horsepower
WaterRider/Landsurfer
- Joined
- Nov 26, 2006
- Location
- The wild west side of Davis
- Moto(s)
- 2007Honda CBR 600rr
2010 KTM 690
2014 Grom
- Name
- Daniela
This was an email or Facebook my daughter Sam wrote 4 days before they killed Marsh. I'm not posting it to yank chains. I'm posting it for the irony.
Marsh:
"The last two, nondescript black pit-mix pups that stole the hearts of the shelter volunteers, were failed by an imperfect but well-intentioned system. Even with dozens of people in love with those two dogs, they could not find peace in their young tumultuous lives. Now, a third has come and while the other two slipped away, I am determined to save this one. The biggest of the bunch, with the biggest heart to go with it. But saving him might not be that easy. I recently heard a veteran volunteer say she's seen only a handful of male pit mixes make it through. Less than a dozen, in two years, she guessed. This volunteer commented about Marsh, who was fairly new to the shelter and had a red dot on his kennel for reasons I did not know. I can tell immediately if a dog has a chance or not, she said. Marsh probably won't make it, she said. It wasn't sad, it wasn't malicious, it was just fact. Because, we've all heard it: we can't save them all.
I would walk past him, the quiet, nondescript dog like I did to all the red dot kennels. Don't look, don't look…. you can't save him.
Why do you even do this, Sam. You can't save them all.
I have had Marsh for only four days now, and they warned me that if I was to continue taking him home, to be aware that final decisions about his fate were not yet certain. To adopt him out, or to put him down. The chance seemed like it would be close to the ratio of the shelter's overall euthanasia to adoption ratio. Fifty-fifty. A coin toss. On one side, a decision irreversible, and permanent, and quiet, and painless, and easy. And who would even know. Who would even ask. Why are we even doing this. You can't save them all. A decision that could not be unmade led by futile conversations. I think we made a mistake…. But, you can't save them all.
Ok, I said. And the freedom ride that was not really a freedom ride, but just a tantalizing taste, was so sweet and so addictive. Ok, I said. And off we went on our own adventure.
It's not that I've forgotten the words I was warned to remember. On the contrary I think about them constantly. I'm thinking about them now. They echo in my head. They are loudest during the quietest moments, screaming; right before I turn off the light to go to bed and he is hugging my legs with his white little paws, when I wake up in the morning and we are laying back to back, when we run across the beach and he is by me step for step in sync with my commands, and my breath. I hear these words when he scrambles out of the car before me, desperately afraid I will leave him and never come back. Don't you know, I'll always come back for you, I tell him. I say these words to my own dog too, I'll always come back for you. And when I leave her at my mom's house for weeks at a time while work or trips or school piles up, and life takes me and pulls me to places I'd rather not be, because all I want is time to spend with my dog, she doesn't understand why I go, but she does know I always come back.
Marsh does not know this. They didn't come back for him. Not the first person, and not the second one either. He doesn't believe me when I say, I will always come back for you. Always. But I say it anyways. Always. The hardest part is, I'm not even sure I can keep that promise.
Always. Always.
You can't save them all.
So no, it's not that I've forgotten these words. That has not changed. The thing that has changed is Marsh himself. He is getting the chance the Miles and Meeko did not. And in these past four days, he's passed every test, or at least he's tried his hardest to. I have more faith and hope for Marsh every day, every minute, every second. And I know it's dangerous. But I will not stop hoping, because I can tell he has not stopped hoping. He has not stopped loving. He loves every person that he meets. And every person he meets loves him.
In four days Marsh has made dozens of friends. Marsh has gone on 4 mile runs with me. Consumed countless treats. Performed countless tricks, and (a handful of face jumps…whoops). He has snored through the night, and farted an entire group of people out of the living room. He has flapped his jowl in the wind at 65 mph. He has romped in the rain, and accidentally destroyed a sandcastle with his floppy feet. He has escaped (just once) for a grand adventure. And he has stolen my heart. And I can't save them all, but I can save him. I believe with my entire soul that he will be the dog of a lifetime to a very, very lucky person."
