Inaction

I met Chienne as she crawled out of a too small cage in the back of a van. I found her on petfinder and when I found that she had but days to live, I asked that she come live with me. Mom and I drove to a rest stop to pick her up, along with 10-15 other families who were getting new family members from a more southern state.

The email sent prior to meeting day asked that we keep away from the van. The dogs would be tired after their trip and it intimidated them to too many people crowded around the van upon their arrival. So Mom and I stood back and waited. But once nearly everyone had their dog, we asked after Chienne.

"Go ahead and wait over there." A harried volunteer suggested as she was filling out forms and collecting fees. So Mom and I approached the open door slowly, asking about the dog I'd chosen. A man motioned to one of two cages that remained filled and I was heartbroken looking at the puppy who would become my very best friend. She waited, brown eyes wide with fear, cowering when the man opened the door to her tiny cage. He drug her out by the chain collar she wore, against my protests that he give her time, and we removed the old collar to put on the new one I brought as she stumbled, trying to regain her balance having been forced to lie down for hours in a tiny cage.

She was terrified, huddling low to the ground and eventually deciding that my mom was worthy of some trust. She would shy away when I approached her, leaving me close to tears with concern. Her eyes looked glassy and she had a nearly-silent cough. She was draining, ick dripping from her nose. She looked painfully thin and smelled almost too awful to bear.

"It said $100 online." I corrected the man when he demanded a check for $150.

"The paperwork says $150." He said then turned away to deal with another family. I looked to Mom, holding Chienne's leash while she watched the dog with concern.

"Give him what he wants." She advised. "They can't have this dog back - we're taking her home no matter what."

So I gave him a new check, looked around at all the dogs who seemed quite unwell, and loaded Chienne in the car. Mom drove and the dog sat on my lap, allowing me to smooth the dirty fur on her back and head and eating treats as quickly as I could produce them out of a paper bag for her.

We entered my apartment - I'd moved in earlier that day - though the sliding glass door and she immediately jumped on my dad as he rested on the couch. She's always been fond of her grandpa. We put her in the bathtub as she shook and looked terrified, barely scratching the surface of the grime with the first application of shampoo. We let the water run off her, dark and disgusting, then repeated the process until she was reasonably clean. I tried to clean her ears, but they were sore. I left them until we saw the vet the next day and she was treated for worms and mites and infections. Kennel cough and some other disease rounded out the visit and I was sent home with pills and ointments and instructions for care.

The volunteer group who ran that particular organization was supposed to check on me, or so said the paperwork I signed. When nobody did, I wrote to the local contact and mentioned that Chienne had been in worse shape than I'd been led to believe. We were handling it, but I hoped that the dogs I'd seen were the worst of the bunch and that their group was doing better by the other dogs who remained in their care. It was a bit snippy, I suppose, but they hadn't taken good care of my girl! Her ears were the worst my vet had ever seen and I'd just listened to the sweet dog whimper as Q-tip after Q-tip scooped disgusting-ness out of her ears. She hadn't had a voice for 4 days, having - I assume - lost it while crying on the trip north. She continued to cough and drain, leaving me to wake with her in the night.

I wanted to take care of her - she was my dog and I never would have given her up. But I also was a bit sick that I'd helped support an organization that now seemed rather awful. I mentioned the extra $50 and said a bit more preparation would've been of help.

I received an email from the leader of the organization the next day. It was all in capital letters, full of nasty language and insults and enraged that I would dare question her practices or make one of her volunteers feel badly. Her husband had brought the dogs up to meet their families, she ranted, and she would never tell him such an awful thing had been said about one of the dogs he took time out of his life to help place.

"Leave it alone." Mom said, even after I'd done additional research and found multiple complaints about that woman. She'd been barred from working with animals in several states and had been arrested for keeping 40 dogs in her home in terrible conditions about 2 years prior to my coming in contact with her. "She could be dangerous and you live alone. What if they come to try to take Chienne away? Just let it go." She insisted.

And I did. To this day, I'm furious and sad when I think of them. But I never wrote to petfinder to file a complaint. Never noted that I had a problem at all, save that first email to which evil leader responded so hatefully. I was afraid of the consequences, so I nursed Chienne back to health (save the allergies, poor girl) and we went from there.

