Kramer, a black poodle-terrier mix with warm brown eyes and silky black ears sports a slightly tousled tuft above his triangular face that makes him resemble his “Seinfeld” namesake. He has lived with Frank and Carol Miller for eight of his nine years, ever since the couple adopted him from a local shelter. To an outsider, Kramer appears healthy and vibrant, as a dog his age should. But the Millers see what a stranger cannot—slight stubble on his chin and thinning back hair caused by chemotherapy, a slight thickening around the waist from prednisone.

Last September during a routine dental cleaning, Kramer’s vet discovered a mass on the dog’s tongue. The news was dire. Though pathologists were unable to discover the exact type of tumor, they did discern it was an aggressive immune cell cancer. Because of the tumor’s location, radiation was not an option, but with surgery and chemotherapy, vets estimated Kramer could live for one more year. The Millers were instructed not to expect a cure. Seven months and many treatments later, it’s unclear whether the dog will make it to another September or perhaps live longer than predicted. Whatever the case, the Millers are determined to do everything they can to keep Kramer healthy, happy, and by their sides for as much time as possible.

In a small room bordering the sitting area of their Maryland home, alongside a refrigerator that holds Kramer’s medications, Carol maintains a calendar to keep track of the dog’s treatments. She has filled in each day of the month to use as a cheat sheet when giving Kramer his meds—“C” for chemo; “P” for prednisone; and “1,” “2,” or “3” for the particular homeopathic remedy he is to receive that day. The drugs keep Kramer’s tumor in check, minimizing his discomfort and allowing him to eat. The Millers haven’t given it a name, but essentially what they’re providing Kramer is hospice care.

What is veterinary hospice?

Veterinary hospice has existed for over a decade, but it is far from mainstream. That appears to be changing, however, as more and more practitioners begin to focus on end-of-life care and discover a huge demand for their services. Which shouldn’t be surprising: An increasing number of pet owners are willing to give subcutaneous fluids or learn how to inject pain medication, especially if that means a few more months, weeks, or days with their pet.

Dr. Liz Palmer of Charlottesville, Virginia, opened a mobile end-of-life care practice a year and a half ago. Despite having never marketed her services, Palmer has a client list large enough to keep her busy. After a local newspaper published an article about her business, she received more phone calls than she could handle. Other hospice providers report similar experiences—when people read or hear about their services, they get an influx of calls.

“There’s a Catch-22 right now, and that is, we don’t have very many people who see themselves as providers in this area, and there are a lot of potential users of animal hospice who have no idea that it exists,” says Dr. Amir Shanan, who has offered veterinary hospice in his one-doctor general practice for over ten years. “Pet owners don’t ask about hospice services and veterinarians don’t offer information because, they say, well pet owners aren’t asking about it. It’s a vicious cycle.”

Part of the problem is that neither general-practice veterinarians nor the general public knows exactly how to define pet hospice. The confusion stems, in part, from the term itself, because “hospice” also refers to a standard of care provided to dying humans. Pet hospice takes many forms, however—a couple like the Millers tending to their dying pet; veterinarians who travel to people’s homes; or even a physical location where animals live out their final days. In the broadest sense, hospice is a philosophy of caring for a dying animal in a gentle, loving, appropriate manner, while also supporting the pet’s family.

Most everyone agrees that the best place for a pet to die is at home, surrounded by familiar sights and smells and the people who love them. Veterinarians focused on hospice or end-of-life care aim to make the time before death comfortable for animals, teach owners how to administer medications and fluids, and help pet owners decide when euthanasia is warranted.

During more than 25 years as a general practitioner, Liz Palmer says she never had time to deal with end-of-life care properly.

“I was so focused on treating disease, spay/neuter, and primary care,” she says. “When I was trying to figure out what I was doing [with this new business] I was trying to find a word for it. It’s care in the end of life, but I also consider it ending life. I’m involved in the dying process.”

During an initial visit, Palmer conducts a thorough exam, particularly to detect pain, but believes it’s equally important to assess an animal’s environment.

“I really pay attention to how much an animal has to struggle to get through daily life. I like to go to homes, to sit on the couch and observe. I like to see the obstacles a pet faces and give the owners the ‘what are you going to do if?’ scenarios,” Palmer says. “I look at the quality of life of the owner, too. I don’t want the relationship to be a frustrating burden. That’s not good for the animal or the human.”

Making tough choices

As animal guardians we must make choices for our pets, but on the whole, the veterinary profession—while excellent at offering medically oriented solutions—is not well equipped to help people make end-of-life decisions that are wrought with emotion and that bring up all sorts of practical, ethical, and existential questions. What value do we place on life? Does that extend to animals, as well as humans? What constitutes suffering? How do we know when euthanasia is warranted?

The Argus Institute at Colorado State University’s veterinary teaching hospital has on-site counselors who are available around the clock to assist pet owners facing difficult medical decisions. Dr. Jane Shaw directs the institute and teaches veterinary communication at the school. Students often ask her what to do if someone doesn’t want to euthanize a pet.

