On the road: Animal shelter and dog walking in Prince George
Even when traveling, the little things often count more than the big ones.
This week, I went for a walk with Ramses. Not the Egyptian king Ramses II, also known as Ramses the Great. No, my companion was a very handsome mixed-breed male dog. For Sunday: a little story with a dog.
The Humane Society in Prince George, Northern British Columbia, maintains two animal shelters in the city. One takes in only cats, the other mainly dogs. It is a relatively small facility, with twelve dogs currently in care. The other week, I came here with a fitness group that wanted to walk dogs for a change instead of practicing yoga. We split up into pairs. My companion and I walked Dodi, an eight-month-old St. Bernard bitch, together. An employee handed us each a leash. Better safe than sorry, she said, because Dodi is peaceful but young and strong. When I returned to the shelter this week, I learned that Dodi had been taken in by someone in the meantime – but then brought back. Large and older dogs have a hard time getting adopted, the employee said. Now Dodi is back in the kennel, barking excitedly because she mistakenly believes for a moment that it's her turn to go for a walk.
Ramses, whom an employee hands me with the end of a leash, is more of a senior dog. They are problem cases in animal shelters because everyone wants puppies. Why is that, I wonder? With an adult dog like Ramses, I don't have to house-train him or teach him commands like “heel” and “sit.” I can see what kind of character he has. Such dogs are also grateful and loyal. Of course, it's difficult to say goodbye to a loyal friend after a few years, but young dogs can also get sick and die. There's no guarantee that you'll have a dog for a long time just because you adopt one as a puppy. Ramses is estimated to be at least six years old. Medium-sized, thick golden coat. A Labrador mix? The staff have nicknamed him “Awoo” because that's what he sounds like when he barks. As if to confirm this, Ramses barks at some teenagers who are just coming in the door. Then we set off – down to the river. It takes us less than five minutes to get there.
Ramses and I walk through a small forest and then over large pebbles to the banks of the Fraser River. There is a second river flowing through Prince George, the Nechako River, eventually emptying into the Fraser River. Ramses is immediately drawn to the water, not to swim, but to drink. When I spot another walker with a dog on the shore some distance away, I turn on my heel. Ramses has of course also seen the other dog and is eyeing it longingly. But since I'm not sure how he would react to the dog, or the dog to him, I stick to my decision to turn back. Ramses follows me reluctantly, turning around again and again. A whole flock of black ducks waddles across a meadow in front of us, but fortunately Ramses is not interested in them.
We continue on, following the road up to the cemetery, where I had been with the St. Bernard dog Dodi the week before. From a distance, it looks more like a park than a cemetery, as most of the gravestones lie flat on the ground and are therefore hardly catch the eye at first glance. For years, only this form of petrified memory was allowed, a friend who grew up in Prince George later tells me this. The reason was that the older lawnmower models couldn't mow around the corners of the upright gravestones. However, they could drive over the gravestones embedded in the ground. That's what her parents told my friend. When they died around 2010, gravestones were allowed to be placed upright again. On several of them, I discover photos, illustrations, and inscriptions that make me smile. Yes, they even radiate joie de vivre. Joy? An unexpected feeling in a field of the dead. The gravestones for babies and children are infinitely sad, of course. And yet the carved and engraved teddy bears, monkeys, and ducks testify above all to the great joy these children brought to their parents. A cemetery full of life. That's how it seems to me. I can't remember ever seeing or feeling anything like this in Germany.
On the way back to the animal shelter, Ramses and I turn into the mobile home park. For those unfamiliar with North America: a mobile home is not a camper van, as many people use on vacation, but literally a mobile house. The exterior walls are made of wood. “Sunrise Village Mobil Home Park” reads a sign, along with the manager's phone number. The abandoned cottage to which the sign is nailed may once have been the office building. The park is a mixture of “run-down” and “spruced up.” A tanker truck is parked in front of one of those homes, sucking out the waste water from the toilet cassette – apparently in preparation for a new owner, as a sign says the house is “For Sale.”
Ramses and I stroll past two men who are relaxing in deck chairs. A typical sweet smell wafts over. “Maybe the dog wants to smoke something too,” says one of the men jokingly. Who knows. In any case, Ramses suddenly refuses to take another step, back toward the animal shelter. First I try to persuade him by petting him, then by tugging on the leash. Ramses and I tug back and forth for a while. “I have to be careful, otherwise he'll slip his head through the collar,” I think to myself, and then it happens: Ramses frees his head – and sprints off happily. I run after him. The collar and leash in my hand. Oh dear, and this on my first solo outing as a volunteer. What an embarrassment if I can't catch him again! But as I gallop after Ramses, I realize: he's not running away – he's just enjoying running freely without a leash. Every now and then he looks back at me as he sprints along the dusty road, across a meadow and then towards a motor home, which a small terrier is defending with shrill barks. I've almost caught up with Ramses. He runs another ten, twenty meters – then turns around, trots towards me and willingly lets me put his collar back on. “Oh boy!” I laugh. “You just wanted to feel five minutes of freedom, my friend,” I say to him, finding him simply adorable. We then stroll back to the animal shelter at a leisurely pace. Saying goodbye is a little difficult for me. Ramses presses himself against me and looks at me with those eyes.. “Oh,” says the employee. “Now it's time for a good dinner,” she then tells Ramses and leads him back to the kennel.
Meeting Ramses gave me one of those rare moments when I wish I would put down roots in one place. How nice would it be to walk a dog every week, maybe the same one every time, maybe even foster him. And if I fell in love and he felt comfortable with me, I could even adopt him. Would.. could.. Unfortunately, I can't do all this as long as I'm traveling from place to place. But what I can do is walk dogs like Ramses in the places that are my temporary homes. That's not just a good intention: it's a plan.
I post two photos of Ramses on Facebook and showcase him. I sincerely hope that he will soon get what he deserves: a loving forever home.
This story was first published on my German website and translated by me.