Last week, Mr. Stoker liked our idea of writing a blog post about pets that need a home. He gave us a thumbs-up and an encouraging “I knew you’d come up with something smart.” On the 2nd Wednesday in October we get out of school 2 hours early for a teacher-work day, and Cherish drives us back to the Pet Hut to meet with Claire.
“This is a great idea,” Claire says for the 4th time. She probably would have been enthusiastic if we’d offered to make mittens for the animals. She’s good at making volunteers feel important.
“Thank you,” Windy says. “We’re soooo excited about this.”
“Are you going to do it on our website?” she asks.
“If that’s okay,” Levi says.
“Yeah. Sure, sure. This is really a great idea.” 5th time! “And I know exactly which animal you should feature 1st.”
“No, that’s Lucy’s job,” Windy says. “She has a theory.”
Claire raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Do you mind?” I ask.
“Not at all. I’ll take any help I can get.” She motions to the room of dog kennels.
Levi opens the door for me, probably just a habit. I take out my notebook with my formula. I know big dogs are harder to adopt (except for Chihuahuas), so I focus on the animals in the 8 kennels on the floor. My formula has variables for age, color, breed, and size.
I walk by each kennel and read the attached clipboard to get the information I need. Claire, Levi, and Windy follow me quietly, like they don’t want to break my concentration. But the math is actually very simple. I don’t even need to write anything down.
The average wait time to be adopted is 12 days. So my formula starts with that, and I add or subtract based on the data I’ve collected.
If the breed is pit bull, I add 7 to the 12 days; a shepherd gets plus 4 days, and a Chihuahua gets 2 extra days. No other breed falls outside the standard deviation. Basically, they all get a plus 0.
For weight, big dogs (over 60 pounds) get a 2-day add.
And 5 days are added for a black coat. No other coloring played a major factor in my calculations.
Age has 2 criteria: If the dog is between 3 and 7 years old, I add 3 days. And if the animal is over 8 years old, I add a whopping 10 days.
There’s only 1 situation where I need to subtract any days. A dog less than 1 year old gets minus 4 days.
“What is all that in your notebook?” Windy asks.
I close it. “Just some thoughts. Where’s Pi?” I ask, hoping Windy won’t ask more questions.
“He’s at the vet,” Claire says. “He needs exams and vaccinations before he’ll be ready for adoption.”
That makes sense. According to my calculations, Pi wouldn’t have been my chosen dog anyway. I walk back to the 2nd kennel.
“This dog.” I point at the 110-pound, 6-year-old shepherd mix with mostly black fur and mismatched eyes. I don’t have a variable for eye color, but I bet his uniqueness would scare some people.
12 days + 4 days (shepherd mix) + 2 days (weight) + 3 days (age) + 5 days (black) = 26 days
“He got here 2 days ago,” Claire says.
I shrug. “I have a feeling he’ll need help finding a home.” It’s not a feeling. It’s a calculation. According to my math model, he will take 24 to 28 days to be adopted. That’s longer than any other dog that is currently here. The Lab mix in kennel 8 has been at the shelter the longest, 18 days, but should be adopted between 16 and 20 days. Or any day now. Pi should be between 11 and 15.
“All right.” Claire shrugs. “Let’s take him to the play yard in the back. You can get to know Murphy.”
“This is going to be awesome,” Windy says. And Levi doesn’t even disagree with her.
The moment Claire opens the kennel door, Murphy transforms from quiet and still to loud and excited. She gives him an awkward bear hug while Levi slips a harness and leash on him.
“Thanks,” Claire says. “Wait. Y’all filled out your volunteer forms, right?” She laughs, but I think she’s being serious. This dog looks ready to maul someone.
“Yep,” Windy answers for all of us.
Murphy jumps up. His paws land on Claire’s shoulders. She nudges him off with an elbow and a knee. Maybe math shouldn’t be the only consideration when picking a dog to rescue.
“Lucy, you look nervous,” Claire says.
“I’m okay.” I fiddle with my lightning-bolt charm.
Murphy pulls against the leash. Claire has no choice but to follow him down the hall. Luckily, he’s heading in the right direction.
The play yard doesn’t have much to play with except a chewed tennis ball. It’s surrounded by a tall chain link fence. The ground is a concrete pad. A weatherworn wooden bench (that also has teeth marks notched out of the legs) sits along the side.
Claire closes the gate behind us. I feel trapped because I am. I tap my toe 3 times.
“Where did he come from?” Windy asks.
“He was surrendered. An older woman was raising him,” Claire answers. “She lived in an apartment, and her husband died suddenly. She couldn’t handle the dog on her own. Bless her heart.”
“You poor thing,” Windy says, nuzzling the dog.
“I’ll be right over there. Holler if you need me.” Claire locks us in.
“Maybe I should see if there are new adoption forms that need to be entered into the computer.” I turn to the gate, ready to run. Dogs are gross and coated in bacteria and parasites—so are humans. But dogs also bite and maul, and they sense fear. They’re practically mind readers. To Murphy, I probably appear to be a trembling chew toy.
“Stay,” Levi says. “He won’t hurt you. I won’t let him. I promise.”
Feeling wanted beats feeling safe. So I stay.
Levi takes off Murphy’s harness. The dog jumps from corner to corner, like he’s playing tag with invisible friends.
“I know what we need to write about this dog,” Windy says. “Brain-damaged.”
“He is not,” Levi says.
I try not to let the brain damage comment sting. But it does a little.
“He’s never going to sit still for a picture,” Windy says. She keeps patting her leg trying to get him to come to her.
“Murphy’s just excited. Give him a minute to calm down.” Levi hangs his backpack on the fence post. He takes out his camera and a bow tie and a fedora.
“Are we playing dress-up?” Windy asks.
The dog tries to snatch the hat from Levi’s hand. I gasp and jump on the bench. “Maybe I should go. I’m making him nervous.”
“Since you’re up there, you can hold the backdrop.” Levi hands me a blue-green sheet (the color of the number 15), and we all wait for Murphy to relax. He finally lets Windy pet his head.
“Good dog.” It takes Levi 3 tries to get the bow tie on. Murphy doesn’t care for the hat at all.
Windy backs out of the shot. Levi gets down on his knees to take the picture while I hold the sheet. The dog looks everywhere except at Levi until Windy picks up the ratty tennis ball. She bounces it once. Murphy is mesmerized. Then Windy holds the ball next to Levi’s head. I’m worried for Levi’s safety. I’m not a good judge of dogs, but based on Murphy’s drooling and intense focus, I’d guess he’d do anything—including decapitating my teammates—to get to that ball.
“Got it,” Levi says.
Murphy is rewarded with attention from Levi, who rubs his belly, and the tennis ball from Windy.
After Claire comes back to get Murphy, she lets us use the office to work on our 1st blog post. Windy does the typing. Eventually, we get down a description of Murphy, and Levi figures out how to upload the pictures. Claire reads the post and declares it perfect. Then she gives Windy and Levi a hug. I slide out of the way to avoid contact.
As we leave, I give Murphy a thumbs-up. “I hope the math is good to you, boy.”