A slice of social services life

I had left my cup of decaf in the car, and I went out to get it. On my way back into the building, I ran into a guy carrying a giant backpack and an armful of fluffy puppy. “Quite a load you have there,” I said.

“You wanna dog?” he asked. “I’m tryina get rid of him. I’m suicidal and I can’t handle him.”

“He’s gorgeous. You don’t think he can keep you alive?”

“I think a lot of people are putting that on me. He barks at night and I think I’ll slit his throat.”

Oh God.

“Well, if you’re serious about getting rid of him, I can call the Humane Society and they can find him a home.”

“Nah, he’s not goin’ to the Humane Society.”

“They wouldn’t put him down. They’d find him a home. It’s way more efficient than walking down the street asking people if they want a dog.”

“Hmm.”

“I can hear that you’re feeling really bad. Have you had a chance to talk with anyone about it?”

“I have an appointment with the bald f**ker who works here. I’m about done with all of it though. Next stop for me is off the bridge.”

(I knew he needed a referral to the county mental health office, but we have not had the best of luck sending people there. If the client has been self-medicating with street drugs or alcohol, they are rejected for having a substance-abuse problem. If the client is over 60, they are rejected for having dementia.)

“What’s your name?”

“My name don’t matter. My name is death.”

“Well, let me call the Humane Society and see if they’ll take him, OK?”

“Yeah, go ahead. He doesn’t need to be with me, ‘cause I’m gonna take him with me off the bridge if I keep him.”

I went inside and spoke to M, the notoriously soft-hearted receptionist, about the situation. She shot out the door and started talking to man and dog. I called the “bald f**ker” to warn him about his prospective client’s mood. M called me to say the puppy was a littermate of the one she had rescued yesterday, and that she would be taking it. About a half-hour later the phone in our unit began beeping to let us know someone had dialed 911. The read-out said it was the “bald f**ker” who had called. Yeah, someone said later, he had a jumper...