05/20/2026
🌟 CARE SPOTLIGHT 🌟
Count to Zero May 2023
I'm at the county pound, standing before Samus, who's momentarily supposed to be put down. She's barking at me and the staff, refusing to let anybody near her. She's scared, and she should be, considering.
Three days ago, this pitbull ran across a Tulsa highway. In an attempt to get around the dog, one car crashed into another car, which crashed into another, which crashed into a 4th car. The pitbull, bleeding and trembling under the 4-car pileup, was apprehended by county animal control and turned over to the county shelter. Legally, they had to hold her for three days at the pound, waiting for her owner. With no collar, no chip, and no gentleness about her, everyone knew nobody was coming for her.
Unfortunately, this little girl had found herself in a high-kill city in a high-kill state at an underequipped pound that was historically one of the least of the mayor’s concerns. In T-minus three days, she was to be euthanized as she had no chance of adoption.
Two days before her euthanasia, I walked into the pound, which – if you've never been – is the saddest place on earth. I've been to war-torn areas that brought me more joy than this place. Walking into a county-run animal shelter is like walking into a prison full of inmates who have already been proven innocent, but are slated for death row anyway.
I found the pitbull's kennel. Hers was one of the cleaner ones, and she was waddling in a circle when I spotted her. Each step looked intentional, and I think it was because all four of her paws had road rash from the car accident.
When she finally saw me, she snarled, growled, and then wildly barked at me. I slumped onto my hammies, putting my left hand on my left thigh and my right hand in front of her cell, and I stared at her. She continued to bark, and I continued to stare. After 45 minutes of this, her eyes grew heavy, and she circled around and lied down on the cement floor.
"You done?" I asked.
No, she wasn't, because as soon as I spoke to her, it reset her barking fit.
"Samus. Stop," I said.
She stopped barking for a moment and slightly cocked her head. Had she never been called anything other than "that pit" or "the dog" before?
Well, she had a name now: Samus.
It suits her.
I held out my hand, this time with treats in it. She stopped barking and her ears flipped from the back of her head to the side, and her tail wagged once or twice as she scarfed down the snacks I’d brought for her.
She looked at me, still unsure. Then she went into another barking fit, no longer trusting the treat-less version of me.
“Hey!” I sternly bellowed in my deepest Alpha voice I could muster. I made sure I had her full attention before I told her why I was there. “I love you.”
She stopped barking for a moment. I put my hand up against the cage. She came over and smelled the treat residue on my fingers, then began licking them. When the residue was all gone, I began to pet her and she calmed. She slumped back into a ball and closed her eyes as I rubbed her back with my index finger.
"I'll be back," I said as she dozed off and I left the shelter.
The day before Samus' euthanasia, I returned to the shelter. I so badly wanted to spend time with each of the crying dogs there, but I zeroed in on Samus. She was my mission. When I walked up to her cage, I watched her eyes dart to me just before she went into another 45-minute barking fit. It was like we’d never met before.
Same as before, she eventually got tired, and I got down to my knees and leveled my face with hers. I hovered my nose just before the cage, then put a treat in my teeth and put my face against her cage. She took the treat out of my mouth, then gave me a kiss. I backed up, and treatless again, got barked at. I put my face against the cage one more time, daring her to bite me, and she came up and gave me another kiss – this time, without the treat. I put my fingers in and began petting her ribs with my index finger as she pacified. After she closed her eyes, I left.
Today, Samus' stray hold is up; she's legally allowed to be euthanized. The county staff handler begins to open her cage, which they need to empty out and clean quickly because there’s another intake on the way. Samus won't be returning to this cage, and she knows it, because she's more terrified than I'd seen her. She's violently trembling and she sounds more like a dinosaur than a dog.
"I don't know that I can go in there," the staff member says.
"Can I try?" I ask. She hands me the leash.
I walk into Samus's cage. She backs up to the wall. If you could will yourself into another room, she'd be free from this dogforsaken city. Her whole body is pressed against the cage as if the wiring has some kind of gravitational force. I lower to my hammies, but despite my gentleness, I think this might be the first time she might actually bite.
"This isn't who you are," I tell her. "This is who you were. Remember who you are."
Samus continues barking.
“Who are you?” I ask her.
She stops, almost as if to think about the question, then barks again – albeit a little more quietly. I reach my hand in front of her to let her smell it, but she just freezes. I show her the sliplead and slowly put it around her neck. She seems to be contemplating whether or not to bite me, but so far, hasn't.
"This is who you are," I say to her.
The leash clamps down and as I begin to walk out of the cage, Samus cries as madly as she had been barking. Her tail is wagging so hard, it would probably break if it hit a wall.
We walk towards the euthanasia room.
She's still crying.
"You got her from here?" the staff member asks.
"Yes," I tell her.
I walk past the euthanasia room, up to the front desk, and give them my payment.
"Thank you," I tell them, and walk to my car with Samus.
I pop open the car door and she knows to jump right in. After she gets inside, she hops onto her hind legs and gives me a hug and then “attacks” me with some signature pibble kisses.
“You’re a good girl,” I tell her. “Let’s go home.”
