“I’m sorry, too.” And I was. He was actually pretty splendid company, once you got past the bluster and brouhaha.
The entrance to the building was surprisingly small-I almost couldn’t maneuver the wheelchair through it-but once inside it seemed even larger that it appeared from the parking lot.
The entry area was probably about twenty feet wide and fifteen deep. To the right was a massive steel door with a single, darkened window at eye-level and a SANCTIONED PERSONNEL ONLY sign. It reminded me of the heavy iron door to that cell in every last Frankenstein movie where they imprison the monster and assure one another that it’s strong enough to prevent the creature from escaping. Whatever lay beyond that door took up exactly half of the building. I figured that’s where they probably kept the animal cages.
The wall facing us was concrete, about seven feet tall, and held three rows of eight cubbyholes, each big enough to hold a good-sized dog or cat; a fourth row, at knee-level, contained cubbies for the larger dogs-Saint Bernards, German shepherds, Dobermans, etc. Each cubby had a door of heavy iron bars attached to it. For the moment, all the cubbies were empty and their doors open. It looked like an automat after lunch rush; you could even see how the back wall of each swung open so whoever worked behind the scenes could retrieve the animals. A sign above stated that once an animal was placed inside, it became the responsibility of Keepers and would not be returned to the donor; it also warned that the locks were magnetized, so once a door was closed it could not be opened again from our side.
“Why do you suppose they do it that way?”
Mr. Weis shrugged. “My guess is it’s a safety precaution. Folks wouldn’t be bringing their animals here unless they absolutely had to. If you love a pet enough not to hand it over to those Nazis gas chambers at the Humane Society, then you love it enough to change your mind at the last minute, and that’s not a good idea for you or the animal. My guess is a lot of folks have second thoughts once they see their pet behind those bars. This way, there’s no going back.”
“So they really only give you one chance to back out.”
“Damn straight. Once it’s in that cage, that’s all she wrote.”
The wall behind us sported a long shelf deep enough for a dog or cat to sit on and be groomed; there were combs, brushes, nail clippers, flea collars, bags of treats, and countless other goodies set out for people to use before leaving their animals. There was also a series of wooden lockboxes where you could leave a monetary donation; a sign over each box read: “Keepers is a privately funded, non-profit animal protection organization. Donations from the public, though not required, are nonetheless welcomed. All money goes toward the feeding and care of the animals. Keepers does not believe in destroying animals. Once they are with us, they are here for life, even if a new home is never found. Here they will remain happy. Here they will remain loved.”
I read the sign again. “Seems almost too good to be true.”
“Gift horse. Mouth. Looking into it. Bad idea. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.” Then: “A Danny Kaye fan, as well. There’s hope for you yet.”
There was no wall to our left; instead, there was a massive and cavernous play area that extended so far back it looked like a study in forced perspective; swing sets for children, sandboxes, rows of folding chairs, picnic tables, music playing from unseen speakers, the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers… if it weren’t for the walls surrounding all of this and the ceiling of skylights, you’d swear you were in Moundbuilders Park on a summer afternoon.
And the animals were everywhere, dogs, cats, pigs, birds, rabbits, a couple of horses and cows, each fenced off in its own area (except the birds, who flew freely throughout) so that children and adults alike could pet them, either from outside the barrier or from within.
“Looks like a goddamn 4H convention,” said Weis.
I thought it was cool. There were children playing on the swings, mothers sipping icy colas as they relaxed on the chairs or played with the dogs and cats. The animals themselves were clean and healthy and seemed quite happy. I caught glimpses of figures wearing tan jumpsuits with KEEPERS printed across their backs weaving through the pens and people, asking questions, making notes, handing out treats. All of them wore tan wool caps pulled down to cover the tops of their ears. Although it was comfortably cool in here-the air-filtration system must have cost a fortune, because you could barely smell any urine or feces or any other potently animal scents you would have expected-it wasn’t cool enough for a cap of any kind.
A sign on the farthest wall proclaimed this to be the “Selection Area,” and that we should take our time getting to know the animals before bearing them home with us. That was the actual phrase: “bearing them home.” I don’t know why that stuck in my mind. All of the signs contained odd little phrases like that, as if written by someone to whom English was a second language and so its most formal rules of usage were followed when composing the notices.
I wondered if the woman in the car and her two children had made a morning of it in here, playing with dozens of puppies and dogs before selecting the one that just seemed to love them so much they couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without it.
Everywhere I looked there were women-well-dressed women, women who drove expensive cars and wore white gloves for afternoon tea and had a standing appointment with their hair stylist each week and whose children attended private schools-playing with a dog or cat or bunny, smiling as the animal wagged its tail or whiskers and licked a hand or face, and these women would grin from ear to ear saying, “How is Mama’s little baby? Is Mama’s little baby lonesome?” It was sweet.
“Beth and Mabel need to see this,” I said to Mr. Weis. “I really think they’ll feel a whole lot better knowing how this works.”
“You don’t suppose they’ve got an elephant stashed away somewhere, do you?” asked Weis. “I was expecting just cats and dogs, but this ”-He made a sweeping gesture of the Selection Area-“is like a traveling zoo. I’m not trying to be a wet blanket or anything, so please let’s not get into a discussion of my dreadful personality problems, but do you notice anything odd about the way the animals are behaving?”
“No.”
“Of course not- that would require actual powers of observation, and since you’re wearing mismatched socks, we can assume that’s a lost cause. So allow me to assist you: Take another look. See that pen of cats over there? Three times now the same bird has landed on the fence within easy jumping distance, yet none of the cats have tried to get at the thing. None of them are even hissing at one another. Cats are territorial as hell, yet all of them are getting along just fine. None of the dogs are fighting or growling at each other. And despite all the noise and the kids and the movement, the horses don’t look nervous. Ever spend time around horses? I love horses, hope I’ll be one in my next life. Damn nervous animals most of the time, sudden movement and loud noises are no friends to their nerves.”
“So the animals are well-behaved, so what?”
He looked at me as if I were drooling. “So it just doesn’t seem right to me, that’s all. The Peaceable Kingdom ’s good in theory, but this is just weird, seeing it in practice like this. You don’t suppose they drug the animals, do you?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Would they be this active if they had sedatives in their system?”
“Hell- I’m on sedatives half the time and you don’t see it slowing me down any, do you?”
“No, but then you’re freakish.”
“Pot. Kettle. Black. Fill in the blanks.”
“Me. Go. Bring women and dogs.”