The Shelter

We called it the “Blue Juice”.  Phenobarbital, “truth serum”. Whatever you wanted to call it the results were the same. The syringe didn’t have to be sterile; it made no difference. Tommy walked down the aisle that separated the rows of kennels. Normally the dogs would be barking like crazy, but not now. They knew exactly what was happening. Tommy stopped in front of a cowering mixed breed that had been dropped off several weeks ago. Its owner had no further use of him. He lifted the latch, swung open the door and bent down to attach a leash to his collar. Walking the dog back up to the front he could have seen me standing in front of a stainless-steel table with a syringe in my hand. He could have seen Terry holding a tourniquet and behind us our supervisor with her clip board and behind her eleven dead dogs stacked onto a pile. But he didn’t look up. One of the unspoken requirements of this ghastly, almost daily morning ritual was that the participants wouldn’t make eye contact. Very few, if any words were spoken. It wasn’t necessary anyway. We all knew what our jobs were, and we were good at it. Eye contact or conversation would only force one to acknowledge that there were witnesses to your crime.
Tommy lifted the dog… “Sam” onto the table. Yes, he had a name, I knew his name because I did the paper work when his family decided they no longer wanted him. I explained to them that “most likely “Sam” would have to be put to sleep as the chances of adopting out an older mixed breed dog was unlikely”. “Well that’s your job ain’t it?” Was the reply spat back in my face.
I had begun to hate people. They disgusted me. A steady revolting stream of them came in daily dropping off unwanted puppies, dogs, cats and kittens. In the spring sometimes as many as one hundred kittens could be dropped off in a single day. That meant that I would have to kill ninety-nine of them. Less than three percent of the animals left at the shelter were ever adopted out to new families.
Sam was shaking when Terry put the tourniquet on his right leg. A vein showed itself when it was pulled tight. I sucked out five cc’s of “the juice” from the bottle into the syringe and tapped it so the air bubble would rise to the top before I gave it a slight squeeze sending a few drops over the edge of the needle. I lifted Sam’s leg and held it in my hand as I watched the beating of his heart pulsating in the raised vein. His head was down, his eyes half closed… he was resigned to his fate.
I pierced the vein with the needle but must have hesitated too long. “Are you ok Rob?” “Oh God why did you have to ask that?” “You’re not supposed to talk!” “Hell, no I’m not ok! Is anyone in this room, ok? If you are don’t tell me, I don’t want to know that about you. How is it that our society makes it possible for a person to even be able to do a job like this?” I squeezed the syringe and Sam dropped dead almost instantly. Terry removed the tourniquet and Tommy picked up Sam and walked him over to lay him in the pile with the rest. “How many more do we have to do this morning?” “Nine Rob.”
Tomorrow would be the same. Maybe a few more, maybe a few less. It all depended on how much room was available. Sometimes I would protest. A beautiful animal would come in that I felt sure would be adopted if we could just give it a little more time. This almost always ended badly for both me and the dog as I would grow more attached and hopeful and a bond would form. I could not believe that I was here.
Not long ago I was travelling the country with my family exploring the United States looking for a new home. The memory more like a dream now. It was late August and we were camped in the Saw Tooth Mountains of Idaho. Each place we came to seemed to be more beautiful than the last. We had been together now without incident or interruption for over a month. Without ever realizing it we had become close, more intimate. We had become a team, working well and living well together. Everyone had found their place and we were at rest emotionally and spiritually.

