Answering the call of Misha at shelter
As the former animal care supervisor at the Marin Humane Society, Kristen Loomer was tempted every day by the many adorable animals awaiting their forever home. In this type of job, it takes a hard resolve to resist the pleading furry faces, but Loomer held her ground. That is, until she met Misha.
When Misha’s family moved to Marin County, they learned that their new home had pet restrictions and their four dogs exceeded the allowable number. Misha and her son were reluctantly surrendered to the Marin Humane Society. When I first saw Misha in her kennel, I feared for her prospects. Not many folks are vying to adopt a 5-year-old, graymuzzled, slightly aloof, 65-pound Akita/husky mix. This girl was going to have a tough time getting out of there.
First, she had to be spayed, as the Humane Society does with all animal adoptions. When Misha awoke from her surgery, the entire shelter could hear her husky howls, earning her the nickname Opera Singer. Her post-surgery primal howls drew me to her kennel, where I was taken by her soulful amber eyes pleading to me from behind the chain-link door.
I crawled inside her kennel and sat with her as she lay next to me, rolled on her back and showed me her incision, as if to say, “Look, do you see what I’ve been through?” I told her that I did know, as I had just experienced a major surgery after a serious car accident three months prior. I assured her that we would both heal fine and that she would go up for adoption soon.
And two weeks later she did. A family took Misha home, but to my dismay, they returned her just three days later, citing behavior problems. The family wanted a dog the kids could walk by themselves, and Misha had poor leash manners, lunging when other dogs were around. Back to the kennel she went, confused, unhappy and very vocal about it.
Over the next few days, I could see the light fading from Misha’s beautiful eyes. My heart broke a bit more each time I walked by her kennel or went inside to visit with her. She would tell me all about it when she saw me peek through her kennel gate. In her most imploring, operatic voice she would howl, “Owww, wooow, woo woooo,” which probably meant, “Why isn’t anyone taking me home?” I had to do something for this special dog because I know she was also saying, “Why aren’t you taking me home?”
The following day proved to be Misha’s last as a homeless dog. I took her home. And for nine glorious years, Misha was my constant companion, always telling me how she felt with an operatic “song.” Even on her last day back in February, when I lost her to a seizure disorder, she still “sang” in her famous opera voice. Only this time I imagined she was also telling me something else: She was grateful for a well-loved life and was ready to leave with peace and dignity.
Misha may be gone, but she remains a part of my heart forever.