Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, March 12, 1991 TAG: 9103120415
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-7 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: LINDA PALMER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Rambo was a 5-year-old Catahoula hound; a gentle hound of 85 pounds with a brindled coat and flop-back ears. We raised him from a puppy; trained, loved and even neutered him. Rambo loved children and loved the family. His only mistake was that he didn't like a kitten that the family adopted.
The kitten escaped outside one night. When he disappeared, Rambo was accused, tried and sentenced to be found a new home. I'm sure if I had protested loudly enough, my family would have agreed that it was Rambo's home before the kitten arrived. Maybe if I had told them how much I loved the lop-eared hound, he would have been forgiven. Maybes don't count.
In tears, I took the dog to the SPCA. I was assured that if the dog was considered unadoptable, I would be called. The next day, I returned: Unable to face the dog, I left his registration papers, a donation and a letter to the prospective new owner.
In this letter, I fondly described the dog, but apparently made the mistake of stating that he had considered the outside kitten "fair game." I also made the point that he had never offered to hurt the kitten inside. I repeated that I was to be called if the dog could not be placed; again I was assured.
Three days later, a Saturday, my husband was called and told to pick up the dog. My husband was met with adoption papers, which he tediously completed. Then came many personal questions about income, character and our liability to keep the dog.
Apparently, my husband became irritated and said he had raised the dog, and knew he killed cats and had even bitten people. When he saw the reaction of SPCA personnel, he explained repeatedly that the dog had just mouthed playfully and was not vicious. They refused to listen; said the dog now belonged to them, making them liable; and refused to release the dog. They also repeated the part of my letter, out of context, about "fair game." Meanwhile, I had found a super home for my friend.
I called the SPCA and re-explained: The dog was gentle; my husband was being angry and sarcastic. Everything was on hold until Monday, I was told, and I was assured: "No one will kill your dog, Mrs. Palmer."
On Monday, I called back and was told we must now find someone else to adopt the dog. I said I had found a good home to which I would deliver the dog, that day, if he would be released. No, rules had to be followed to the letter: The new owner had to pick up the dog. The new owner lives in Dublin and couldn't make the trip before the 5 p.m. closing time. I said I would find another owner; don't destroy my dog.
On Tuesday, I found another person to adopt the dog; we planned to get Rambo on Wednesday. On Wednesday, the SPCA closes its loving doors to the public. I called the president, Mrs. Angie Hollenbeck, to be sure the dog would not be hurt. I found one person who understood and was kind. She gave me the name of another director, Tom Wright, but basically said she could not intervene in decisions.
I left word for Wright to call me if there were any problem preventing the new owner from adopting the dog Thursday afternoon. He called Thursday morning to tell me that Rambo had been destroyed Tuesday.
Of all the less fortunate animals who do not have homes, Rambo was not one. He had people who loved him and three homes that wanted him. We just stumbled into a group of people who had to prove their point, had to voice their authority, had to follow some rules while neglecting human rules of fairness, kindness and understanding.
I accept my blame for ever giving up my friend; I accept my naivete; I accept the fact that I have no recourse. Maybe, for we who need to find meaning in death, Rambo's story can prevent people from giving up their pets to an organization that has no regard for flop-eared hounds or the people who love them.
by CNB