Dog Pound

When you go to a pound or humane society do you ever think about what the dogs must feel like?  Like what they have been through… or what they remember.  There’s been a large part of me that really thinks I understand them this week.

I know it sounds crazy and confusing, but follow me on a bit of a mental journey.

For most of the time I have been “out on my own” or “in the real world” I have been scratching and clawing my way through.  I have been begging at closed doors, just to be let in, for a chance for someone to see all the love and talents I have to offer.  I get let in for a short while, only to find that it wasn’t going to be a forever home.  It was just a short stay.  That I would soon be back on the proverbial street, mangy and trying to get someone to notice the potential that lies within.  Then another short stay in a home that won’t last too long. 

I found myself feeling that lost, scared necessity of being let not too long ago.  I was scratching at every door I could think of.  I was begging at doors that I was told weren’t the ones I wanted to look for a forever home in.  I was scratching every surface.  I was a mangy mutt, lost and dirty. 

Then when I finally started to think, I will never find a home.  A strange little nook of a door opened.  Through it shone a light that was very small and unimaginably bright.  Feeling as though it was comfortable and as if I was supposed to enter, I walk through the door and find a whole new world staring at me.

I didn’t feel like I needed to beg and scratch and do my best tricks.  It just happened to feel as if, I was going to be home.  I have the sensation of a freshly shampooed puppy, no longer muddy and the light aroma of the spendy puppy shampoo, personally I like the mint ones or the fruity ones, raspberry in particular.  With a new collar donned on my neck and trimmed claws, warn from a file not from scratching my way through, I think there is hope of a forever home.

Granted I know many of you will never understand.  I pray many of you will never understand.  Life opens doors when we need them. 

This job this metaphor is for a job.  We all do things we aren’t enjoying, we aren’t necessarily proud of, then one day we wake up, in a position in a place, where we… have… a sense of home.  A sense of belonging. 

There are things I have guilt for in my mind.  Not for anything other than to myself and in the fact I was desperate enough to feel the desire to beg.  Then when the begging ceased, a cracked door was just not going to be the path I needed… and I have to say that to the owner of the door.  I know it wasn’t right.  It was begging and pleading to even have the crack opened.  That isn’t a home.  A home is wide open door with a welcome sign on it and a silly little flamingo mat on the front step.  I have a welcome mat on the steps to my house… not flamingo right now, but a welcome mat.

I think I might just put a little welcome mat under my desk.  To remind me of this.  To remind me in 6 months, in a year, in 6 years that each day I should say welcome home, to myself and know that home is a good place to be.

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~ by monrae on September 20, 2008.

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