Our camp today was set up on a ridge overlooking a mountain stream. I had made lunch and walked over to the edge to call everyone in. Sharon was washing her long dark hair by the water’s edge, the kids were playing in the water close by their laughter, shrieks and giggles reached my ears like a rising aria. “Gator” our German Shepard was close by keeping a nervous watch over his “pack.” I couldn’t look away or interrupt this scene on Sawtooth’s magic canvas. The sun sparkled in the water as though nature had given my children a river of jewels to play in, the trees that towered over this holy sanctuary were their guardians and I alone felt the weight of what it meant to witness such a gift. I was home. Not in this place, but with these people. That stunningly beautiful woman down at the water’s edge was the love of my life, each one of our children radiated what was best in each of their parents. Adam, like his mother was kind and thoughtful, rarely did I have to ask him to do anything because he would see a need and take care of it. He was responsible and I trusted him to do the right thing in any circumstance. Virginia has her mother’s natural beauty and my determination and intensity. Robbie has his mother’s sensitive soft heart and my artistic eye and wild imagination. What they could do with these gifts could only be magnified by what they were learning on this trip. Their parents’ gypsy hearts came from living in families whose fathers worked for the government and were transferred every couple of years to a new location. We met while living in Canada and had lived there for almost twenty years. Now we were searching for a new home and following as best we could the Lewis and Clark trail. In the end we had traveled over thirteen thousand miles though twenty-six states and settled in West Virginia. The following summer we slept in tents while we built a log home on fifty-three acres in the country. When we arrived in West Virginia I was debt free and had over one hundred thousand dollars in the bank. But after buying the land and building the house there was precious little left. I had been writing some before we left and somehow felt that checks for my stories would magically appear in the mail. But when I sat down at the keyboard nothing came out. I was blocked from writing anything but letters to friends back home. I became desperate and spent our last ten thousand dollars on vending machines and a shot at self-employment. It didn’t take long to see the mistake I had made. Within weeks of placing my machines in what I thought were secure and profitable locations, I found them vandalized and the money stolen.
In what seemed like a very short time I had gone from a self-assured, maybe even arrogant, proud young man to a very worried and insecure individual. We had to make very humbling bi-monthly visits to a local food bank just to keep enough food in the house. I was out of money and had very few options open to me.
One day while filling a machine at one of my locations I noticed the county animal shelter. Two ducks were swimming in a small stream that flowed in front of the building and I walked down to see them. To the left was a small barn and pasture that held a few horses, goats and even a few geese. This was all part of the animal shelter. I had always worked with animals in some capacity and wondered if this could be a job opportunity. I went in and applied and as it turned out an employee had just given his notice and they needed someone with experience. Now for five dollars an hour I was cleaning out dog kennels, worming, bathing, giving vaccinations, setting up spay and neuter clinics and worst of all, euthanizing dogs and cats. At first, I was relieved to have a job, but even in 1993 five dollars an hour was not much money. But that along with the little bit I made from the vending machines was enough to survive on … just enough.
It had been nine months since I started working there and the toll it had taken was obvious to my family. I remember walking into a grocery store and hearing Adam whisper, “Mom, look how dad is walking.” I looked at my reflection in the store window and saw a bent over old man dragging his feet. I was thirty-five years old.
Some days I would come home from the shelter and sit on the couch and just stare. I had nothing left to give, all my energy went into just trying to hang on mentally. I knew when I went into work the next morning what I would be required to do. Killing dogs was a horrible way to start, but killing kittens was even more barbaric because you couldn’t hit a vein, they were too small. So, one by one you would pick them up and inject the juice into their hearts. Of course, their hearts are small as well, sometimes you would miss and the juice would go into a lung. They would scream out in pain and thrash around for a few seconds before they died.
Often the same people would come into the shelter dropping off unwanted puppies and kittens. We would offer low-priced spay and neuter clinics to try to stem the flow of unwanted animals but most people just couldn’t be bothered. It was easier to just drop off your garbage at the shelter. Some people wouldn’t even bother to do that. They would put them in a sack and drown them or just drop them off at the side of the road somewhere. I even offered to pay to have a dog spade that was owned by a family that kept bringing in puppies. “Naw, we don’t have time for that.” was the husbands reply. I tried to explain what happens to these puppies, what people like him make us have to do. He was unmoved. In my mind I reached across the counter and ripped out his throat. I learned that some people are proud of their ignorance and don’t want to change.
I was becoming emotionally unstable, the silliest thing could make me cry or make me angry.
Once I missed a Monday, when I came in the following day Tommy told me when they were finished euthanizing, he was putting the dead dogs in the wheelbarrow to take them out to the incinerator to be burned and when he came back with the second load and opened the door one of the dogs was standing up inside! He had not given him enough “juice” and it was still alive! I was so angry I was sick to my stomach. I vowed never to miss another day. No animal ever deserved this kind of treatment. I didn’t like the people I worked with, I didn’t like the people who brought in their animals and I surely no longer liked or respected myself. The end was coming.
I came into work one morning and was informed that there had been an outbreak of distemper at the shelter. No more dogs could be accepted and all the dogs that were there would have to be euthanized. All one hundred and twenty-five of them. The kennel would then have to be thoroughly disinfected before anymore dogs could be admitted.
I knew what that meant. I felt myself slipping away into what I came to refer as my “Zombie Mode.” A place where I felt nothing and just mechanically did my job. The incinerator could only handle so much. It took us three days to kill all the dogs. I came home at the end of the third day completely overwhelmed and destroyed.
When I finally managed to fall asleep that night, I dreamed that I was the one who had to walk down the aisle between the kennels to retrieve the next innocent victim of some persons callousness. I stopped in front of a kennel that had a small beagle inside. As I opened the door and bent down to put the leash on him, I told him how sorry I was. Because it was a dream, he answered back by reassuring me that it was okay, that he understood … it wasn’t my fault. As we were walking, I looked ahead and saw three grotesque and ghoulish figures, one holding a huge oversized syringe, another holding a tourniquet dripping blood and the third holding a clipboard. I could feel something had changed and when I looked down, I was no longer holding a leash, but the hand of a small disabled child. “We aren’t doing this I said. It’s wrong!”
The head ghoul pointed a long bony finger in my face and threatened,” You’ll do what I tell you to do and you won’t question my authority!” I woke up covered in sweat and sobbing. Sharon had enough. We would find another way to make money, another way to survive. But now I needed a chance to heal and wash this brutal stain from my spirit.

