Im' Sorry Wilbur, we failed you

I was stunned to read an article in the Local section of my newspaper today about a hog at Glades Day School being tortured and “feared dead.”

It seems that overnight, someone came on the campus of the school and grabbed the largest pig in the pen, Wilbur, and tortured her with rocks, sticks, wooden rods, whatever. The rocks, etc, were found at the scene, which was so bloody and gruesome, that it shocked police. Wilbur was missing, and several other pigs were injured as well. But it was the pigs’ emotional state that worries students. When the caregivers (and I use that word lightly) came to the pen in the morning, the other pigs drew back, screaming in a way that they have never done before “It was a sound like I’ve never heard a bunch of pigs do in my life” said the man in charge. I am sickened and furious by this news story. G-damn it, will this ever stop?


It’s very old news by now that people who hurt animals will not hesitate to hurt people if given the chance. Whoever did this must be caught and prosecuted for animal cruelty. If the students are, as the story indicates, fearful that “it will happen again,” it is their responsibility to insure the safety of the animals, as it was all along. Those animals should have been secured behind locked doors. That anyone was able to get in and hurt them in the first place is a breach of their responsibility to stewardship of the animals in their care. Those kids failed Wilbur and the other pigs. We failed Wilbur for not teaching these kids to watch their animals more diligently.

Pigs are, indeed, sentient animals with sensitivities and emotions superior to many other animals. They are much more intelligent than other animals, such as dogs and cats, who are far more protected and “beloved.” I question the entire premise of raising pigs in a school where kids are taught to care for them, raise them, see to their every need, and then send them off to slaughter. What if these kids get attached to their charges? What if they develop a bond? Are they still expected to send them off to slaughter? What kind of mixed message is that? It tells kids to disregard their feelings, suppress them because this is what we do to animals. It tells kids that it’s ok to kill that which we have come to care about. As a humane educator, I spend my days in classrooms across the county teaching the exact opposite…..it’s not about loving animals; it’s about respect.

This also goes back to the tired, old arguments that pigs are not aware and that’s why it’s ok to keep them in tiny crates, so tiny they can’t even turn around. If pigs are “easily stressed out” as the article admits, then I hope that today, on Election Day, on the day California voters vote on Prop 2, the pigs and chickens in factory farms will get a modicum of relief. Floridians did it a few years back with the gestation crate initiative, and it’s time for Californians to step up and do the same.

Every citizen of Belle Glade should be on alert that there is a monster in their midst; the person(s) who would do this to an animal is a cold-hearted, egomaniacal bully who will not stop at animals. By Ce

CATS

It’s really hard for me to come home after a day at the shelter and see my cats. I love my cats, I sleep with them and I make sure they are near me all the time. So when I go to the shelter and see cats in cages, behind bars, I get a very sad feeling inside because I know they don’t belong there. It’s hard coming home to my cats, because I keep seeing the shelter cats in their faces. And, I think of my own cats in that place, and it horrifies me.

Cats don’t belong in cages. I don’t know why shelters can’t let them have free roaming privileges. “They” say it’s because the cats will get sick, get upper respiratory infection. But Best Friends Animal Sanctuary has done it, and so many other shelters as well that I am so tired of hearing that “it can’t be done” when I know damn well that it can.

The cats sit in those cages, so dejected. Some of them have blankets, most do not. And the blankets are not blankets at all. They could be a pillow case, a towel, a washcloth. They are always spread thinly on the bottom of the cage. Why not fluff them up a little, make a little soft spot in the stainless steel cage? I go and give them catnip, treats, pipe cleaner toys, and it breaks my heart how much those little things mean to the cats.

I can’t stand seeing them like that, in cages. But then, yesterday, a police officer came in looking at the cats. His cat, a beautiful black female he had adopted eight years ago “didn’t come home last night” and he came to see if maybe she was at the shelter. His cat is black, and this was the day before Halloween. I shudder to think what may be happening to this poor, declawed cat who was allowed to be outside with no protection from evil.

And then I think, well, maybe the cats in the cages are the lucky ones. They are not out on the street. They have enough to eat, and they are in a temperature controlled environment all day. Maybe some of them will even find homes. And I guess I feel a little better. For a while.

Maybe not. I don’t seem to feel the same way about the dogs. I love dogs, I do. But the dogs seem to fare better. They get walked, get exercise, get out at least. The cats, not so much. They live a lonely, isolated life behind bars and I can’t stand it.