“We ask questions of the client and can discover whatever barriers are there,” Shaw says. “There’s a subset of clients, mostly because of spiritual reasons, for whom euthanasia is not an option. For other people who desire a natural death for their pet, we walk them through what that death might look like. In many disease conditions, the death is not peaceful, and we have to have pretty frank conversations about that. Euthanasia is a controlled process, and done appropriately, is peaceful. Natural death is completely unknown, and that makes some vets uncomfortable. They’re worried about the animal’s welfare and the client’s welfare.”

In non-emergency cases, quality of life scales can help pet owners evaluate their animals. One widely used scale created by Dr. Alice Villalobos, an oncologist who coined the term “pawspice,” asks people to rate their pet from 1 to 10 in six areas: hurt, hunger, hydration, happiness, mobility, more good days than bad.

“Every member of the family should do the scale separately, because there’s always one person who has blinders on,” Villalobos says.

Dr. Nancy Ruffing, a mobile hospice veterinarian in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, supplements Villalobos’s scale with a handout containing her own words of wisdom surrounding end-of-life decisions.

“A lot of people don’t want to make it a numerical decision,” she says. Yet assessing a pet’s quality of life is crucial, and she considers it a large part of her job.

“Owners have to have some type of a mental plan for what to do at the end of life, but you have to look at your pet critically when they’re having a good day so you can recognize the subtle differences on a bad day,” Ruffing says. “You really have to be in tune with your pet, and that starts at the beginning of pet ownership.”

To end life or let life end?

Gail Pope—founder of BrightHaven, a residential hospice on ten acres in Santa Rosa, California—believes strongly in letting an animal’s life play out to the very end. It’s a stance she arrived at slowly. For many years, Pope worked at a conventional veterinary office and was schooled in conventional practices, including the idea that euthanasia constituted a normal end to an animal’s life. She and her husband started BrightHaven in 1996 with the simple goal of caring for elderly and infirm animals. When one of their resident cats, Mariah, began showing signs that she was about to die, Pope panicked. She was alone on the property and couldn’t leave the other animals, so she called the vet to come euthanize the cat—a notion that now makes Pope shake her head. “It’s the old thought of, she’s dying, hurry up, let’s kill her.”

Her veterinarian promised to send someone out during the lunch hour, and in the meantime Pope phoned a friend and animal communicator who instructed her to carry Mariah outside to an oak tree and sit with her in her arms. “I was terrified. I didn’t know what was going to happen,” she says.

Pope remained agitated, but Mariah was calm. The cat died quietly in Pope’s lap.

“My friend told me, ‘Mother Nature designed this,’ and that has stuck with me to this day.”

Over the next few years, as Pope moved toward alternative medicine, such as homeopathy and feeding animals a natural diet, she saw amazing things happen. Animals came to BrightHaven to die, but more and more of them instead grew healthier and livelier. Now, she says, her cats routinely live into their twenties; one lived to be thirty-five. And though Pope is not opposed to euthanasia in cases where she feels it is absolutely warranted, her philosophy and practice are to allow for natural death with few to no drugs other than natural remedies. Euthanasia is often employed too quickly, she says, and in an effort to relieve suffering, people actually may be ending their animals’ lives prematurely.

“While the body is expressing symptoms, that means it can still heal,” she says. “In fact, sometimes beings have to heal before they die. Often, they’ll have one or two really good days right before death.”

Pope’s position is atypical in the pet hospice community, but it is shared by some, including Kathryn Marocchino of Nikki Hospice Foundation for Pets in Vallejo, California. Marocchino thinks that in many instances people would rather not euthanize an ill animal, but they’re not presented with any other option, such as hospice care.

“There is intense debate in the community around what is hospice for animals,” says Marocchino, who helped organize a pet hospice symposium in 2008. “Hospice to vets means, I will do everything to help you, but I have a quality of life scale, and when the dog reaches a certain number, it’s time for euthanasia.”

At the symposium, Marocchino says only two veterinarians in attendance had ever witnessed the natural death of an animal. This fact suggests to her that euthanasia is used too frequently, and too readily, by veterinarians.

“They’re not giving death a chance,” Marocchino says. “Euthanasia should be a last resort.”

The majority of people working in pet hospice, however, do believe that euthanasia is a necessary—and humane—tool. Some of them worry that the larger veterinary community, and the general public, will misconceive the term “pet hospice,” believing that death without euthanasia is a fundamental tenet.

“Hospice is not about replacement of euthanasia,” says Dr. Robin Downing, owner of The Downing Center for Animal Pain Management in Windsor, Colorado. “In twenty-three years of practicing oncology, I have a fairly high conviction that the number of animals who die a natural death is few and far between. Most animals reach a point where they are actively in distress and we have an obligation to let them leave while they still know who they are and who their family is. The only time a client has expressed regret to me is the regret that they waited too long.”

