R.I.P. sweet Hobie - you will never be forgotten.
His one chance of happiness was snatched away. There was nothing we could do - and he was snatched way in such a cruel way. It was my second visit to a killing station. Last time, disturbing and confusing as the experience had been, at least I had walked out with two little dogs in my arms. This time it was a different story.
By the door, the first cage held a pretty Spaniel type cross and a little Bodeguero. Diana chose the former and I the latter, because this delightful breed is often ignored in Spain. I thought they would take the dogs out of the cage, as had happened previously. But no.
They consulted some lists and told us that, no, we couldn’t have those two after all. They hadn’t been in for the required period and in any case one had a chip. (I was pretty sure that if the chip had been up to date the owner would already have been traced.) We were told that we could have them Monday, if they hadn’t been claimed by then. I didn’t trust them. And I was right not to do so, for a different reason.
At the time, thinking these little ones were not available, I said I’d choose another dog. And I fell in love with him. Hobie was more medium than small. He was just an ordinary dog. Quiet and unassuming. He looked so sad - as if he’d given up hope. My heart went out to him. I asked if I could take him. They took him out of his cage. And then they declared that he was sick; he couldn’t be released.
They said they'd treat him and if he got better we could take him. With that I had to be content. That night I spent a long time thinking of a name for this quiet dog. In the end I decided on Hobie, after the gentle, unassuming character in Donna Tart’s ‘The Goldfinch', which I was reading at the time.
The following morning, the day I was leaving, Fabienne picked me up and had to break some horrible news. The killing station had rung her and told her that they would not treat Hobie unless she paid for the treatment. She didn’t have time to tell me this or to work something out because within the hour they rang again. They had killed Hobie.
I will never know if he was even sick at all. Or if he was, what was wrong with him or if he would have got better with the right medicine. He was never given the chance. I’m crying even as I write this - even though all this happened nearly eight years ago. I am crying because he never got to hear soft words, get cuddles, know the care and love of a forever home.
My tears are also tears of grief for all those who we couldn’t take that day or on other days. For the little black and white one in the second cage. For the puppies – barely two or three months old – that we couldn’t save. My tears are also tears of anger for all the hundreds and thousands of dogs who are cruelly put to death in the killing stations throughout Spain. Every Friday. Every week. Every month. Every year.
There was a happy ending for two of the dogs, if not for Hobie. The killing station eventually released Gloria and Muffin on the Monday. They came to us and both were eventually adopted.
But I will never forget Hobie. Never. Nor will I forget what they did to him.
To read the full story about Hobie, please click on his name.
To read Gloria and Muffin's story, please click here.
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