Part two

Monday morning, I awoke with a sense of peace about the decision to leave the shelter. I had lived the last ten months in a fog of despair but now as I drove down our long winding driveway, I could feel that burden slightly lifted. I still needed to give my notice and the shelter had to be disinfected, but this morning at least, there would be no sad faces looking out from behind chain link fences. Today would be the beginning of the end to my part in this never-ending holocaust. Soon I wouldn’t have to listen to excuses from people on the other side of the counter. People I had come to despise. There had never been any commitment to the animal now looking up at me with confusion and fear. “Well, it was cute when it was a puppy/kitten but now the kids don’t bother with it and really it’s just become a nuisance. They reminded me of a husband who was no longer interested in his wife because she had gotten fat. Shallow, self-centered people looking to hand over their problem to someone less important than them.

I rolled past the gate and pulled into the parking lot. The horses, geese and goats saw me pull in and came trotting over to the fence for what had become our morning greeting ritual. I had what they seemed to crave more than food. A humans touch. All these animals had been taken away from their owners due to abuse. When the horses came, they were so emaciated you could see every bone in their body. Their hooves had not been trimmed in so long they curved up and out making walking almost impossible. They barely had the strength to hold up their heads. One was too far gone and had to be put down, but these two-mare struggled back from the brink. It was the same for the goats. They had been abandoned, left to draw out a horrible long and painful end. Court cases were always pending for animals here and usually the owners were given a mild hand slap from a judge. There is little justice in our society for abused animals. I could write an entire book detailing the painful neglected existence of many animals that came into our lives and the perverted criminal treatment by their owners, indeed, their stories need to be told. But telling those stories would mean reliving their stories…. but even more time needs to pass before calling up that kind of courage.

So, my day here was welcomed with grateful morning greetings from delegates representing an abused and mistreated community with no voice. Simple touching didn’t seem to be enough today. I opened the gate and stepped inside as the geese announced my entrance with noisy honking salutations. The mares and goats surrounded me and gave gentile, affectionate pushes. It always amazed me how animals that had been so mistreated still crave human interaction. To be touched and spoken to by one who loves…. heals.

I buried my face in the neck of one of the mares and breathed deep. I love the smell of horses, of the barn yard, a farm. A fenced in paddock or barn filled with animals gives off an irresistible aura that compels me to visit. It has always been so. But there are other smells here as well. Smells that after twenty years still cause psychological trauma for me. Before I even opened the door of the shelter, I could smell it. Bleach mixed with dog and cat urine and feces. To me it is the smell of death. Innocent death. Even today a simple visit to a pet store where the sound of a closing latch on a kennel door or that smell however faint can cause my heart to race and my eyes well up with tears. It’s embarrassing but seems uncontrollable.

I walked through the front door into the lobby and was greeted by my supervisor. “There’s a room full of kittens that need your attention.” She said it without emotion as she rushed past me. There was a journalist from the newspaper here this morning doing a story about the shelter and the outbreak of distemper. She was in a hurry. “I won’t be doing that anymore.” I called after her. She put on the brakes and looked at me for only a second before I saw that she fully understood what I meant. She had lived through the events of last week as I had and was probably expecting something like this. “I’m giving you my two weeks, I’ll stay and clean shit, worm, vaccinate, take the animals in, give em’ baths, walk em’ and I’ll take care of the animals down in the barn, but no more killing. I’m done.” She didn’t look sympathetic. “Can we talk about this later?”  “No”.  I said.  “Well, could you get the bleach and the power washer and start disinfecting the kennels?” “Yes.” She looked away from me and towards Tommy who was down the corridor.  “Tommy!, there’s a room full of kittens that need your attention.”