In my graduate career, I was pretty involved in service opportunities. Near the end of my studies, I served as the representative for graduate students in the School of Medicine. A group of higher-level faculty and administration was seeking to improve the learning environment and my Dean asked if I'd be willing to participate. Flattered, I went to meetings and offered input.

I therefore knew everyone with whom I could have spoken about my problems with Advisor and Pete. I was aware that they were forming a spreadsheet about problem faculty and staff. I knew my problems would be treated confidentially and that someone might have a reasonable idea on how to handle my struggle. I liked the people involved and knew that some of them thought highly of me.

That was part of the problem. I was miserably ashamed that things went so badly around the time of my initial defense date. I didn't want anyone to know that didn't absolutely have to have the information. And the department was abuzz with gossip regardless - I didn't want it to spread beyond those already speaking of it.

In addition, I still don't know what the right answer was. I was incapable of staying though - I could not have gone in that office every day and worked, having turned down job offers and delayed the defense indefinitely. In the event that it was the only option presented by an outside mediator, I'm not sure I wouldn't have quit. Then again, I likely would have become so angry and depressed that I would have filed more complaints and sought some resolution I felt was fair. But given the ability, I ran away.

After things had officially fallen apart, I was packing boxes in my apartment - sometime in late July, 2005 - and George called. He asked how I was and we talked for a moment, then one of the other students in my group took the phone.

"Guess what." He said.

"I'm sure I can't." I offered.

"Advisor just wrote an email to George suggesting he put Pete on his committee." And I sat in silence. I can only conclude that Advisor wasn't upset over Pete's behavior toward me since he encouraged him to have power over another student.

I was hurt. Even more, I was surprised.

George was angry. He replied that he saw the defense as important - a culmination of work and study and wanted to be proud of his degree. After my situation, he wrote to Advisor, he would never allow someone so dishonorable and cruel to taint his own graduation. He would be ashamed to have Pete on his committee and refused to do so under any circumstances. Then he said Advisor should speak with him directly should that be a problem. Such a passionate tirade against Pete touched me. And I still blink back tears upon first seeing George at conferences. He's terribly sweet.

So I think my struggle taught those around me a lesson. (Don't trust Pete.) But given the story secondhand? I'm not sure anyone would believe that I wasn't a screwup who deserved what she got. It's unpleasant to believe those with whom you work are capable of behavior like I experienced.

Right after I defended, Advisor stopped by as I worked on revisions. "Everyone was glad you waited to defend. We felt you were really comfortable and confident in the material and your work since leaving has obviously been good for you."

I looked up and shook my head. "That was the exact presentation I would have given in July." I said. "I haven't changed a single slide since then, nor do I know anything more than I did had I defended then. Nothing." Advisor turned and walked away. I was right - hiding in your house and watching daytime TV doesn't really prepare you for much of anything.

I am left knowing one thing - when faced with a choice, the person who should have been my strongest advocate offered support that wobbled then disappeared. It is awful to look at Boss and wonder if he'll someday screw me over. Even knowing how extremely unlikely that is, I wonder. Same goes with collaborators - I don't really trust anyone. It's not safe.

I'm left wondering about my true ability though. One of those grad school papers went to a journal and sat for over a year. I can't really remember how long, exactly - could have been 18 months. After 6 months, I would send an email requesting an update on the 2nd of each month. I received prompt replies, promising they'd decide soon. Eventually, the editor wrote that only one of the seven people returned a review. It was, however, positive, and the editor's reading of the paper revealed no major deficiencies. They would therefore like to apologize for the delay and would be happy to publish the paper after some revisions were made.

That's hardly exciting news. It's not bad enough to reject, having made me wait so long. And I was not horrible enough to fail, having delayed my defense for months and putting me through such a misery. In both cases, it's good news. My paper got published. I have a PhD. But there's always the vague feeling that it was more luck than skill - people ended up feeling badly and just let things slip by.

Whatever his/her mistakes or problems, I would not wish an end even sort of similar to this on anyone. And dogs like my Chienne should never suffer so in shelters. I just did nothing to prevent it happening in the future. Which is yet another reason that thinking of the defense experience makes me feel badly.