The subject of death prompts strong feelings in most humans, and there are no easy answers for pet owners or doctors when confronting an animal’s final days. As the veterinary hospice field grows, it is crucial that practitioners remain open to divergent opinions and values, says Dr. Amir Shanan, who this year co-founded the International Association for Animal Hospice and Palliative Care.

“We must humbly accept that the subjective experience of dying is a great mystery,” says Shanan. “Also, we are acting as proxy for the wishes of a patient who is not of our species. It is very easy to err no matter what guiding principle we choose to follow.”

Hoping for a miracle

A few weeks ago during a walk at a nearby lake, Kramer became short of breath and had to be carried home. The Millers made an appointment with the vet, who x-rayed the dog’s lungs to see if the cancer had spread there. (It hadn’t.) Two days later at the same lake, Kramer acted like his old self, chasing geese twice his size. The next week, he followed the geese straight into the water.

“Animals don’t know they’re dying,” Carol says. “Toward the very end I think they might, but they don’t get anxious about it all the time like we do. Sometimes when I’m upset, he looks up at me like, ‘What’s wrong? What can I do for you to make you feel better?’”

Above all, the Millers do not want Kramer to suffer. One form of chemo made the dog violently ill and neither Frank nor Carol wants that to happen again. Their oncologists presented options for new treatments, and the Millers chose one that seems to be working.

“We are enjoying every precious day,” Carol says. “His spirits are high.”

But if the drugs lose effectiveness and Kramer’s cancer spreads, they’ve decided to stop chemotherapy and continue herbal treatments and prednisone until Kramer’s body gives out or he indicates to them that it’s time to go. They still hope for a miracle (who wouldn’t?), but the Millers are practical and know they must plan. They’ve contacted a mobile veterinarian, who, when the time comes, will perform euthanasia in their home.

SIDEBAR

What it takes to be a caregiver

Frank and Carol Miller live in a peaceful country neighborhood outside of Washington, DC. They are both retired, and they know how lucky they are to have the time and resources to care for Kramer, their beloved pet.

“When I’m at the vet, crying, sometimes I’m crying more for the people there who I know can’t afford the treatment their pet needs,” Carol says.

Treatment isn’t always expensive, especially if it mainly consists of fluids or pain meds, but cancer can be another story. To date, Kramer’s care has cost eight thousand dollars and counting.

“This dog has given us so much joy,” Frank says. “It’s worth every penny.”

The Millers have a file of papers and bills two inches thick, but record keeping is perhaps the least challenging part of caring for an ill or dying pet at home. Many people want to extend their pet’s life, yet some worry if they are cut out for the job. The medical care specifics depend on the disease, of course, but giving medications, shots, or subcutaneous fluids is not as daunting as people may think. The key is to find a vet or vet tech willing to train you.

“I’ve had people giving cats fluids for months with no problem,” says Dr. Liz Palmer of Charlottesville, Virginia.

Kramer’s treatments are relatively easy to administer. His prednisone and Pepcid come in pill form; the chemo treatments and homeopathic remedies are liquid, squirted into his mouth using a syringe a couple of times a day. The Millers call these shooters, and Kramer actually enjoys them. Getting him to take his pills was difficult until Carol discovered a pill pocket that doubles as a treat.

“We’re pretty busy with him,” Carol says. “There are four or five occasions when he gets medication each day. Psychologically, we do what people do for human cancer patients—keep him busy and cheerful and make sure his needs are met at all times.”

Dr. Robin Downing of Windsor, Colorado, says there are a few easy things owners can do to make ill—or simply geriatric—pets more comfortable.

“Bring them their food and water so they don’t have to walk to it,” she says. “Make it easier for them to get onto their bed. Make sure they’re not separated from you—even if they used to have a crate in another room, bring them closer to the family. Vets don’t think of animal patients as becoming depressed, but animals do experience an emotional life, and they want to be close to us.”

What if you work and are away for much of the day? Gail Bishop of CSU Pet Hospice points out that animals are often medicated and sleep a lot. Many of her clients arrange to come home at lunch or have a trusted friend check in on their pet. Dr. Ella Bittel of Spirits in Transition says people don’t realize how many resources already exist in their lives, or they have difficulty asking for assistance or accepting help that’s offered. Dealing with a serious illness takes its toll, however, and Bittel says that’s the time for people to turn to their support system. “It doesn’t even require having anything to do with animals,” she says. “You can have someone do the dishes, bring a meal over, take the kids to school, just to take a little bit of the burden off.”

Building a relationship with your vet is also a good idea. As your vet gets to know you, she will likely see how much you care for your animal. Still, it makes sense to express in detail what you are willing to do at home, and learn to do, in the case of a serious illness. In addition, pet owners should broach the heavy topic of end of life with their veterinarians, says Susan Marino of Angel’s Gate Hospice for Animals.

“It’s your responsibility to find out what your vet’s philosophy is early on,” Marino says. “You don’t want to wait fifteen years to when your animal is dying then find out your vet won’t do hospice. You’ve got to establish the relationship ahead of time and you’ve got to do your homework.”

