A Building On the Outskirts of Petaluma

It is renewal; it is rebirth. It is a home for the sick and unwanted, the untreatable and the aggressive. It is where man’s supposed best friend dwells at night and where egyptian symbols rest their claws and yet, it is nothing more but a building on the outskirts of Petaluma. A building with tall-cemented walls and a hole in its heart overflowing with the scents and sounds of neglected canines, but it is still a building on the outskirts of Petaluma. Gray cages line up on back walls, nestling against one another in search of comfort, in search of warmth. Coarse gray pebbles layer the cemented floors, inching between leathered paws and jagged nails, leaving their impressions, leaving their marks.

Temptations lie before these gated communities in the mouth watering form of a ball and a bone. Eager paws pounce on the metal twisted doors before them after a quick naïve glance. These actions are seen but ignored for the constant barks, the constant chatter, the constant pleads for undeserving attention overflow this retreat, leaving no room for sympathy. A confined symmetrical area cradles mangled toys in its fake verdant arms, calling wide-eyed puppies to come and play. Leashes carelessly dangle in its sharp, defined corners although they are rarely ever used. A pool buries itself in the center of the trap, caressed by smooth plastic blades of what one wishes could be grass, but it is rarely ever used.

At the front of the building lies a petite cabin straying away from the shelter itself. Its walls are thick with green wallpaper that has been scratched onto its surface while a dreary couch whimpers in the corner. Each square inch has a purpose, each suburban item has a meaning, each chewed up finger on the cold plastic hand in the corner has behavioral motive taking the place affection. As if looking towards an inspirational home the cabin slowly trails behind the idea of aesthetics in neighborhood residences, picking up bookshelves, televisions, and portraits in the act.

While entering the shelter itself one is greeted with a seemingly affectionate grin behind a Maplewood desk. Clear jars of flavored treats rest in every corner of the room, filling the area with the odor of manufactured meats and grains. While walking further one is purposely dazzled by two demanding walls. Walls made of clear, stainless glass, but walls non-the less. They protect eight or so felines, giving them the chance to prance to each corner and snuggle up with the soft carpets of a cat’s kingdom. Like a skyscraper each figure has one main intention, productivity. Adjacent to these territorial spaces are boxes on top of boxes. Polished metal bars carelessly flaunt themselves in front those sick and those injured, attempting to make up for the conditions of those behind. The felines within these cells are given just enough room to turn around and glare at the cold dark walls around them. Like prisoners they are given enough to get by, like prisoners they are given enough to complain, like prisoners they are given a home that will likely be their last.

Beyond all these advertisements for animal compassion is a door and a sign reading “volunteers only,” sparking the type of curiosity that only results in discomfort. With each step taken into the restricted cove bombastic barking breaks through barriers set up by compassionate thoughts. These vulgar creatures do not hide, do not cower, they simply stand tall with inflated chests and egos baring their teeth in a show of superiority. Their surroundings are small as if to show the actual size of these colossal animals. Generic air fresheners poorly mask the territorial scent of urine and sweat and yet the producers are proud. Metal doors separate the humane from the barbaric, but the cacophony makes this difficult to notice. There is a small isle hiding between these overbearing forces, doing its best to stay clear of what stands beside it. Like delinquents in an office visitors sulk through the single lane, refusing to make eye contact, refusing to show interest.

Each room, each cage, each correctional item expresses its own purpose and its own meaning, its own sense of attempted normality and its own form of advertisement. Each area of space, like the creatures within them, exudes a specific trait, repetition, carelessness, growth, anything to advocate this building housing personalities of all sorts, this building behind a rough, untrained road, this building on the outskirts of Petaluma.

-T.J.