David McElroy

making sense of a dysfunctional culture

dogs

We can’t save every animal in need, but I was happy to save Kiko’s life

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I didn’t realize it at first, but Kiko was minutes from death when I met her.

It was about 15 years ago and I had just pulled up to my vet’s office on a routine visit for yearly vaccinations. I had a couple of kitty carriers loaded with some of my cats. As I was getting them out of the back seat, a man parked next to me and then got out of his car with a big white dog.

Kiko was beautiful and full of energy. I didn’t recognize her as an akita, because I was unfamiliar with the breed. I told the man he had a beautiful dog, but he barely acknowledged me. He seemed angry and uninterested in talking.

When we got inside the office, he went straight to one of the exam rooms. I asked Barb, one of the clinic employees, what was going on. She told me that the man had brought this beautiful dog into the clinic to have her killed — because he couldn’t control her well enough.

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Lucy’s fun afternoon at my office reminds me that work needs play

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If you had stopped at the office of Bluff Park Realty in Birmingham, Ala., Friday afternoon, you might have met a furry new worker. Lucy is now trained in greeting customers at the front counter. She earned her treats and she had a good time.

I knew things would be slow on the Friday before Thanksgiving, so it was a good day for her to have a fun trip out. I was in the office for only four hours, so it was long enough for her to have a break from her normal routine but not so long that she would be unhappy.

I think both of us had fun.

I grew up believing that work was fun. I was excited about the things I planned to do — things other people consider work — and it never occurred to me that work could be boring. Having Lucy around this afternoon left me thinking about what changed for me along the way — and about what still needs to change.

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My love of ‘fur friends’ stems from the callousness I saw in my father

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Boots was the only dog I had as a child. He was mostly black, but he had white around his feet — hence the name — and on his chest.

Boots lived with us for only about a year when I was 9 or 10 years old. I loved him dearly and spent a lot of time outside with him, but when we moved — only about 10 miles — Boots didn’t make the trip with us. I will never know why. I will never know what happened to him.

When we were about to move, I asked my father where Boots would stay at the new house. The yard wasn’t fenced and it was in a subdivision, not like the house in the country where we had been living. My father didn’t answer my question — and I knew better than to ever again ask a question which my father ignored.

I never saw Boots again, which hurts me and angers me to this day. Years later — when I was safely into my adult years — I asked my father why Boots didn’t move with us and what happened to him. He claimed not to even remember. He seemed unconcerned that the child in me still needed to know what happened.

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