The humane atheist chooses to work with the animals people have left behind. His particular shelter is located off Route 62, though it is not accessible from the highway. While volunteers flitter in and out, and those convicted of misdemeanors count down their community service hours, he files paperwork and checks the new drop-offs for worms, for fleas. He is the first one to brush out their matted fur.
A few years earlier, the state built a jailhouse next to the shelter. Although it blocks the shelter’s view of the highway, their parking lots are not connected, and the humane atheist must drive a half-mile out of his way to get to work. Every morning he sees rows of black and white cruisers and the long, barbed wire fence of the jail. Sometimes a few officers stand outside laughing, having a cigarette. In a humane society, thinks the atheist, even the jailers would hate their walls.
