What it Takes

It takes strong hands.

Hands that can scrub floors, change bedding, and lift an old limping shepherd out of the back of a pickup without so much as a second thought. Hands that aren’t afraid to get dirty, to clean up messes that come with no warning, and to hold trembling bodies like they’re made of glass.

It takes strong knees, too. The kind that don’t mind crouching for hours beside a kennel, coaxing a silent dog to trust you. Knees that press into gravel or concrete or grass, whatever the ground offers, just to be close.

But mostly, it takes a strong heart.

Not the kind that doesn’t break—but the kind that breaks over and over and still shows up the next morning.

A heart that learns to love a dog you know won’t stay long. A heart that says goodbye with gentle hands and tearful eyes and still finds room to love the next one, and the next one after that.

It takes the patience of a saint and the language of quiet things.

The ability to read eyes instead of words. To know when a tail that twitches isn’t excitement, but fear. To speak in tones softer than breath. To celebrate every inch of progress—a tail wag, a tentative step, a meal finished without flinching—as a miracle.

It takes a sense of humour and a cast-iron stomach.
You will be peed on. Pooped on. Bitten and scratched, even.
You’ll carry scars.
You’ll laugh, cry, swear, and then laugh again when a three-legged kitten steals your sandwich.

It takes remembering names. Not just of the animals—though you’ll remember those forever—but the people, too: the ones who drop off pets with shaking hands and the ones who take them home with hopeful ones. It takes remembering that every animal has a story. And so does every person who walks through your door.

It takes knowing when to hold on. And when to let go.

It takes accepting that you can’t save them all.

You’ll make calls you wish you didn’t have to. Some days, the sadness sits heavy in your chest, like something you forgot how to set down. But then—almost without warning—you’ll see something shift. A tail that wags. A nose nudging your hand. A dog who once curled up tight in the corner now rolling on their back for a belly rub. It sneaks up on you, these small changes. And they feel like something holy.

It takes everything.
Your time.
Your sleep.
Your heart.

But it gives, too. In quiet, astonishing ways.

It gives you the moment an old dog lifts their head and trusts you enough to sleep.
It gives you the sound of a cat purring for the first time in days.
It gives you wagging tails and nuzzling noses and the feeling—however brief—that you helped turn a corner in someone’s life.

It gives you love, messy and hard-earned and radiant.

Working in an animal shelter isn’t just a job.
It’s a choice to love the world in all its broken, matted, beautiful need.
It’s saying, You matter. You are safe now. You are loved.
And meaning it, every single time.