It was a painful sight. Who could misuse God’s creatures like this? These poor animals had been abused and neglected yet they perked up every time someone walked by. It was obvious they wanted to be loved and needed little more than a clean home, fresh water, a warm bed and maybe a little pat on the head now and then. Their coats were stained and greasy, their fur matted and their sad, red-rimmed weepy eyes looked like they’d seen nothing but hard times and bad treatment.

I spoke to George Geoffrey, founder of Heavenly Hope Husband Rescue standing in front of Mountain Dawg in Fraser. George was there with a dozen sad, dejected beasts in a little pen made up of a few collapsible wire sections. Most of the husbands in this ersatz corral could have stepped out of it easily, but these were damaged beasts with no spirit and my heart went out to them. I shook my head.

“George, tell us about your organization. When did you start this work?”

“Thanks, Jon, I started Heavenly Hope back in 2009 when I saw an immense need for prompt action to get these poor, pathetic creatures off the streets, out of abusive situations, and into decent homes. Actually, I can’t take all the credit because I stole the concept from the Dumb Friends League.”

“Tell us about some of these little fellas, George.”

“See Steve over there in the torn golf pants? He lived the corporate rat-race for years but he hated yard work and hired it all done. One day he came home unannounced and discovered why he had the cleanest pool in the subdivision. Long story short, she had better lawyers and he wound up living under a bridge. We had to nail him with a tranquilizer gun to bring him in.”

“He was that upset?”

“Nah, he’s a biter.”

“I see, George, who’s that in the grimy blazer?”

“That’s Bob. He was a real estate agent for 22 years. Came home one day to find his primary caretaker had left with all the furniture, including his favorite couch where he’d watched 614 consecutive Bronco games. He was clueless. No concept of housekeeping or laundry at all. He lost his job after he wore the same shirt for 67 days. We got the call, went out to bring him in and found that he hadn’t had any coffee for weeks because he had no idea where his wife kept the water.” George paused here, turning aside to wipe a tear. I thought to myself: here’s a good man performing a noble deed.

I pointed to a scruffy guy fighting with a balding accountant-type over a gravy-stained pocket protector. “What’s with the vicious one?” I asked.

“That’s a very sad situation. He’s an attorney who lived in a nice house in an upscale neighborhood. His keeper insisted that he take out the garbage but he was too proud. Things escalated and I guess he snapped, slammed his Beemer into the dumpster until the lid blew off and filled her Audi convertible with the trash. Neighbors called Animal Control who finally trapped him under the front porch, snarling and chewing on a pair of thousand-dollar Mephisto wingtips. He could sure use a good home.”

“And a good bath,” I added.

Scoff, if you will at these piteous brutes, but to see them is to remember them the next time your caretaker barks one too many orders at you.