelter” or “animal services” or simply, “the dog pound”.  It is a place where hope fears to tread for there is no salvation, no happy endings.

But the hopeful come anyway, by ones and twos and in multitudes, and they bring their pain and their shame, and their ignorance cloaked in righteousness and indignation, and of course, their good intentions.

“I’m moving and I can’t take him with me, promise me you’ll find him a good home” or ” I found this stray cat and it’s ruining my flower bed, promise me” and “I’ve had her for 12 years, promise me…”  Promise me, because if you don’t I will have to live with the knowledge that I condemned this poor creature of God to a death sentence, and that might ruin my day.

And so I promise.

What I don’t tell them is that here, on the Island of the Misfit Pets, these animals will beg everyday in their prison of cement and chain, beg for someone to stop and say “that’s the one!”, and then cry from fear and loneliness when the day is done and they are still here.

And so I am forced to keep my promise as I walk them down death row, insert a needle in them as they plead “just one more day, just one more day”.  Their “good home” is now the bottom of a trash can and I am reminded, yet again, that atonement and redemption will be forever denied to me.


2 Responses to “The Island of the Misfit Pets”

  1. quinbrowne Says:

    atonement and redemption are there.. well done, my friend… well done.

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