In the mid-1990s, a 12-year-old dog found himself at San Francisco’s county animal shelter. His intake card listed the reason: “Lndld.” The dog’s people were moving to an apartment whose landlord didn’t allow pets, so they chose to relinquish their dog to a shelter that, despite its aggressive adoption efforts, was not no-kill.

At the time, the city’s rental vacancy rate hovered in the single digits, and finding a decent place to live posed a challenge even for the non-pet owning population. When landlords held open houses, potential renters lined up early, sometimes around the block. Proving yourself as a worthy tenant meant verifying a healthy income, solid credit, and excellent references. The competition was fierce. Which is not to excuse that old dog’s owners’ choice to leave him behind while they moved on, but to point out that renting with pets can be a daunting proposition—one that requires perseverance as well as a fair amount of luck.

According to a 2008 Apartments.com survey, 84.4% of renters own a dog or cat; 35.2% of those renters declared it “very difficult to find an apartment that allowed pets.” Yet in the same survey, 85.7% of apartment buildings were said to be pet-friendly. Anecdotally, many renters—and animal shelter staff—would find that last number difficult to believe. In fact, the inability to find pet-friendly housing is often cited as a chief reason why dogs and cats are given up. The National Council on Pet Population Study & Policy gathers data on the U.S. pet population and compiles the Top Ten Reasons for Pet Relinquishment to Shelters. In 1998, Reasons # 1 and 2 for surrendered cats and dogs were “Moving” and “Landlord issues,” respectively. Today, those causes remain the same for dogs; for cats, moving is currently Reason #3 and landlord issues fell to #5. (The top reasons for relinquishing cats are now “Too many in house” and “Allergies.”)

Searching for a home

“I had a hard time finding a place that allowed pets and was also reasonable and had the other things I required, like being close to the Metro,” said Jennifer King, who in 2005 had to move from Nevada to Washington, DC, for work. “A lot of the pet-friendly places were too far out, and the ones in DC were $2,800 a month with no parking.”

In Carson City, Nevada, she and her husband rented a townhouse with a fenced backyard. Despite a two-pet limit, King’s landlord allowed her to keep her dog, bird, and rabbit.

“Our landlord was loose enough that she counted the bird and the bunny as a half-pet each,” she said.

By the time she was preparing to move to DC, King had adopted another rabbit. And due to scheduling, she had to rent her place sight unseen—so she started dialing.

“I’d spend forty-five minutes on the phone with property managers asking them, ‘What is your pet policy.’ Simply asking, ‘Do you allow pets?’ isn’t enough,” King said. “I also got everything they said in writing.”

King was at last able to find a small apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland, that had a two-pet limit. In addition to an extra $400 security deposit, the complex required pet rent of $25 per month. She and her husband signed on for a six-month lease and moved in with their dog, bird, and two bunnies. Luckily, rabbits are quiet animals, so they resided in the second bedroom, the door to which could be shut when workmen needed to come in. The apartment provided a transitional living arrangement until the couple could purchase a house, but King said she felt awkward living there and not entirely welcome.

“There were a lot of overgrown families with lots of screaming babies, but they were the first to complain if our dog barked,” King said. “Plus, there was no place for the dog to hang out outside.”

Pets not welcome

Rental housing comes in all shapes and sizes—from 10-floor apartment complexes to in-house flats or single-family homes. Similarly, there are many types of property owners, and no one reason why they choose not to allow pets. Perhaps they’re worried about damage to pristine hardwood floors, wall-to-wall carpets, or outdoor landscaping. Some may be concerned about liability (which is why some pet-friendly places enact breed bans), particularly as it pertains to dog bites. Rebecca J. Huss, professor of law at Valparaiso University, said liability laws vary state by state, but generally, if a landlord is not in control of a dog, he can’t be considered liable for its behavior.

“But in our litigious society, people prefer not to have even the possibility of being sued,” Huss said.

Legally, domestic animals are considered personal property, and Huss points out that property owners can restrict you from bringing in other possessions, too, such as waterbeds and aquariums. Only when an animal is considered a service animal must a landlord allow it, under the provisions of the federal Fair Housing Act.

And despite the fact that many more cat and dog lovers consider their animals family members, Huss said it’s unlikely they’ll attain such status in the eyes of the law any time soon.

“I think what we’re going to see before we see a switch from animals as property to animals as sentient beings is a wider recognition of the role that animals play in our lives,” she said. As an example, Huss points to a recent California law that states condo communities can’t disallow residents from owning one domestic animal.

Huss says landlords would actually do well to consider pet owners, however. “Studies have shown that renters with pets stay in their apartments a longer time, and that’s good for landlords. In essence, they make better tenants.”

Spreading the word

Many animal shelters and rescue organizations maintain lists of pet-friendly apartments, and some conduct outreach efforts to landlords. Boston’s MSPCA-Angell, for instance, has produced booklets to help integrate pets into multi-unit housing for seniors and others. The San Francisco SPCA provides information to property owners, such as the benefits of renting to pet owners and things to consider before allowing pets, and lists dog- and cat-friendly housing on its Web site. In Rochester, New York, Lollypop Farm has maintained a similar list of pet-friendly housing options for the past 10 years. The approximately 200 listings are available online, as well as on a hard copy flyer posted in the shelter and throughout the community and are updated quarterly.

