Learning Curves

CATS or DOGS? I’m sweating this decision. I grew up around felines; my mother was devoted to her Siamese cats. My own first pet was a large, rude Maine coon cat who ultimately left me, but I still consider myself a cat person.

SOPHIA DEMBLING DISCOVERS THAT “BEST FRIENDS FOREVER” TAKES ON ADDED MEANING AT BEST FRIENDS SANCTUARY, WHERE NEGLECTED OR INJURED ANIMALS EITHER ARE ADOPTED OR SPEND THE REST OF THEIR NATURAL LIVES.

ON THE OTHER HAND, ever since a lop-eared chow-mix puppy was dumped in our backyard 20 years ago (we named him Homer; may he rest in peace), my husband and I have been decidedly doggy. We have kept just one cat, a lovely Russian blue named Ivan who broke my heart when he succumbed to kidney failure in 2001. Currently, we are coddling ZsaZsa, an antique terrier mix, through her dotage and trying to keep the upper hand with Jack, an energetic 3-year-old Australian shepherd–chow mix, recently adopted from the local shelter.

But on this brilliant autumn day I find myself with just one last morning—four hours—to volunteer at the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary. I’m agonizing over whether to devote it to cats, for old times’ sake, or dogs, for new.

Best Friends is a 33,000-acre no-kill animal shelter at Angel Canyon amid spectacular Utah scenery, near Lake Powell and three national parks—Zion, Bryce Canyon and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Visitors are welcome at Best Friends and may help care for the 2,000 animals—cats, dogs, horses, birds, bunnies, goats, potbellied pigs and sundry others—that live there until they either are adopted or reach the natural end of their lives.

The sanctuary, founded in 1984, is part of the Best Friends Animal Society, which was formed in the 1970s by a group of animal-loving idealists. The friends, including current president Michael Mountain, started by rescuing animals whose time was running out at regular shelters, rehabilitating them and finding them homes. That’s essentially still the mission, though the scale has grown and the outreach is greater. Best Friends saved 6,000 dogs and cats in post–Hurricane Katrina rescues, and hundreds more in the more recent rounding up of stranded dogs, cats and pigs in flooded southeastern Iowa.

Homeless critters are lucky to land here. The views are great, the living easy. Animals aren’t caged; dogs are grouped in packs and live in large runs; cats have spacious indoor-outdoor accommodations; horse pastures are on prime real estate.

And here among the red cliffs, canyons and pines, sickly animals are nursed, elderly animals are pampered, ill-mannered animals are trained, feral animals are domesticated, ornery animals are respected. For visitors, leaving the sanctuary without a new pet takes a will of steel, but animals that aren’t adopted get to live out their lives at Best Friends, eventually ending up in the hilltop cemetery, Angel’s Rest. (Donors may also bury pets here.)

Volunteers—some of whom rent accommodations on the property, while others stay in Kanab, the nearest town—may work at the sanctuary for hours, days, weeks. They clean living areas, walk dogs, feed and help socialize the animals—even take dogs on outings or overnights.

Loretta Foster from Chesapeake, Virginia, tells me she is planning a two-week stay. “I’m alternating—one day dogs, one day cats,” she says, although she will volunteer mornings only and spend afternoons sightseeing. Tawnee Stimson of Chattanooga, Tennessee, is here with her husband and a friend; she was determined to work at the sanctuary every day for a week, but Jean Morris—formerly the volunteer coordinator, now the fulltime caregiver in the cat department—has persuaded her to take a couple of days off for sightseeing.

I’m in the neighborhood for just three days, and with hundreds of cats to be petted, dogs to be patted and horses to be cleaned up after (dunno what you do with the other critters), and the Grand Canyon nearby, I feel pressed for time.

I first tour the facility, including a temporary refugee camp that is home to 300 dogs and cats airlifted out of Beirut in a collaborative effort with the grass-roots Beirut for Ethical Treatment of Animals (BETA), the only humane society in Lebanon.

As I pass their cages (animals are caged through a quarantine period), cats reach through the bars to bat at me for attention. One gray tabby the staff calls “Loverboy” stretches both paws out, as if reaching for hugs. I steel myself. It’s only the first day. No telling how many animals will make a play for my heart.