Sometimes I think rescue is not for me at this stage in my life. But then, if not me, who? If not now, when?

Sometimes I think I care too much. Is that even possible? Sometimes I think that nobody ever understands.

Because I certainly don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all.

Should I or Shouldn't I?

Should I or Shouldn’t I?

I have never been one to give up on a companion animal. Once, when I did so, it was with the animals’ best interest at heart.

Case in point: When I adopted my greyhound, Eli, the timing was all wrong. I had an elderly black Standard Poodle, Tyrone, who was dying of lung cancer. I did not get that diagnosis until a few days after I adopted Eli. Eli. Strong, athletic, young, handsome Eli. Some say it was a slap in Tyrones’ face to bring in a “newer model” who was so young and athletic while he was still king of the castle. I did it because I thought Tyrone would appreciate some company, and because Eli needed a home right now or be in danger of losing his life. He had been a racing dog for five years, and it was time to retire (or, be put to sleep).

But Eli and Tyrone didn’t like one another very much, and so I asked a friend to foster Eli until after, well, you know, until after Tyrone went to the Rainbow Bridge.

A few weeks after Tyrone crossed over, Eli was back in my life and my home. I love Eli, he’s a good dog. He loved kids and made a great humane ed dog as well. But then, one day, my sister came to visit. She was sad because it was Christmas Eve, her cat had died, and she was about to lose her job. She was in a very sorry state. So, when she left to go home, I offered Eli to go home with her, provide some therapy for her. She readily accepted.

Naturally, that was the end of my life with Eli. That was five years ago! Eli is now ten and living the good life with my sister over on the west coast.

Now I have Murphy. Big, strong, loving, lovable goofy Murphy. I lost him and I got him back and now I am not so sure that having Murphy in my life is what’s best for Murphy. Some say that he loves me and just wants to be with me. But I say, maybe he would be happier with a family who goes traveling a lot, takes him to the beach more, for longer walks, for more playtime. Maybe a family with a big backyard and a pool. Murphy would like that. So, the question becomes, should I keep Murphy, selfish as it may seem, because I love him so much; or should I find a better home for him, a home that is more suited to his need for an active lifestyle? I just don’t know. Murphy is a great humane education dog, and he loves to go with me to work and to do my humane education classes, so I do keep him busy. But its not physically demanding, it’s just fun and games and letting kids pet him and learn to be safe around dogs. He is the perfect dog for that.

I have a dilemma, a storm in my soul. I don’t know what to do. My family says, “keep him, are you nuts?” My heart says “you love him; he loves you, what more do you need?” My head says “What’s love got to do with it? This dog needs exercise, lots of it, he needs to work, he’s a working dog after all.” And so the storm grows.

I am hoping that my indecision will last long enough for it to be moot because he will be old and sedentary and for that reason, my home will be just fine. Sometimes not making a decision is the best decision of all.

Es inevitable

It's inevitable

There was a time, many years ago, when I lived outside the United States. For about five years I was a resident of the Federal Republic of Germany by virtue of the fact that I was the wife of a military man. I didn’t love the military man, but I loved Germany, it was beautiful and the people were very friendly. I lived close enough to Paris to take a road trip now and then, and I availed myself of that opportunity often. Sadly, the people weren’t so friendly there. They say that many stereotypes have some truth to them, because everything comes from something. And I have to say, as much as I try to avoid stereotypes myself, Parisians are not the most hospitable people in the world. But wow, they sure make good pastries.

Anyway, what’s the point? Oh right, I was discussing my life, for a time, in Germany. Being immersed in the culture as I was, it was really very easy for me to pick up a few words in German, here and there. And since I worked for a German company, with German co-workers, I picked up a few more. After about six months or so, I was getting around pretty well. I enjoyed learning German, and being able to speak to the people around me. Most of them, the Germans that is, were pretty fluent in English and I was pleased to find that with my limited German vocabulary and their pieced-together English, I got along fine. I always thought that a lot of German words just sounded like bad English anyway; red is rot, yes is ja (like, yeah), car is automobile, but pronounced out-a-mo-beal, brother is bruder, sister is schwester, and so on. It made it an easy language to learn.