“We keep track of what each landlord or apartment complex requires, as far as breed or size restrictions and deposits,” said Adrienne McHargue, Lollypop Farm’s program director of community outreach and director of communication. “Landlords call and ask to be put on the list. It’s a free avenue for them to market to tenants.”

But even the most responsible tenants face a challenge. McHargue said the Rochester area is not necessarily unwelcoming to pet owners, but “there are hoops that can discourage people. Places might allow cats but not dogs, or they allow dogs but only certain sizes or breeds.”

A few years ago when McHargue moved to the area from Washington, DC, where her landlord was extremely welcoming to pets, she ended up purchasing a house because she couldn’t find a rental.

“We were forced into buying due to the sheer number of pets we had—two dogs and two cats,” McHargue said. “We probably would have rented for a couple of years first.”

Catering to Fido

Recently, a number of apartment communities have begun catering to pet owners—promoting their pet friendliness, holding pet “happy hours,” even constructing dog parks on the community’s grounds.

David Zenn, director of operations for Highlands Westwood in Westwood, New Jersey, said marketing to pet owners makes sense because it gives the complex a greater pool of applicants. So far, the policy has worked out well.

“I would say ninety-nine percent of our residents who have pets are responsible. They take care of their pets and make sure to be courteous and they are aware that not all people like their pets,” Zenn said. “We really don’t have too many issues because they consider the pet a part of their family and take care of them just like they would a member of their family.”

Problems can arise, of course. “Some pets like to stand near a door and are barkers, or if they are kept in a room that is adjacent to another apartment they will bark at night,” Zenn said. “We do have a responsibility to treat pets just like any other noise complaint, just like children jumping and playing around or blaring music. We treat it all at the same level.”

A perennial challenge, increased?

Both cats and dogs are allowed at the Highlands, and though there are no size restrictions for dogs, the complex does ban some breeds that are generally deemed to be aggressive, such as Pit Bulls. In fact, breed and size restrictions make house hunting that much harder for renters who own large dogs. The mildest mannered German Shepherd—whether 18 months or 9 years old—can be a big impediment to finding a place.

“A lot of the calls I handle now are because of breed-based issues,” said Kara Holmquist, director of advocacy at MSPCA-Angell in Boston, who for years rented with her large dog. “Whether people are renting or not, this is a big issue, particularly due to insurance. So a landlord might say they would allow a pet but their insurance company won’t let them because of its breed.”

In addition, as home foreclosures increase, so do the number of pets brought into animal shelters. And the number of people searching for rental housing will likely go up as some who have lost their homes turn to renting, along with tenants who face eviction after their rental unit enters foreclosure.

Lollypop Farm’s management system can’t track relinquishment due to landlord issues, but McHargue says anecdotally the staff knows at least some people who say they’re giving up their dog or cat due to “moving” are doing so because they’re headed to a place that doesn’t allow pets.

“What we don’t know is if people looked for a place and couldn’t find one, or if they couldn’t afford the deposit or the rent, because sometimes places that allow pets are more expensive,” McHargue says.

In Boston, the number of dogs and cats surrendered to MSPCA-Angell because of landlord issues increased from last year to this year—for cats, it more than doubled and for dogs it increased by almost 50%. At MSPCA-Angell’s shelter south of the city, however, the figures are reversed. The number of cats given up due to landlord issues is down by 52%, dogs by 36%.

Holmquist, who has worked at MSPCA-Angell for 14 years, says she’s seen the numbers fluctuate, usually based on market conditions, but says that relinquishment reasons are self-reported so provide qualitative data at best.

Promoting change

So, can anything be done to improve the prospects of pet-owning renters? The MSPCA’s Holmquist suggests animal lovers pay attention to any local or national legislation that might affect pets in rental housing, but said the most important action is personal.

“The bottom line is, people need to be responsible pet owners and set good examples, to act in a way that would make a landlord allow animals in again,” Holmquist said. “Being an ambassador for responsible tenants is something any pet owner who rents can do.”

In addition, it pays to spread the word.

“I would encourage people not to give up,” said Rebecca Huss, “to continue to look for alternatives, and to talk to landlords about it. The more people ask about it, the more landlords will see that this is an important part of the rental decision and the more units will decide that it’s worthwhile to give pet guardians a chance.”

SIDEBAR:

ISO pet-friendly housing

When searching for rental housing, particularly in a competitive market, the key is to sell yourself as a model tenant. This means promoting your dog or cat, too. Some of the common sense approaches are well known:

• Be sure your animal is spayed or neutered.
• Show evidence of your dog’s behavior, either a Canine Good Citizen certificate or proof that you’ve taken her to training classes.
• Create a resume for your pet that notes his age, that he’s housebroken, and gives some details about his personality and (good) habits.
• Get letters of recommendation from past landlords.

