The pungent smell of animals stung her nostrils. Inside a grey hall with small cells, each with scared and irritated dogs and cats. The shelter staff told a lady, in her mid-30s, “Now we’ve checked your status, and you’re qualified as a potential owner. Go check out the shelter to see if any of them appeals to you. Good luck.” She didn’t like how the staff called these miserable animals without any pronouns. The poor hygiene management of the shelter tells her about how they treat these spirits, she thought. As she walked, she read the small plastic board hung on top of iron bars, separating the dogs from the lives that any natural beings deserve. “A mixed dog, with skin infection.” “Mixed dog, biting habit, injured the previous owner.” Some didn’t even have anything written. A few of them wagged their tails faintly as they saw her passing them. Others crawled their tales, scared to even look her up. She then came to a cell with a dingy, white dog. It was shivering from the air temperature, almost the same as the outside at the end of winter. The board only had two sentences. “This dog, the west highland white terrier, was abandoned after the previous owner passed away. Loves water.” The white dog, though alarmed and shivering, looked up at her with a sharp, spirited glint in its eyes. There lies hope, she felt. She asked a cleaning staff lazily sweeping the floor, “What is it that this dog loves water?” The woman said with a Spanish accent, “It just loves to play with water. It doesn’t get scared. That’s all we know.”