The Shelter in the Little Brown House

A Second Chance transfer partner story, contributed by OHS volunteer Jessica Haggin.

Approximately four hours east of Portland is a tiny brown house set back from Highway 84. Driving past, you probably wouldn’t even notice it. It’s so far outside the nearest town (La Grande) that there’s nothing but space on one side of it for a mile or so. The closest neighbors are a State Police building and a UPS facility.

This little brown house is surrounded by a fence, and even though the address is on the highway, you can only get to the house by using an access road. Primarily this place operates by appointment only, but it is open to the public for about 15 hours per week.

A man opens the gate and lets me in, quickly closing it behind my vehicle. He welcomes me as warmly as though we’ve been friends for decades, though I’ve only met him once before. He remembers me, my name, even what my paying job in Portland is. We chat for a minute before business begins.

This part happens so fast, it almost doesn’t seem like it happens at all. A flurry of crates, paperwork, leashes, name tags and bungee cords flies by as dogs are loaded into the van and secured for the trip to OHS in Portland.

blue mountain sign — John Muse at Blue Mountain Humane Association.

The dogs trust the man—whose name is John Muse—so when he picks up a reluctant and regal old dog so he doesn’t have to jump, the dog allows himself to be carried. When John tells a hound to “load up,” she happily jumps into the van and into the crate in one swoop. He has loved and cared for all of these dogs at his shelter, Blue Mountain Humane Association.

John knows all of the animals’ stories. I’m taking an older dog who was found as a stray; hard to believe no one ever came looking for him. This shaggy dog? He gets so depressed when he’s alone. Those two? Mother and daughter dogs who were brought in together.

John shakes my hand and sees me off, stopping me at the gate one last time. I can see the words in his eyes, but there are far too many to type here and they are words that I don’t think he’d speak anyway. Instead he admires the van, and tells me to be careful on the hill. I promise him I’ll drive like a little old lady because I’ve got important, precious cargo. It makes him smile.

The dogs know they’re leaving without their friend John—without the man who has cared for them and gotten to know them all. They bark and howl for a while, but I talk to them. I tell them how when we get where we’re going they’re going to get homes and families of their own. It quiets them down, and soon they sleep. Aside from an occasional woof asking where we are now, they’re quiet.

They trusted John, and now they trust me. John is trusting me. It’s an incredible responsibility that I carry through the desert.

From a little shelter in the brown house in Eastern Oregon, where they operate as minimally as they can, to the big city and the busy shelter where it must seem like we never sleep, the animals are equally loved.

When we arrive at OHS, we’re greeted by the Second Chance team, who get all the dogs settled in and comfortable in their new temporary home.

Right away, OHS staff and volunteers start getting to know all the new arrivals. I ask my fellow volunteers to take a moment to sit with Duke, the shaggy black dog with touches of grey on his muzzle. He gets so depressed when he’s alone. Duke would appreciate it, but so would John, the man that runs the little shelter in the brown house.

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