In addition, be sure you do due diligence when investigating your options. “Make sure where you’re moving is really animal-friendly,” said Adrienne McHargue, program director of community outreach and director of communication at Lollypop Farm. “Even if they say they’re pet friendly, pay attention if the landlord seems really picky about his carpets and you think you’re cat might do something on them, or if it seems like one or two barks from a dog will get the neighbors upset. Just keep in mind the kind of community you’re moving into.”

Perhaps most importantly, don’t give up. “I always tell people, it’s just like looking for a job or a mate—it’s out there,” said Kara Holmquist, director of advocacy at Boston’s MSCPA-Angell. “Make sure to leave yourself with enough time, but remember that you just need one [apartment].”

SIDEBAR:

Take advantage of technology

Forty million Americans move each year—7.7 million move outside their current county; 7.6 million move out of state. So even if you currently live in a place that welcomes dogs of all sizes, what happens if you move? In addition to researching town or county breed bans and size or number restrictions, you may be faced with getting the lay of the land from afar. Luckily, the Internet provides instant access to abundant information, including apartment listings. Craigslist, for example, is the online house-hunting source of choice in many regions. Other sites, such as Apartments.com, offer free searches, and fee-based search agencies exist in many larger cities. In addition, forums like the ones found on City-Data.com provide access to people “on the ground”—residents and former residents who are usually happy to answer any question posed. (As with all Internet forums, however, caution and mettle are recommended; you never know who’s on the other end of a post, so don’t give out personal information, and just ignore any mean-spirited responses.)

SIDEBAR:

An unscientific look at the stats

It’s difficult to generalize about the experience of being a pet-owning renter, particularly because various regions of the country seem to possess different attitudes toward animals and their owners. A recent Craigslist search turned up some surprises. City rentals in San Francisco and Washington, DC, had similar levels of pet friendliness: 22-24% allowed dogs; 31-32% allowed cats; and 21-23% allowed both cats and dogs. The same search for apartments in Burlington, Vermont, a small northeastern city generally considered to be animal friendly, showed just 19% allowed dogs; 26% allowed cats; and 15% allowed both cats and dogs.

SIDEBAR:

Sneaking in

It’s never recommended to violate the terms of your lease for any reason, but plenty of pet owners do or have done at some point. Keeping an animal in an apartment that specifically bans them is dicey. Often, though, pet owners will live with more animals than are allowed. In either case, defying a lease could get you evicted and means living with a steady amount of anxiety, worrying about getting caught by a property manager or turned in by a neighbor. One Virginia resident lives with four dogs and a cat in a complex that allows two pets, total. On top of that, she fosters for a local rescue organization, so often has an extra dog or two. Because she has no outdoor space of her own, and to keep herself from getting caught, she walks the dogs in shifts. So far her neighbors, if they’ve caught on, have remained mum.

Before adopting out an animal, most shelters and rescue organizations require proof from renters that their landlord allows pets. Some insist upon this information from foster volunteers, as well. Other organization place responsibility on the foster volunteer and trust that if someone says they’re allowed to foster that indeed they can. Again, it’s best to err on the side of caution and ask your landlord before taking in a foster dog or cat. Some building owners will forego any standard per-month pet fee if they know you are providing a volunteer service.

I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been there. In sight of the Washington Monument and the Capitol, a craft landed. Just descended from the sky and planted itself on the Mall.

It landed cleanly, without the dust kick-up you’d expect, and quickly, as if it had appeared out of nowhere, something supernatural, which perhaps it was.

People stopped and stared (who wouldn’t), some immediately ran away. We live a bit in denial in this city, as though the world weren’t out to get us. We’re not stupid, just hopeful.

Because it was school vacation week, the Mall teemed with out-of-towners, easily spotted by their “Washington DC” shirts and caps purchased from vendors lining the avenues. Children pointed at the craft and a few tried to venture nearer—curiosity their greatest asset—but parental arms held them close.

Was it some sort of trick? A hologram fashioned by creative scientific minds toiling away in a nearby building? Or perhaps the second coming of the messiah. (A natural thought, being so close to Easter.) Other than to say it was oblong and gray and no bigger than a large SUV, it is nearly impossible to describe the craft’s features, as if details had been erased from memory.

The spring air held a hint of winter’s cool and the smell of raw dirt mixed with the odor of strangers. The carousel continued to turn. The craft had arrived with such stealth that not everyone had noticed. Soon, however, a larger crowd began to form. Where were the police? The authorities to guide us? Without them, how long would it take to find a leader among us?

The throng formed a semi-circle around what appeared to be the craft’s front and stood twenty deep. Like at a rock concert, it became a living thing, the lines of bodies rearranging forward, sideways, back.

But it held itself in place, not getting any closer than a hundred feet, as though contained by a physical barrier.

From the back a male voice yelled, “Come out, you motherfuckers!” And another, “Al Quaeda pussies! Show your face.”

