Each One Enough
What the Dogs Know — Stories from a shelter volunteer and animal communicator
The day was already full before I arrived. One less volunteer, more dogs, same afternoon. That was okay.
A happy corgi began my day. I leaned down and she leapt into my lap without waiting for an invitation. I didn't ask her name. I called her Elizabeth. It felt accurate. She walked out the shelter door with joy and confidence, her spirit contagious. Prancing down the river path, I followed. Everything felt satisfying — something about accepting the moment for what it was. When a living being is just happy, it affects one's mood.
Toward the end of our walk I realized I hadn't discovered anything about her other than a joy of being. So I asked — did she know Queen Elizabeth and her corgis? She laughed and said of course. All of us do — hinting that she saw herself just as important as the rest of them.
Rex came next. A shiny lab mix with muscles and tone, ready for a heavyweight championship. I checked his paperwork before opening the kennel. Mouthy and jumpy. Warning: don't leave soft toys in the kennel.
He jumped on me as I slipped the leash around his neck — and then he was out, first, like a freight train. He yanked me down the hall until we reached the back yard door and I let him free. Sometimes a walk is not what they need. I tried to communicate with Rex, asking if he had anything to share. He ignored me like a teenage boy.
He targeted a soft children's toy someone had left behind and started to rip the innards out. Then a plastic ball with another plastic ball inside. When there was nothing left to destroy, I placed his leash back on. I noticed blood on my hand. He must have torn his gums. He didn't seem to notice.
I found the opposite experience with Bernard. After losing interest in fetch, he sat under the tent in the shade with his eighty pound back sturdy against me. We sat there for fifteen minutes without moving. I asked whether there was something he wanted to share about his life. He had once been a guard at Buckingham Palace. He wanted me to understand who he was and why he carried himself the way he did. As we left the yard he added — and the temple of Luxor.
Pearl and June were eager Havanese mixes, perky and demanding attention. I let them off leash thinking they might want to play ball. Instead they bounded around me, not quite reaching my lap but trying anyway.
Sometimes dogs just need to be dogs.
My last walk of the day was a new arrival. I found her in the isolation kennel — the place I would want to be if I were scared. No name, no notes. I wanted her to feel safe. The clang of the metal door made her flinch. I put a pink bubble around us both — a way of saying, you're safe here. A passing train rattled her. I reminded her of the pink bubble and let her lead the way. She found the tree lined path where things were quieter, less startling. As we walked trust began to build, and I took things slow.
I asked what name she would like. Buttercup arrived with excitement — and with it, an image of yellow flowers in the grass. Other flower names would be fine too. She didn't look like a Buttercup, more like Nutmeg or Cinnamon.
On our return I asked her to show me how she saw the world. A proud horse pulling a carriage. The leash was nothing new — worn before, in a different form entirely. I asked what kind of home she hoped for. A velvet ottoman, feet resting on it, Jimmy Choo sandals nearby. Her person on the phone but also right there, cuddled up beside her. She knew exactly what home she was waiting for.
I left lighter than I arrived. All of them would likely be adopted over the weekend. All of them felt like enough. So did I.
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The names of the animals in this series have been changed to honor their privacy while they wait for their people.
Lesley Ames is a certified animal communicator and psychic medium based in Seattle and the Pacific Northwest. She volunteers at her local animal shelter and works with living animals, animals who have passed, and the people who love them. You can find her at lesleyames.com.