But when I returned to “The States,” I came back to a South Florida that was slowly becoming a place where a lot of people were speaking Spanish. So I took a few college courses, bought some tapes, took a class, and tried to get with the program. But it was futile. I couldn’t learn Spanish for two reasons: First, every time I tried to say a word in Spanish, my brain would first translate it to German, and then to Spanish. It was cumbersome. For example, if I was learning to say “My friend lives down the road” in Spanish, my brain was hard-wired to think “Mein Freund lebt auf dem Weg” first, and then from there, go to “Mi amigo vive en el camino.” So, you see my problem. And the second reason is because I wasn’t truly immersed in the language. Oh sure, there was a gardener here or a store clerk there, but I was usually too embarrassed to try out my Spanish with a total stranger who might laugh at my pathetic efforts. I went to Miami often enough, but not often enough to really have a need to speak the language. So I let it slide, and decided that in the scheme of things, well, it really wasn’t all that important that I learn to speak Spanish. And then, in a few years, my German fizzled down to a few words and numbers, and even those were pronounced badly.

But things are different now. There was a time when I could smugly think “Hey, when I lived in Germany, I learned the language; if those Hispanic people are here, they need to learn English,” and not think very much about it at all. But that time has passed, I’m afraid. I once read an Amy Tan book, I think it was her first one, The Joy Luck Club, in which her mother wisely offers this advice: “If you can’t change your circumstances, change your attitude.” I have pulled that little gem out of my little silk keepsake purse many a time. Mothers have great little sayings and give good advice, and since my mother never said anything remotely like that (though she did have a whole lotta other wise words of advice), I figured Amy’s mother wouldn’t mind if I tried that one on for size.

As I am doing now. It is no longer an option for me to learn Spanish, it’s a necessity. The area in which I live, if not the country, is quickly becoming a place where Spanish is being spoken all around me. It’s in the air at the grocery store, it glides across the halls in schools I visit, it settles comfortably around a group of ladies who lunch at any ordinary café, and it is on our television. So I can either get with the program, or I can be left in the archaic dustbowl of time, muttering to myself that I can’t understand a G-dam word anyone is saying anymore. I think I would rather get with the program.

See, I am the proud grandmother of three beautiful kids. And those beautiful kids are enthralled with a little Chicano kid named Diego, and a darling little Chica named Dora, and they watch the escapades of these two kids endlessly. I love these shows because Diego and Dora are animal rescuers. They save animals in trouble, and in so doing, teach little minds that animals are worth saving. That they are teaching a whole generation of American kids to speak Spanish is a bonus. These kids, my grandkids (and yours, don’t kid yourself) will need to speak Spanish if they are to compete in the world. Check the Want Ads, and you’ll see that many of them require bi-lingual applicants. So if these kids are learning to speak Spanish by watching television and taking Spanish in school, I want to support that. I want to learn to speak Spanish too so that we can communicate together. So if you come to my house you may see little post-it notes with the names of common household items written in Spanish. ‘El sofa, a la mesa, la television, el gato, el perro. They are all here, though those last two, the cat, the dog, can’t have post its, won’t stick to the fur. But I think I will remember the names for them.

What got me on this ‘kick’? I took my little grandson, mi pequeño nieto, to see a silly movie today; Beverly Hills Chihuahua. It was a cute Disney flick on the order of Old Yeller and Homeward Bound. Dog gets lost, finds a bunch of good-hearted mutts, dog finds love, lives happily ever after. The story is an oft-told, familiar tale but it was entertaining enough and “Lil Z” loved it. He’s only four but he was able to keep up. He loves dogs, comes by it naturally of course, so it was a good movie for him.

Sitting behind us in the theater was an entire Mexican family including mom, dad, three or four boys of various ages and a little girl. There was also an infant in a carrier. Now I know that I grumbled a little when I had to pay the $16 for me and my Lil Z to go to a movie. I can’t imagine how much this movie set this family back. But whatever it was, I can testify that they enjoyed it thoroughly. There was a LOT of Spanish words being spoken in this movie. The dogs, the people, the rat, and the iguana all spoke lots of Spanish, or broken English, and most of the movie took place in Mexico. I enjoyed their laughter, and I enjoyed the fact that some of the words went over my head, so that I missed the joke. But they “got it” and I found that amusing. I’m glad they enjoyed it, but I’m sorry that their movie choices are limited. I remember living in Germany and having to make a special effort to find the cinema that showed the movies in English.