This agitated the crowd. People jabbed at each other. A couple standing next to me—the man perching a small boy atop his shoulders—exchanged a nervous glance. “We thought this was a show,” the woman said to no one in particular. Then they pushed their way out, avoiding the vast openness between them and the craft, their chorus of “Excuse Me’s” fading as they left.

Did anyone think leaving the Mall would save them? Surely this craft had powers no one understood. The truth, when it comes, hits hard and fast: We are none of
us safe.

People were growing angry. Somewhere to the right a woman screamed. A fistfight broke out to the left, who knows over what. Then three men pushed their way roughly to the front and stepped into the forbidden empty space. Silence swept
over us all.

The men, two tall one stocky, all muscular and crew-cut, were former or current Marines no doubt. One wore flimsy running shorts. Earlier they’d been playing Frisbee by the Air and Space Museum; tourists and joggers walked wide to avoid their errant discs. Now they approached the craft in what looked like a planned triangular formation—one forward, the others some feet behind. They did not appear to have weapons, making it  difficult to determine if their act was one of bravery or idiocy.

The lead man—the stocky one—marched to the craft, hesitated for a slight slice of time, then reached out and knocked on the door twice with the back of his hand. The sound was metal on metal. He must have been wearing a ring. The craft was solid—did I mention that? No windows to peer through, no peep holes visible. The lead man took one step back, prepared for an answer or to be shot, flanked by his comrades in martial-arts ready stances.

The men waited. The crowd waited. And still no police. No helicopters overhead, not even from the TV news. Just slightly distant jet planes on their way to and from National, tour buses and taxis battling it out on 14th Street. And a few hundred people in the middle of the Mall staring at something we couldn’t explain.

And then it was gone. No puff of smoke. No rocket launcher. Just gone, and the three Marines gone with it. A Houdini act. A fancy disappearance. A stunned crowd. And somewhere in the distance a siren growing louder.

when neighbors
complain of
the cold
I join in
to fit in

not wanting
to admit
that I like
how my body
defrosts
upon stepping
inside after
a long walk

the tingle
as my fingers
warm

even
the
runny
nose

an excuse
to go to
bed early
with a
book and
the weight
of too many
blankets

the usually aloof
dog nestled
close
all night long

.

——————————————————
© 2012 Amy Souza. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

After the storm, the floodgates opened and poured out a brown murky rush. It flew down its usual path, bucking up against concrete banks, topped with detritus picked up along the way: mile after mile of cigarette butts and beer cans, takeout containers and Slurpee cups, mysterious paper objects and every so often a novelty—a baby’s rattle, a dog’s collar, what looked to be an artificial limb.

Bouncing along, this river of remnants assumed a life of its own. Viewed from above, taken in as a whole, the thing mesmerized with its contrasting colors and changing composition. The way it moved made it appear sentient.

One could accept it, too, as evidence of our existence. No animal but man could create such an artifact. One could feel proud, if one were so inclined.

.

——————————————————
© 2012 Amy Souza. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Truth is plural, you said.
My truth, your truth, theirs.
All of us are right, but none of us wholly so.

Just for today, I will release the struggle.
Sit on the dock. Feel the sun on my arms, the tops of my feet.
The rough wood below locks me in place.

My soul needs rest,
even as its fancies buzz and swirl toward their passions,
their calls from God.

I will sit, drink in the day, feel the stretch along my spine,
acknowledge the body for where it’s taken me, what it allows.
Each breath enters deeply, departs slowly.

Salt air on my tongue.

My purpose need be nothing more than this:  silent thanks for what is.

.

——————————————————
© 2012 Amy Souza. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

With the brushing and the rubbing and the moving from foot to foot, the shoeshine boy loses his place in history. But his customer…

It was a warm day, or maybe cool, on the cusp of spring or fall, circa olden times. The man, let’s settle on Herbert, decides to stop on his way to or from work so his wingtips shine. He wants to impress a new boss or his father or the girl he loves who’s playing coy. His heart swells with ambition or lust, but he is a simple man of simple means and a shine is all he can afford. He feels certain, though, that he will or won’t attain the greatness he does or does not deserve. He’s not quite as destitute as the boy at his feet, although perhaps it is true that he’s more so.

His hair—brown or blonde or auburn—is cut in the style of the day. Short, crisp. Made to sit neatly under a hat. He wishes his hair to be tousled. When he run his fingers through it he imagines the touch of the girl who will soon love him.

Once, as a boy, he’d overheard his mother and sister, Carol, two days before Carol’s wedding, talking in the kitchen, not even in whispers. (They mustn’t have known he was there, figured him to be out delivering papers or shooting marbles or doing what young boys do.) He liked the sound of the women’s voices when they spoke to each other, so different than when they talked to him (like a child!) or his father (like an idiot). To each other they spoke in tones both confident and free, though certainly young Herbert couldn’t have expressed it as such or did and was ridiculed.

His father no longer lived with them, or maybe so. The man had beaten his children or loved them, perhaps both. The house, in the family for three generations or two, was always alive with sounds and smells. Or it might have been quiet, still, Hector a lonely child with Carol, years his senior, his only sibling. Mother resented her time spent in the kitchen, sulked about it or relished her role as nurturer, inviting neighborhood children in to play while she baked mincemeat pies and sweet, airy breads.

