Full Confession Forthcoming, an Act That Will Likely Cost Me 50% of My Vast Readership

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I'm sure I'm going to take a hit for this one, but here goes:

I only have so much emotional energy going into an assessment and that energy I usually reserve for people. As opposed to dogs.

So when I make entrance into the inner sanctum of the ER, I want to hear about the PERSON. Not the dog.

The nurse, upon my placing my bag on the counter: She's had a dog in her car for 24 hours. What are you going to do about that?

Me (in my head): Um....nothing?

Me (out loud): Really? Wow.

Honestly. My super powers only take me so far--my compassion will carry me only to a certain point. I don't work for animal welfare (an oxymoron if I ever heard one.) I'm certainly not inclined to hang around the ER for an additional hour or two procuring a placement for Spot. I had enough trouble procuring a placement for Spot's mother, who was geniunely certifiable.

But if I heard it once, I heard it ten times: What are you going to do about the dog? And to all of them I wanted to say: "What are YOU going to do about the dog?"

The Dog was a star of sorts by the end of my assessment. Everyone was concerned about The Dog and it seemed everyone wanted me to save The Dog.

Look, I've done my part. I've rescued a dog and he's the most ridiculous thing this side of the Pacific. All 100 pounds of him now resides in my backyard (he could fit through the kitty door upon his arrival) and at one point I had a running tally of all the things he destroyed. I had to pony up almost $100 to the library because he got a hold of some books, which were barely identifiable as such when I happened upon their remains. I've since let that go. Sort of.

My running mantra for most of my adult life was this: I deal with needy people all day. I don't want to come home and deal with a needy animal. I know. I KNOW. Dogs are faithful and loyal and kind and committed and genuine and non-judgmental and man's best friend and the best companions EVER. I get it. Except, really? I don't.

(I just cringed at your collective cyber gasps)

Call me bitchy. Call me unenlightened. Call me heartless. Call me a poseur social worker. I just don't fully understand The Dog Thing. I much prefer cats.

Oh, I'm not impervious to their charm. I dog-sat for my parents last weekend and the little mongrel slept curled in my bed (under the covers by my feet) for four consecutive nights. But a member of Second Chance I am not.

So, what did I do about the dog? I tried to call the woman's workplace to see if a friend could come get it (that was a tap dance.) In the end, I recommended the staff talk to the patient about people to call. She may have been singing 40-year-old protest songs in her room at the top of her lungs, but she was lucid enough to know some phone numbers. ->