Marsh:
"The last two, nondescript black pit-mix pups that stole the hearts of the shelter volunteers, were failed by an imperfect but well-intentioned system. Even with dozens of people in love with those two dogs, they could not find peace in their young tumultuous lives. Now, a third has come and while the other two slipped away, I am determined to save this one. The biggest of the bunch, with the biggest heart to go with it. But saving him might not be that easy. I recently heard a veteran volunteer say she's seen only a handful of male pit mixes make it through. Less than a dozen, in two years, she guessed. This volunteer commented about Marsh, who was fairly new to the shelter and had a red dot on his kennel for reasons I did not know. I can tell immediately if a dog has a chance or not, she said. Marsh probably won't make it, she said. It wasn't sad, it wasn't malicious, it was just fact. Because, we've all heard it: we can't save them all.
I would walk past him, the quiet, nondescript dog like I did to all the red dot kennels. Don't look, don't look…. you can't save him.
Why do you even do this, Sam. You can't save them all.
I have had Marsh for only four days now, and they warned me that if I was to continue taking him home, to be aware that final decisions about his fate were not yet certain. To adopt him out, or to put him down. The chance seemed like it would be close to the ratio of the shelter's overall euthanasia to adoption ratio. Fifty-fifty. A coin toss. On one side, a decision irreversible, and permanent, and quiet, and painless, and easy. And who would even know. Who would even ask. Why are we even doing this. You can't save them all. A decision that could not be unmade led by futile conversations. I think we made a mistake…. But, you can't save them all.
Ok, I said. And the freedom ride that was not really a freedom ride, but just a tantalizing taste, was so sweet and so addictive. Ok, I said. And off we went on our own adventure.
It's not that I've forgotten the words I was warned to remember. On the contrary I think about them constantly. I'm thinking about them now. They echo in my head. They are loudest during the quietest moments, screaming; right before I turn off the light to go to bed and he is hugging my legs with his white little paws, when I wake up in the morning and we are laying back to back, when we run across the beach and he is by me step for step in sync with my commands, and my breath. I hear these words when he scrambles out of the car before me, desperately afraid I will leave him and never come back. Don't you know, I'll always come back for you, I tell him. I say these words to my own dog too, I'll always come back for you. And when I leave her at my mom's house for weeks at a time while work or trips or school piles up, and life takes me and pulls me to places I'd rather not be, because all I want is time to spend with my dog, she doesn't understand why I go, but she does know I always come back.
Marsh does not know this. They didn't come back for him. Not the first person, and not the second one either. He doesn't believe me when I say, I will always come back for you. Always. But I say it anyways. Always. The hardest part is, I'm not even sure I can keep that promise.
Always. Always.
You can't save them all.
So no, it's not that I've forgotten these words. That has not changed. The thing that has changed is Marsh himself. He is getting the chance the Miles and Meeko did not. And in these past four days, he's passed every test, or at least he's tried his hardest to. I have more faith and hope for Marsh every day, every minute, every second. And I know it's dangerous. But I will not stop hoping, because I can tell he has not stopped hoping. He has not stopped loving. He loves every person that he meets. And every person he meets loves him.
In four days Marsh has made dozens of friends. Marsh has gone on 4 mile runs with me. Consumed countless treats. Performed countless tricks, and (a handful of face jumps…whoops). He has snored through the night, and farted an entire group of people out of the living room. He has flapped his jowl in the wind at 65 mph. He has romped in the rain, and accidentally destroyed a sandcastle with his floppy feet. He has escaped (just once) for a grand adventure. And he has stolen my heart. And I can't save them all, but I can save him. I believe with my entire soul that he will be the dog of a lifetime to a very, very lucky person."
Last edited:

even though they tried to quash my Italiana . and then they went on to congratulate themselves for all their good work for the next 2 hours.
Thank you!