My best friend got a new dog over the weekend -- from a shelter! She's a chihuahua mix named Bella, and she has a big house, a yard, another chihuahua, two girls and their mom and dad to call her own.
The dog he and his wife got 15 years ago, the recently departed Gumbo, was a rescue and she was a lovely and beloved member of the family. But three Christmases ago, when they got a second puppy exclusively for their oldest daughter, they went to a breeder recommended by a neighbor.
I just hate that. Of the 8 million dogs and cats that enter American animal shelters each year, more than half won't make it out alive. That is completely heartbreaking. Especially to anyone who has known the love and loyalty and sheer joy that comes with a shelter rescue. And then there's the moral imperative: what message does it send a child when you value a living being more for its blood line than for its own unique personality?
So I have been working on him, constantly, like water torture. Sending him puppy-cams from animal shelters to share with his daughters. Reminding him how, when Gumbo died, he should be proud of himself for giving a home to a wonderful dog someone else had heartlessly disposed of. Drip, drip, drip.
Now I don't take COMPLETE credit for this happy turn of events, but I believe I'm not overstepping my role by saying, "You're welcome, Bella."