On that day when Herbert played eavesdropper, he listened first to the lilt of their voices until, like toffee to teeth or flies to paper, the words and their meaning stuck and Herbert felt his face flush.

“It can be enjoyed,” his mother was saying. “But it’s like your grandmother told me: Expect nothing from this life and you will sometimes be pleasantly surprised to receive something.”

“But what does it feel like?” Carol asked, and their mother released a world weary sigh.

The room fell silent, awaiting an answer, and the boy slipped out of the house undetected or his mother heard a rustling in the parlor and whooped young Herbert’s behind. The whole scene remains with him, or went missing that afternoon.

Now an adult, Herbert lives in the city, a small one or large, maybe medium-sized, the city where he grew up or close anyway or thousands of miles from home. He enjoys this new life or curses it every day upon waking. He takes pleasure in small things like a buttered croissant first thing or pines only for what he cannot have: a house on the water or a beautiful bride or a job in which he orders other men around or works diligently on important projects and is praised for his attention to detail and insightful, well-written reports.

He’s traveled these city streets safely for many years or has been mugged in an alleyway at night while drunk or completely sober, just out to clear his head.

But Herbert loves it here, longs for a small town, aches to venture west like a modern day gold rusher. He reads the paper, pays no attention to the news, rallies for causes, remains in the shadows. People love him or hate him; he has many friends, spends too much time alone, is held in high regard or overlooked by everyone.

Or we turn the page of the picture book and dream of Herbert at night, coloring into his black-and-white life.

Settling into an uneasy sleep, Anita prayed for a night empty of dreams. No uncontrollable free-fall. No sense of impending doom seeping into her from all sides. No scowling clown’s melted eyes, and no freight train rushing fast while she tried to extricate one tennis-shoe-clad foot. Her heart couldn’t handle many more scenes like this, but the alternative—keeping herself awake with cup after cup of instant black coffee—no longer appealed. Her stomach now churned every time she opened the cupboard and saw the jar.

Who knows why we dream? The scientists have theories, but only our Maker can say for sure and he’s not talking. He keeps so much to himself. Secretive, furtive. Anita knew men like that all too well.

The priest reminded Anita that God was not a man, that attributing human frailty to him was tantamount to blasphemy.

But he made us in his image, Anita argued. Mustn’t that mean that in some fundamental way, he is like us?

Not in any way we can comprehend, the priest responded.

The big black hole of not knowing had haunted Anita for as long as she could remember. Her siblings teased that she was a perpetual two-year-old, always wanting to know why.

Let it go, Anita. Have some fun. (Maria, the eldest.)

Work, kids, dishes, and at the end of the day, the husband. Who has time to worry about God, little sister? (Jacqueline, the middle girl.)

You know what I think, Nita. God is for pussies. (Her twin brother, Rafael.)

Still, Anita persisted. Why were we here? Why did some people have everything while others starved? Why pray if it brought nothing in return?

To that last question, the priest had a solid answer: If you’re praying only to ask God for something, then you’re not praying from a pure heart. Prayer is not a commercial transaction, Anita. It’s not a tit for tat. You don’t strive to be a good person so God will reward you. Being a good person must be enough.

Last Sunday walking toward the subway, Anita turned a corner and saw an obese woman, pants down, sitting in a puddle of her own urine at the bottom of a concrete stairway. Bags of belongings surrounded her. A thin black man glared up the stairs at Anita.

What? You think it’s funny a lady’s got to go to the bathroom? You think she’s not allowed to go when she’s got to go?

A young white family—man with a baby harnessed to his chest, woman pushing a stroller—approached the square of sidewalk that the angry man commanded.

He shouted at them: You got a problem with this? You got a fucking problem?

Meanwhile, the obese woman struggled to extricate herself from the wet stain spreading out around her. She might have been crying or perhaps just sweating. The humid day compressed Anita’s lungs. The woman’s exposed flesh rolled in caramel-colored waves from belly button to kneecaps. Her hair drooped like a wilting flower’s petals and clung to the sides of her face. Her feet were bare. Slivers of sandals sat two steps below her, askew, marked with dirty indentations of soles and toes.

In the distance, a siren. Anita hurried down the stairs, putting as much distance between herself and the yelling man as possible. She turned back to see the white couple had crossed the near-deserted street. The man, still shouting, had stepped into the roadway, threatening to follow them yet also clearly tethered to the woman on the stairs, who continued to whimper and try to raise herself. She’d need a team of men, Anita thought, or a machine with belts that could wrap around her heft. One thin man would not be able to lift her, no matter how passionate.

Even as Anita walked away, part of her remained with the woman, struggling to right herself. Stuck in a humiliating position she did not want to be in. Wondering how she got there and if she’d ever be delivered someplace else. She’d call the police from the subway station. Surely they’d come. No use calling for God. He was nowhere to be found.