The Souls I Saved on Sunset

 

I can remember almost every “rescue” I ever participated in.  There were calls from owners who wanted to surrender their family members.  Maybe they were moving. Maybe they were tired of caring for one more soul.  And I took them all, or as many as I could.  Then there were the shelter pets who couldn’t get “just one more day.”  Their number was up.  I can remember all the times that I drove in the middle of the night to meet a shelter worker who knew I was a sucker for those sad little souls. 

 

The most I ever had at one time was twenty-seven.  That was after a puppy mill shut down and then another followed.  I can vaguely remember how annoyed my husband would be to come home and see one more following me around the kitchen.  I don’t know if they thought I was worth following or if they just hoped I’d drop something they could scarf up. But my husband would come home, roll his eyes and then, by the end of the night, he had the new one tucked into his recliner with him, watching sports.  The good ones got homes.  The rest got homes, too – they stayed with us for a lifetime.

 

On occasion, there would be dogs who had been so neglected, so mistreated or even so poorly bred that we couldn’t help them.  But each  and every one of them got a name.  And they had someone who loved them right there with them when the light left their eyes.

 

As we got older and more and more of the unadoptable pets decided their permanent home just had to be with us, I was running low on space but still had the “urge” to rescue.  I don’t think that once you’ve done it, you can ever stop.  Because every critter’s a soul that’s been saved. A living, breathing soul with feelings, each  of which becomes a part of us.  From the dog standing on the side of the road to the cats that raid the dumpster at the Piggly Wiggly, they are ALIVE and those of us who rescue never, ever forget it. 

 

So, when our cup runneth over with pets, we still had the urge to save those souls.  We turned to the feral cats who would sooner rip us to pieces than look at us.  Everywhere I went, it was like people KNEW what I did.  Even without telling them.  They would tell me about the wild neighborhood cats that they fed, but kept multiplying.  One day, I was at the library and I met this super man who happened to mention his cats.  Nasty, hateful little creatures they were.  But his face lit up when he talked about them.  To him, they were important. And to me, they were souls.  The next day, I took my teenager to Sunset Street with my traps.  We caught the cats, took them to have them spayed and neutered the next day and brought them back.  I never think much of those days, except having a supreme sense of satisfaction.

 

But on Christmas day this year, I got a call.  The man I’d met at the library who lived on Sunset Street had a gift for me. He wanted to bring it by. He brought me a lovely book and a card.  The card had the usual Christmas greeting and was signed:  From the souls you  saved on Sunset Street. 

 

Here I was thinking I’d helped with some stupid cats. But they weren’t.  Not to him. And not to me.  Each soul lived to see one more sunset.  I like to think I’d get one more sunset myself, maybe one for each soul as my reward.  But it really doesn’t matter.  Because THEY did.