PetSmart

“PetSmart is like Home Depot for pets,” my friend Hannah says as she pulls into a parking spot outside the giant store.  I have never before set foot inside a PetSmart, and my heart rate quickens as I see people walking in and out of the store with their dogs on leashes.  Even better, today is “Adoption Day” at this Atlanta store, and shelter dogs and puppies are lined up in cages out front.  Hannah heads inside to pick up a bag of cat food and Richard and I scan the cages, secure in the knowledge that, despite their powerful allure, none of these beasts are coming home with us.

We’ve accompanied Hannah to her local PetSmart to make a “dry run” through the store — and to preview what we might need to purchase once we return home.

On the sidewalk outside the entrance, I am drawn to a medium-sized dog with a long body and a smooth blond coat; a sign on his crate says he’s a Dachshund/Yellow Lab mix, and I can certainly see both breeds in him.  I kneel beside the crate for a closer look and offer my hand for a sniff but the dog turns his back, seeming far more interested in the young woman in the blue smock and nametag.  “He clearly likes you better, “ I say to her with a smile.  “That’s only because I have the treats,” the young woman says, gesturing.  She reaches into a tool belt apron and produces a tiny bone-shaped biscuit.  Every dog within her sight line locks eyes on that single biscuit: they wag and wiggle and whine, cages rattling, as she makes her way down the line.  Yes, I’ll have a biscuit please.  Me, me!  What about me?  I’ll have one, too!  How about another one?  Please? Please? Please?

I greet several other dogs and am especially drawn to the soulful eyes of a black Staffordshire terrier mix with a square, blocky head.  His cage is at the end of the line, and when I turn to walk away he whimpers.   I flash on an alternate, imagined future as the operator of a dog sanctuary, but then think pet hoarder: this must be how it starts – with good intentions.  Which can be carried to hell in a hand basket.

Hannah reappears with her cat food and Richard and I finally turn to enter the store.  But I stop in my tracks when we discover the glass vestibule is lined with cages filled with cats.   There are a few adult cats, but these cages are filled mostly with kittens: adorable, adoptable, kittens.  Another employee/monitor in a blue smock reminds people to please sanitize their hands before and after handling each kitten.  She points to the wall-mounted dispenser and I pump a dab of the foamy alcohol mixture into my palm; it dissolves and disappears as I rub my hands together, smelling vaguely like a gin and tonic.  While I reach for the tiny gray and white kitten with the piercing blue eyes, the orange “teenage” cat in the cage just below reaches through the bars and snags my sweater on his claw, pulling me toward him.  I reach down to disengage the claw and the cat licks my knuckles.  Two other kittens move toward me to get their licks in, too.  Against all logic and reason, I want them all and think, Maybe I can operate a combination dog AND cat sanctuary.

This instinct is silly and impractical, but it runs very deep.  Standing before all these crates and cages at this suburban Atlanta PetSmart awakens my inner six-year old — his sense of joy and wonder intact.