That’s the way it would be. With or without me the cycle of death would continue unabated. Hundreds of animals would be killed here over the next few months and there was no power strong enough to stop it. Human nature would have to change. Our self-centered desire to live for the moment without much forward thinking. We don’t think much about pumping toxins into the air we breath or the water we drink, or the soil we grow our food in, removing whole mountain tops to extract a profit for a select few is acceptable. Removing whole nations of people or even eliminating whole races will always be justified as long as the strongest and wealthiest among us are allowed to make the rules and dictate our moral code. What difference then is there between how we treat our fellow-man, our environment or our pets? Everything is disposable and given importance only until we say it no longer is. The idea that some lives are worth less is the root of everything that’s wrong with the world. Knowing this doesn’t make me better or even different. It just makes me accountable.

So, I spent my day disinfecting the shelter so it would be safe for the very few that would be here long enough to be adopted out to new homes. The journalist came by and asked if he could take my picture washing down the kennels. “Do you have time for a few questions?” he asked.  I was feeling hateful and thought about spraying him down with bleach. “You don’t want to know what I think.” I said. He raised an eyebrow. “Oh really, why is that?” I stopped what I was doing and looked up at him. I came close to unloading on this poor guy but stopped myself because more than anything I just wanted to be left alone. “Well, I just gave my notice this morning so I’m probably not the best person to talk to.” Really? How long have you worked here?” Too long.” I said. We just looked at each other. “I understand.” he said.” No, you don’t. I don’t mean to be rude, but you really don’t.”  “No, I suppose not.” I knew he was just trying to be polite and show some empathy but I was not in the mood. He looked down at his shoes and back into my face. “My name is John by the way.” We shook hands, mine was wet. “Rob.” I said.  “Listen man I know this job must be hell, I just talked with the director about what happened here last week. I’d like to get the story out, you know… make people aware of what goes on here. I’d like to hear your side of that story.” “My side of the story doesn’t feel relevant to me, I’m just a hired killer and shit cleaner!”  John was obviously taken back by my words. “How bout I tell you the stories of some of the dogs we’ve had to kill?  Dogs who in an instant would have given their lives to protect the people who abandoned them, dogs left chained to a tree with no food or water or shelter after their owners moved away. I could tell you about a dog named Sam, he was a faithful companion for over ten years to an older lady who died suddenly. Her son dragged him in here because he couldn’t be bothered to care for his mother’s friend. I’ll tell you those stories and lots more if you want?” John must have realized his mouth was open, he snapped it shut and swallowed hard. “You seem like a passionate person Rob.” “If by passionate you mean frustrated, angry and sad … then yea I’m passionate.” I turned away from him and started spraying down the walkway between the empty kennels. “I’d like to hear those stories, Rob.”

So, I spent the next hour telling him the things I knew. Horrible events in animals’ lives, torture, abuse, abandonment. Things I could never share with my family or friends. Not that they wouldn’t have listened, but because I didn’t want that in their heads. Poor John was looking shell-shocked by the time my supervisor came by and gave me “the look.” John looked down and shook his head. “I had no idea.” ‘I told you.” I said. He thanked me and we shook hands. I knew he was walking away with my burden and that somehow made it a little lighter.

Part three

Five days had passed since the last dog had been put down and the shelter disinfected. The drivers had started picking up and bringing in rescued or abandoned dogs, the saga as familiar to me now as waking up and getting dressed. The swooshing sound of weather-stripping on the bottom of the main door alerted me to the entrance yet another retched human and his undesirable.

