I have been here many times and each time my chest constricts with sorrow for its inhabitants. The room is constructed of concrete, cold and unforgiving, echoing the heartbreaking pleas within and turning them into thunder. Even more distressing is the knowledge that nearby lies three more rooms identical to this one. The four of them together are the chambers that form the heart of the building. Without them, the place would not exist.

Set squarely in the center of this chamber is an imposing eight-foot tall rectangular structure built of rough, gray concrete blocks. It is sectioned into eight 3-by-5-foot cells, four on each long side and each with a set of vertical steel bars on its front. It is the same temperature in here as it is on the other side of the door, but still it feels much colder. Beneath my feet, slick tiled floors in mottled shades of beige slink away beneath the barred gates to finally slope toward small metal drains at the center of each cell. Within each cell is an inhabitant who did not come here by choice and does not want to stay.

They know when I enter. They've learned to spend their days waiting for the whoosh of the heavy black door as it opens; it is their sound of hope. With it comes a sudden burst of fresher air and the voices of those beyond it who are free. As the Door of Hope clunks into its jamb behind me, sealing off their contact with the free world, they begin to plead. Even those on the opposite side of the giant cell island who cannot yet see me know I am here and cry out. I listen to them carefully and understand. Deep, booming voices like cannon fire explode from the big ones and from the smaller ones-the pistols-come short, rapid demands. "Come and look at me," they cry, and "I'm not supposed to be here." I hear one shout out that he used to have a home and family, but now he is here and he doesn't know why.

Before I approach the island of cells, I move toward the countertop, cut long and deep into the wall on the left-hand side of the chamber. It is a dark crevice, with a bright aluminum sink glaring out from its center and a small bottle of liquid soap, half-empty and gummed near the nozzle with soapy goo, perched near the faucet. I am drawn to the stark white three-ring binder resting to the left of the sink, a beckoning, yet lonely contrast against the indigo void of the otherwise empty countertop. As I flip through it, I breathe deeply to ease the familiar constriction in my chest and suck in air that is unmistakably animal. There is something else, too, flitting behind the thick musky odor-a hint of disinfectant spray and bleach.

The binder contains a page for each inhabitant detailing histories and observations: what is known and not known, how he got here, what he did wrong, what someone else did to him, and finally, behavioral observations written by various hands. I flip the pages forward, my eyes catching snippets of comments about each of them, and then I stop as I notice the uniqueness of one particular page flutter by. I flip back to it and see that it is nearly empty. There are no observations, no history other than a recorded date of arrival. I note the cell number on the page, replace the binder to its lonely spot, and move to find him.

As I circle the concrete island to the far side, I find his cell and step in front of it. He is lying there quietly, the only one not pleading. His eyes raise to acknowledge my approach, but he doesn't care to move anything else. I am not surprised. I see this often in new arrivals. He hasn't been here long enough to give into the pleading. He's still trying to figure out why he's here at all. I speak to him softly and he returns with a puff, a "why bother" sigh that I barely hear through the thunder of pleas surrounding us. I lower myself down in Indian fashion to sit on the floor in front of him and offer an open palm through the cold metal bars between us. He sniffs, his large black nose twitching in half-interest.

And then something in my attention to him causes him to struggle to his feet, stiff with lack of movement. I stand as well, and open his cell gate. Out toward me lumbers a large dog with dull brown fur, a long tail ending in an afterthought of black, and floppy, lopsided ears. His eyes are questioning; I have no answers to offer. Instead, I take his head gently in my hands and kiss the top of his muzzle. He returns with a single, cautious lick to my cheek-taste-testing my sincerity. The cold room seems to warm just a little as hope begins to flicker back into him. He no longer seems quite so lost and lonely and, for the moment, he will be treated as he should have been before he came here. I attach the clip of the nylon lead in my hand to the ring on his collar and lead him around the concrete island to the Door of Hope.

It is only a brief respite that I am able to give them each day, walking them outside in the fresh air, playing with them, rubbing their ears and kissing their heads, but it means something to them no matter how brief. For a while, as they wait day after day for someone to adopt them, they get to be dogs again instead of pleading prisoners in cold, gray cells. I voluntarily venture into the lonely pain of these chambers and suffer the tightening of my chest each time to offer hope and love where there is none. I am here to let a dog be a dog, and to help them forget for just a while that there is such a thing as the Door of Hope.

Copyright 2004, Jill Cape. All rights reserved.
For permission to reprint or link to this essay, contact Jill Cape at jillcape@sbcglobal.net.

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Author’s Note: It is not a mistake that the beginning of this thesis sounded like a human prison. Each year in the United States, 8 to 10 million dogs and cats end up in animal shelters. Of those, only 3 to 4 million are adopted. You don’t want to know what happens to the rest, but I’ve witnessed it firsthand. If you have room in your heart and home for a new pet, don’t be foolish enough to go to a breeder, no matter reputable, or a pet store (unless it offers available adoptions from shelters or rescues). Breeders and pet stores that sell pure-bred pets are only adding to the pet overpopulation problem by continuing to breed or promote breeding. Every dog born to a breeder leaves one that sits--and most likely dies--in a shelter. Go to a shelter or animal rescue organization when you want a dog or cat. Do you realize that 25% of the dogs in shelters are pure-bred? Some even have AKC registration papers, if that is important to you. Before you go to that breeder or pet store, remember this one thought...imagine if your only crime was being born.

Adopt from a shelter and help put an end to the pet homeless crisis in this country.

"God bless the dogs and cats who wait in cages for an end...to life or to waiting, but an end nonetheless... for they are the embodiment of our carelessness, our self-centered nature, our greed, our irresponsibility... our cruelty. They are the spoils of war. And they are better people than most of us will ever be."

--Jill Cape, copyright 2004