I hope that my efforts to learn Spanish will pay off and someday I will be able to hold an entire conversation with a Spanish-speaking person. I hope that my grandchildren will be as fluent in Spanish and as comfortable speaking Spanish as they are English. I’m grateful for Diego and Dora, and the humane education that they are offering to children every time they save an animal, or teach us how to say that animals’ name in Spanish.

Maybe one day I will even blog in Spanish. That day is a while off yet, but it’s never too late to start a self-improvement project, and this is the one I’ve chosen.
Me deseo suerte, me amigos. Wish me luck.

When I was a kid..............

When I was a kid I used to think a lot about the year 2000. It seemed so very distant to me, so futuristic. To think, we would someday see the calendar roll over to a year that does not begin with a 19, but with a 20. That, to me, was an awe-inspiring notion. I would have said it was an awesome notion, but that word, sadly, has lost its punch.
When I was a kid I would tally up the years, thinking about how old I would be when we all reached the year 2000. No matter how many times I totaled it up, the answer was always the same, 45. If I were still around by the year 2000, I would be 45 years old. And back then, when I was a kid, I thought that sounded very old indeed. I wondered if I would be lucid enough to know what was going on in the world, being the decrepit old age of 45 and all. Would I be young enough to really know what was happening and would I be interested, being the decrepit old age of 45 and all. Little did I know that it was not I that would be decrepit (and all), but the world around me. I never dreamed that it would be me who was interesting, vital and forward-thinking. I figured I would be resting in a recliner somewhere while the world around me swirled in a constant state of mobility and dynamic change. I, of course, being the decrepit old age of 45, would not be a part of it all, but a watcher, and a mildly curious one at that.

Yup, when I was a kid, I sure was naïve’. As it turns out, the world around me has spiraled in a constant state of mobility all right, but the change, well, it hasn’t been all that great. I look around me and I don’t like what I see very much. I am fearful of the world around me, and I have a constant feeling of separation from the all that is. A feeling that I don’t belong here. A feeling of disconnect. When I see the things I see so clearly and understand how things work, they don’t make sense. Why is it that the villians are always the ones in charge? Most of us grew up with real idealism. I was going to say “family values” but, well, that phrase has long ago lost its meaning. We grew up thinking that if we always did right by our fellow creatures on this earth, always looking out for the other guy, always practicing “Right Thinking”, as the Buddhists say, that we will prevail. Maybe they meant that we will prevail in some other lifetime because surely, it’s not this one. I look around me and I see that the good citizens of the world, the backbone of society: the teachers, the police officers, the lawyers who work for non-profit or human rights, the physician who works in a free clinic, the secretary who is raising two kids alone, the nurse who has no health insurance of her own and the compassionate, peace-loving vegetarians; and I see that the world is not such a righteous place. Those who cheat other people, those who exploit the vulnerable and the weak, those who make their fortunes off the breaking backs of others, those are the ones who win. And when you simply want to help, want to give back, want to be a part of something bigger than you are, there is ALWAYS someone to knock you down. Someone who can’t stand anything but the status quo; someone who got their power by lies and deceit and fraud. It seems the people who enjoy seeing others suffer and hurt are the ones who avoid suffering and hurt themselves. Where is the justice?

When I was a kid I thought everyone was kind and loving. I thought I lived in a world where puppies and kittens and bunny rabbits and ducks were everyone’s idea of cute and cuddly and who would ever hurt such lovely little critters? Now I know better and I don’t like it. I know that there is evil in the world. It’s a lesson I learned late in life and for that maybe I should be grateful, it allowed me to hang on to my innocence just a little bit longer. But it’s a lesson of which I am reminded every day. There is evil in the world, I see it on a daily basis. I see it in my co-workers, I see it on the faces of the drivers in the cars around me, I see it in my elected officials, and I feel it all around me. It’s there. Like electricity, you can’t see it, but you can feel it in the air. It’s there. It’s everywhere. Maybe it’s all the negativity I am witnessing in the presidential election. Maybe I would rather hear the candidates extol their own virtues and ideas rather than knock down the other guy. The two most passionate patriots in our midst are running for president. Presumably, these are the best we have to offer, these are the best of the best, they are the ones who bubbled to the top and we, the little people, pushed them ever higher in our quest to find “The Perfect One” to be president, in fact, of the whole world. Yet, instead of giving them the glory and praise that they deserve, we tear them down, acting like common schoolyard bullies.

Childhood has its privileges and its benefits. Senility does too. There was a time I thought I would be too senile, at 45, to understand the world around me. How I wish that were true. Bye Ce.

