His name was Ares. A nine-year-old German Shepherd. The “Donated By” line on his intake form read, “City Police, K9 Unit.”
He wasn’t a stray. He wasn’t a cruelty case. He was “surplus equipment.”
His handler—his partner—had been transferred to a new unit and was given a younger, faster dog. Because Ares had been “donated” to the force years ago, he didn’t qualify for the standard K9 retirement benefits. He belonged to no one. He was just… done.
And so, he ended up here. In my kennel. On my list.
The other dogs barked, whined, or cowered. Not Ares. He stood at the back of his concrete cell, perfectly still, his hips trembling from the arthritis and the cold. He wasn’t scared; he was confused. His muzzle was a noble gray, but his eyes were sharp, scanning, waiting for a command that would never come.
He was a soldier waiting for orders in an empty war.
We have a two-week hold for strays. For owner surrenders, it can be 24 hours. For a hero? Apparently, it was “as space is needed.”
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be the one to fill that syringe.
