His paw sneaks through the bottom of the kennel towards my sneaker – pushing through a small space between the concrete floor with chipped green paint that’s seen better days and the hard edge of the chain-link door.

“Pick me. Me next. Hey lady. Cut a dog a break – please me next – ok?”

It’s Small Small – an 80 pound one-year old pit bull the blue color of inky twilight, with yellow-rimmed demon eyes and an angelic soul. Like most of the other pit bulls and pit bull mixes at the city animal shelter (and, like at so many other urban shelters, there’s no shortage of pits and pit mixes), Small Small is nothing but a big lug of wiggling, anxious, you-can-do-anything-to-me-as-long-as-you-love-me, dog flesh. When he first arrived Small Small was so afraid of doors that he had to be carried through the front entrance to go on a walk – front legs sticking straight out, hind legs hanging loose, head resting turned sideways against my shoulder eyes tightly closed, breath held – giving surprised incoming visitors a full bare-bellied-pit frontal.

Small Small has nosed his bed – the standard shelter-issue green vinyl cot – to the back of his kennel space in order to make room at the front for the full length of his sleek-fuzzed body, the better to stare intently up at passer’s by, lying in silent wait amid the barking cacophony of the kennel runs. And, like other dogs at the shelter, Small Small has mastered the art of the guilt-inducing stare – putting it all out there, wearing his heart’s desire shamelessly, going for the hypnotic Jedi mind-control of anyone that meets his eyes:

“You will walk me now. For at least 20 minutes. Then you will give me ten treats. When you wake up, you will remember nothing.”

But too late, it is. The shelter is closing in five minutes. The volunteers that have come to walk and play with the dogs are out of time.

I glance at Small Small’s kennel card – a rectangular piece of paper encased in a plastic sleeve, containing a small picture of him, his name, breed mix, identification number, and a one-liner come-on to potential adopters walking through the kennel runs (some with t-shirts pulled up over their noses to block out the ever present urine smell) about how he’s the handsomest boy on the (cell) block. When I see the ID number is relatively high I’m relieved. Small Small is a long-timer, but not such a long-timer that his time is up. Unless he gets adopted in the meantime, he will still be here next Saturday.

And so will, in all probability, most of the other dogs. Dogs like Justin Timberlake (according to his kennel card, a skittish two-year old hound mix who’s “bringing sweetness back!”); Bat-Woman (a pointy-eared pit who’s “looking for her Robin”); Sheila Down Underbite (a young cream-striped boxer who is, despite her evident underbite, “still a top-dog”); Mini Mart (a melon-size-headed pit who was picked up in the convenience store, “trying to be incognito, chompin’ on some Cheetos”); and many others.

The shelter is as progressive as possible for an east-coast big-city public shelter, with dozens of animals arriving every month and without the luxury of being able to turn any away. Some strays, some dogs seized by animal control officers due to abuse or neglect by their owners, many dogs surrendered by their owners because the new apartment doesn’t allow dogs, because of tight finances, because the new girlfriend/boyfriend/roommate doesn’t like dogs, and often, because of no particular reason.

Shelter staff works hard to find homes and keep the shelter’s live-exit rate high. All of the dogs made available for adoption are generally healthy, clean, and temperament tested to ensure that they are not aggressive. Still, there are too many dogs. Too many dogs to walk; too many dogs to give individual attention to; just too many dogs, and not enough owners.

Most of the dogs put up for adoption will eventually find homes, their names written in black ink on the white “adoption” board posted behind the vet tech’s desk, their picture included in the “success-stories” video montage running on the lobby TV. For the pit bulls, it will take longer. For some, it will take too long, and they will be euthanized in order to make space for incoming animals.

So when I leave the shelter that Saturday, I look forward to seeing Small Small next week. But what I would look forward to more is arriving to see his kennel empty, his name written in black ink on the adoption board, eyes gazing happily out at me from the TV as his picture scrolls by, no Jedi mind-trick necessary.

By Kristina Beard

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