“Can I help you?”                                                                                                                           “Yes, I’d like to turn in this dog.”                                                                                                 “This dog? Is it your dog?”                                                                                                          “yea, course it’s my dog.”                                                                                                          “Why are you turning him in?”                                                                                               “Ahhhh, I don’t know man…. I just ain’t got time for him ya know? What difference does it make?”                                                                                                           

“Well, I need to know if you’re turning him in because he bites or bit someone, or has any problems like not being house broken, because anyone interested in adopting him will want to know his history.”                                                                     

 “Naw man he don’t bite, and he ain’t never been in the house so I’m sure he ain’t house broke.”                                                                                                                                   “I see.” I walked around the counter and bent down in front of what looked like a pit mix and stroked his head. He responded by wagging the whole back half of his body. I pulled back his lips and looked at his teeth. He was around five years old.

“Is he up to date on his shots?”                                                                       

 “Naw man, we ain’t never got em’ no shots, my uncle gave em’ to me when he was a pup bout’ five year ago, we just keep him tied up at the side of the trailer. He ain’t never been sick.” 

“I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise.           

 “What’s his name?”                                                                                                                      “Rebel.” Of course, it is I thought.                                                                                           “Okay, just bear with me a minute I have to ask you a few more questions and do a little paper work, but I have to tell you the chances of adopting out Rebel are almost zero, he most likely will be put to sleep.”                                                           

 “Yea man, whatever ya gotta do is fine.” 

His words pierced my heart. I looked down at Rebel, he was looking at me then at his owner. Tail wagging tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and he had what looked like a smile on his face. He reminded me of an excited country kid on his first trip into town. But he had the classic look of a neglected outside dog. Overgrown toe nails, ears full of mites, thick calloused legs and his fur caked in filth. I could picture him chained to the side of a run-down trailer, all grass worn away years ago, an old dilapidated dog house or maybe just a place under the trailer to go during foul weather. As bad as his life must have been and as heartless as his owner appeared, Rebel still looked up at him with an admiring eye.

My co-workers knew I had long since lost any tolerance for the people who brought in their animals, but only Terry sensed just how unstable I had become. She was listening from the office and after hearing his last words got up from her desk and came around the counter. “I’ll finish up here Rob if you want to take Rebel and get him squared away.”

Every dog that was admitted to the shelter was vaccinated and wormed, even the ones we felt sure would be euthanized. I slipped a rope over Rebel’s head and led him to the back, his long toe nails clicked on the tile floor, he panted nervously and followed obediently. But when the door closed behind us and he could no longer see his owner he stopped and pulled back on the rope.

I was giving Rebel a bath by the time Terry was through with his paper work and came back to check on us. She liked to think of herself as a hard ass but we all knew otherwise. Terry was the assistant manager, short and a little over weight with shoulder length brown hair and a thick Logan county accent. She stopped and looked at me like she was disgusted.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering to do that… you know we’re just gonna put him down in the morning.”

She looked over at the kennel I had set up and saw a pillow I had put in for him to lay on.

“Oh God your pathetic!”                                                                                         

“What? … he probably has never had anything soft to lay on in his life. And thanks for coming in to rescue me from that guy.” I said it quickly before she could think of anything else mean to say.                                                                                 

“Ha, I wasn’t rescuing you! I was rescuing him! I could feel your vibe all the way to my desk.”                                                                                                                                          “Wow, I didn’t realize you had such sensitivity towards strangers.” My words dripped with sarcasm. Terry just looked at me.

“Shut up! Your such an ass”

She put her hand up in the air, her pudgy little fingers tickling something invisible and walked away talking. “You know I won’t miss you at all when you’re gone.” I rubbed soap over Rebel’s chest. “Don’t listen to her boy, she’ll miss me. Terry called from down the hall, “No I won’t.”

Our supervisor poked her head out from her office. “Has anyone seen the pillow I keep on my desk chair?” I heard Terry cackling away to herself. “Ask Rob, I bet he’s seen it.”

I was counting down the days before I would finally be free from this place. Every day was the same. A steady stream of disengaged dog owners turning in disenfranchised souls whose only desire in life was to be loved enough to be included in somebody’s pack. Kittens and cats by the truck load and the odd wild animal that somebody would inevitably decide did not make a good pet.

I was getting ready to leave one afternoon when Tommy came bursting through the doors with Buddy, (one of the other kennel attendants) in the wheelbarrow that was used to take the euthanized dogs to the incinerator. “What the hell is going on?” snapped the supervisor. Buddy moaned every time Tommy moved the wheelbarrow.” Buddy threw his back out throwing dogs in the furnace. I found him all crumpled up on the ground and had to lift him in this wheelbarrow to get him up here!”

