Oh, Henry

I expected to come home from the shelter on Sunday and cry for a bit. I had seen and touched my first dead animal. "Baby's first Henry", my trainer Lauren gently teased. Someone brings a dead animal to the shelter, and the front desk pages animal care staff over the intercom to let us know there is a "Henry" for us to deal with.

I was nervous, because I didn't know how I was going to react. I didn't like it. But I looked at him, and asked questions about him, and touched him, and helped throw him into the incinerator. And I didn't cry. Not then, not later.

Earlier that morning, I had to shovel the ashes out of the incinerator from the prior day's burn. I didn't expect to hear the tinkling of little bone fragments, sounding like windchimes made of tiny seashells. It was disconcerting, and interesting. It didn't make me feel as awful as I thought it would.

My first Henry was a black and white border collie. No collar, no microchip. No way to know who was missing him. We took notes of his most distinguishing features, in case the owner contacts the shelter. Will they? I'll never know.

These are the unpleasantries that we have to deal with at our county-run shelter. I guess I'm relieved to find that I have the strength and composure needed for such tasks. But I fully expected to cry, and I wonder if it's okay that I didn't.