No More Joe Six Pack

As a writer, I tend to see the world differently than most other people. I become curious, as do all writers, about things that other people fail to notice, or if they do, become disinterested. For example, if while driving I happen to look up and notice a lone duck flying in the sky, I wonder where his mate is. Knowing as I do that ducks pair up for life I can’t help but wonder where this particular ducks’ mate is. Was he felled by a hunter’s bullet? Did he get eaten by an alligator? Or perhaps this duck has not found a mate yet. But why does he fly alone? Where is his flock? And so it goes. I become obsessed over what others fail to see.

Lately, that obsession has been on the presidential campaign. I have always been interested in what’s going on in Washington because I want good, compassionate people up there working for me and my family and friends. If they aren’t good and compassionate, they won’t have the best interest of the country at heart, not really. They will have only their own interest at heart. And that isn’t good for anyone. So I have become a little obsessed over this campaign because I know that there is a vast difference between the two candidates. Sen. Obama has consistently voted in favor of animal bills, he has always taken animal issues seriously and not marginalized our movement by trivializing our issues. He came out against the inherent cruelties in the meat industry. He’s been a good and loyal friend to us as has Sen. Biden. Joe Biden has authored or co-authored and sponsored many an animal bill. His Humane Scorecard is stellar and he will be a powerful ally for us in Washington. McCain, on the other hand, has voted in our favor maybe twice, but beyond that, has never been a friend to the humane movement. He refused to participate in a survey conducted by the Humane Legislative Fund that would help us understand his positions, and he has accepted an invitation to speak at a Sportsman’s Alliance event. This is an extremist organization that is nothing short of a terrorist organization that targets animals. And Palin is an avid hunter. She participates in aerial hunting of wolves, has shot and killed moose and is in favor of de-listing the polar bear from the endangered species list. She is not a good and compassionate person. She has consistently voted against vulnerable populations including women, animals and the poor.

So I have become a little obsessive about this whole presidential campaign. I hope that America sees beyond race and allows Sen. Obama to be our next president. I think he and Joe Biden will do a great job. Palin and McCain, with their “down home average American Joe Six Pack” shtick is getting old. We need a president that is more presidential. They said that W was the kind of guy one wanted to have a beer with. He’s the worst president in American history! No more! Let’s have someone BETTER than Joe Six pack in the White House. We deserve better. We have been through enough in the past eight years. We deserve Sen. Obama.

Dog-House Blues

Yesterday I met a woman who had lost her husband to cancer. And then, she lost her home. She lost her home because, despite holding down two jobs, her paychecks were simply not enough to feed, clothe and otherwise care for herself and her two little kids. I met her at the shelter where I work, and she was turning in her two Silkie Terriers, more adorable dogs you couldn’t find. They were a little scraggly, in need of a good bath and brush out. But once we did all that, their coats would shine like a brand new penny and then, they would be ready to look for a new home.

The economy is hitting us hard. When I say “us”, I mean all of us. But in this context, I mean particularly those of us who are privileged to work in service to animals. Foreclosures are forcing good people to give up their beloved companion animals.

When those people bought those houses with mortgages that they could not afford, many of them also fulfilled a lifelong dream of getting a dog, perhaps for the kids, or maybe for companionship. Some of them had been waiting years to get out of an apartment that does not allow dogs and into a home where they can have all the companion animals they want. It must have been a really happy time for them; buying a home, furnishing it, telling all their friends, and going to the shelter or rescue to get a dog. Oh sure, many of these dogs were purchased from breeders or pet stores-----meaning that they were puppy mill dogs. But all in all, these were good, decent people who are responsible and caring in every way.

Working in a shelter allows me to see all kinds of things that those “on the outside” would never believe. Beautiful, healthy dogs and cats are routinely turned over to the shelter for reasons you and I could never, ever comprehend. “He’s gotten too big, he’s not big enough, he barks too much, he doesn’t bark enough, he is too friendly, he’s not friendly enough, he sheds, she doesn’t match the furniture, my roommate doesn’t like him, my boyfriend is allergic, my girlfriend hates dogs………”

These stupid, inane excuses go on and on and on ad nauseam! And then they drag in all their pets’ toys, their “blankies”, their “woobies” and their favorite food as if they were dropping their dogs off at a country club instead of a shelter where that animal will be confined to a small, cold, hard cage, or kennel, if he's lucky, and has, at best, a 50-50 chance of being euthanized.