Among the refugee dogs, I meet Don Arnold, a craggy former Marine from Maine, who went to post-Katrina New Orleans with a vet friend to help with animal rescue and hooked up with Best Friends there. Best Friends then asked Don, who specializes in feral dogs and has the scars to prove it, to help with the Beirut rescue. Don insists I personally meet each of his 150 canine charges. “Hey, don’t ignore anyone,” he scolds when I wander past a cage without greeting its occupant. He introduces me to each and every hound by name (theirs, not mine), and they greet me with varying decibels of enthusiasm. (I later learn that all Don’s charges have either been adopted or joined the pack at the sanctuary, and Don himself is no longer on the staff.)

At Old Friends, I go all mushy over geriatric dogs gazing at me with puppy-dog eyes. I’m a sucker for old dogs. When I stop into Kitty Motel in Cat World, home to geriatric, special-needs and other cats, Pokey, who has nonfunctioning back legs (vets think she suffered an injury early in her life), scoots up to the door to greet me, meowing insistently. No need to feel sorry for her—she’s just fine here.

Compared with the ruckus of the dog areas, Cat World is almost eerily quiet. Eyes gaze out at me from cubbyholes, kitty beds, hidey-holes and, um, catwalks. Some cats slink away shyly when I enter, others waltz up and demand attention. One tries to take my hand off when I give him a friendly scratch between the ears. “Not that one,” a caregiver cautions a second too late. No harm done. My bad.

I spend the afternoon volunteering with the horses, in tribute to my adolescent equine adoration. On this day the work entails riding a truck among pastures and helping scoop mountains of manure into a trailer. I also help feed, tossing hay and oats into buckets. The horses seem unimpressed by my dedication to their well-being, and none vie for adoption.

But I regret that foray into horsiness on my last morning as I agonize over the cats vs. dogs decision. Finally I decide to split the morning between them.

At a Dogtown Heights orientation with other volunteers, I learn that dogs in red collars are off-limits to volunteers, purple collars mean “adults only” and green collars mean “fully people-friendly.” We are issued whistles in case of fights or runaways, and told that scooping poop in the dog runs is a good way to meet shy dogs. “They think, ‘Hey! You like poop, I like poop! This is great!’” says Katie Muller, who conducts our orientation. “You might look behind you and see a parade of shy dogs following you.” Only dog people could be charmed by this concept—and we are.

Loretta and I volunteer at The Fairway, where the dogs are adolescent and “rambunctious,” says Katie. And rather than scooping poop (I did my time with the horses), we ask to walk dogs.

When we enter the building, its occupants break into a raucous cacophony of “Hey you! Walk me! Come here! Gimme snacks!” (Translations are approximate.) First I am given Eisenhower to walk around the designated loop. He’s a little fella, but 100 percent muscle. My feet practically leave the ground when he gets moving. I return him to his run and take Sheba. Then Barbie, Zeke, Talia, Attila, Shane and Tiberius. Halfway through each walk, we pause at a bench for some earscratching, some “Who’s a good boy?” I am tempted by Zeke (a fine white hound with a black eye), and Shane (a beautiful 75-pounder who looks to have some German shepherd), but resist. No. More. Dogs. Not yet, anyway.

Alas, by the time I’ve walked everyone, I have no time to volunteer with the cats. Does this mean I have pledged my allegiance by default? I stop by Cat World anyway for a quick visit. Immediately, a gray tabby and a black longhair greet me, winding around my legs, accepting my caresses, purring like outboard motors—even squabbling over me a bit. I am charmed and smitten. The cats don’t even seem to mind the stench of dog on me. Four hours in here and I’d probably have gone home with a dozen kitties. But, short on time, I manage to flee alone.

Evidently I’m both cat and dog person. Next time, I’ll earmark four hours for each. But I’m staying far away from Best Friends’ Bunny House. The risk is just too great.

Sophia Dembling is a writer and dog/cat person in Dallas. You may read the sad tale of the cat who left her in Cat Women: Female Writers on Their Feline Friends.

Photos (from top) by Sarah Ause/Courtesy of Best Friends Animal Society (2), Molly Wald/Courtesy of Best Friends Animal Society and Sarah Ause/Courtesy of Best Friends Animal Society