Everyone just stood there staring at Buddy in the wheelbarrow, his long arms and legs dangling over the sides. Of all the people who I worked with at the shelter, he was the only one who could make me laugh. He would impersonate old cartoon characters or actors in TV sitcoms. He couldn’t stand doing this job either but handled it differently, everything was a joke. If a person came to turn in an animal and Buddy took exception for the reason (there are very few good reasons) he would start talking to them in the voice of “Fog Horn Leg Horn” or “Barney Fife”. From out of nowhere he could launch into a monologue reciting two or three minutes of a cartoon or show, remembering all the lines and voices of the characters.

Sometimes I would catch him walking a dog down the aisle to put it in a kennel and he would be carrying on a two-way conversation. One in the voice he had given the dog and the voice of some actor. He gave the dog a voice, I really liked that. He used colorful words that detailed the horrid personality traits of the former owner and Buddy would take on the role of therapist counselling a confused and abandoned client, sometimes in the voice of Jack Nicholson. My personal favorite.

One day I overheard Buddy talking to a dog, he was inside the kennel with him. From my position it looked like he was bent over stroking and cuddling his charge. I couldn’t make out the words but they were in his own voice and spoken with such compassion. When he came out, he was wiping tears from his eyes. I looked away quickly so I wouldn’t embarrass him, but it was too late. He walked by me shaking his head, “people!” was all he said and kept walking. I felt certain we were all going insane.

“Call my wife.”  Buddy whispered. “Are you shittin’ me?” squealed Terry. “Your shittin’ me right?” Buddy didn’t answer.

“Seriously man, we need to get you out of this wheelbarrow, your wife can’t take you home in this.” I said.

He looked at me terrified that I would try to move him. “Come on Tommy help me get him into a chair.” “No, no wait! Can you just tip the wheelbarrow over real slow and let me roll out? Maybe I can get on my hands and knees and you can help me up from that position.”

“Oh God, this doesn’t look good Buddy.”

Terry was worried and I could see the wheels turning in her head. She looked at me and I knew immediately what she was thinking.

“Don’t even think about it! My last day is next week!”                                                          “But what if…”                                                                                                                              ” No! just stop, I’m gone next week!”

Tommy and I tipped the wheelbarrow over and Buddy rolled out in slow motion screaming all the way. Helping him to stand was a slow and grueling process. Terry was right, this didn’t look good. There was a long flight of stairs Buddy was going to have to walk down to get to the parking lot.                                               

 “Can you walk Buddy?” Tommy asked.                                                                                    “I don’t know man.” He ground out his words through clenched teeth. His face was flushed and sweaty.                                                                                                                     “Tommy how bout’ you get on his right side I’ll take his left. Buddy put your arms around our necks and we’ll try to walk you down the stairs. It’s either that or we put you back in the wheelbarrow and wheel you around the building and down the hill to the parking lot.”

A woman came through the door with a box full of kittens, we could hear them all crying. And a man right behind her with a dog that kept jumping up trying to see what was in the box. The scene was quickly headed towards chaos, the lobby was now filled with eight bodies, one completely crippled, a wheelbarrow, an undisciplined dog and a box full of kittens trying to escape. Karen the receptionist, Sylvia who was the director and Terry all flew into action while Tommy and I tried to get Buddy to the door. But he couldn’t walk. The wheelbarrow was our only option, as harrowing as that maybe we needed to get him out of the lobby. Buddy screamed, the woman with the kittens gasped, the dog barked incessantly and the man yelled at his dog.

We were waiting together in the parking lot when Buddies wife showed up, he was still in the wheelbarrow and getting him into the front seat of the car proved to be an excruciating ordeal. It was obvious to everybody he was hurt pretty bad and would be out of work for the foreseeable future. We didn’t need to wait for a doctor’s report. I climbed the stairs with Tommy and we walked into the lobby. Both Terry and Sylvia looked at me and I knew what their eyes were asking. “Nope, not happening, I’m gone next week.”

There was really nothing that could make me stay. I had made the decision; my kids needed their father back and my wife needed her husband. Not the perpetually depressed, unresponsive husk of a man I had become. Nobody was fit or qualified to do this job, it was a horrible, degrading way to spend your life’s time. It had made me despise the human race and, in the process, question my faith. I was done here and had nothing left to offer.

A week later when I pulled out of that parking lot for the last time, I felt so relieved and rejuvenated I didn’t even care that I had just lost half of our income and no way at present to replace it.