And those of us at the shelter put on a smile, harden our hearts, and deal with the problem at hand. As much as we would love to shake these people and yell “WAKE UP”, we don’t. We don’t because we know that if we diss them, they won’t give us what we need, which is, information. We need information on their “beloved family member who is so very sweet and wouldn’t hurt a fly and is great with kids” We need to know: Does he get along with cats? Dogs? Kids? Is he house-trained? Does he do any tricks? Are there any health issues we need to address?

So you see, if we don’t act all phony and friendly and non-judgmental, then we won’t get the information we need to help this poor, voiceless animal. So we do what we can, and then we go home and we hug our own dog or cat just a little tighter and, perhaps, cry into their sweet, soft, fuzzy faces and, if we’re lucky, their soft bellies.

But now, there is a new class of people who are giving up their dogs. They have legitimate reasons to give them up……they are losing their homes, and the dog has to go. They are saddened, they are desperate, they are decent, compassionate folks who never dreamed they would be the ones adding to the pet overpopulation problem. And if they had gotten their dog or cat at the shelter to begin with, it’s doubly hard on the animal who is left wondering what the fuck he or she did to end up back in this horrible place, away from people he’s come to love, depend upon, and trust unconditionally. After all, didn’t he give unconditional love? Didn’t he protect them and care for them like the good wolf-dog that he is? So why, why did he end up back here?

When the war in Iraq started, shelters were inundated with dogs and cats whose guardians were headed overseas. With no family or friends stepping up to the plate, these animals ended up at the shelter. Some are fostered out, but most are not. We have those pets too. Now, with foreclosures and lay-offs and desperation in the hearts and minds of good citizens, we are over-capacity with animals who are victims of this administrations failure to lead, to shepherd, and to make sure that all is well when we turn out the lights at night on Main Street, USA.

This is what I believe............

I believe in the power of faith and compassion.

As an animal author and activist, I often hear the words “How can you care so much about animals and the environment when there are people suffering”.

This gives me pause and so I wonder: Is the ability to care for humans and as well as non-humans unattainable? I hurt deeply when I learn of people who suffer; those unfortunate souls who are desolate, hungry, saddened, friendless and victimized. My heart breaks for those who dare not speak up for themselves, the vulnerable and the exploited.

But my spirit shatters for the animals who try to make their way in the world and in doing so, are met with loathing and indifference, interference and competition. My compassion for the animals in the world does not take away from my compassion for the people. Compassion is not a substance that must be divided and parceled out, it is massive, it is universal, and it is both proud and humble.

I believe that you do not have to love to show respect. My compassion for the animals of the world is not born of love. Indeed, I find it challenging to find a morsel of love in my heart for a tarantula, though I know there are those who do so easily. Compassion is born of respect for the animals to be who they are. When my cat kills a lizard, I don’t love her in that terrible moment but I respect that the hunter in her was too powerful for her to overcome. She wants to be a lovely pussycat, she does, but the brave tiger in her sees the lizard and, well, here we are.

It’s difficult, too, to love the Orca when I see video footage of his torture of a helpless seal. It is hard to love a snake when he preys upon a fluffy, innocent bunny. So I believe with all my heart that love is not necessary for compassion. Bunny huggers notwithstanding, it’s not about love, it’s about respect.

The Native Americans knew that. Even as they slaughtered animals out of necessity, they did so with reverence and deference. They had faith that each life had a purpose, a destiny, a worth. Chief Seattle, so very wise, said “Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.”

His words astound me! How did he know this so very long before the advent of “new-age books”, without the help of Peta and Greenpeace and Ralph Nader? How is it possible that he understood that concept more than a century ago?

And so, I believe that when we show compassion to anyone, be it a field mouse or a fallen congressman, we make the world a better place in which all of us can thrive. I believe it doesn’t begin with love, it begins with respect. And that’s what I impart to my students when I engage in humane education activities. This is what I truly believe is right and good.

Dogs Deserve Better!

Dogs Deserve Better is the name of an organization that is an American success story. About five years ago, Tammy Grimes, an amazing activist in Little Rock, Arkansas, decided that she couldn’t stand it anymore. She couldn’t stand the sad faces of dogs chained to doghouses, trees, and all manner of anchor. She had to do something, and she did. She founded Dogs Deserve Better, (DDB) a non-profit organization to help raise awareness of the plight of chained dogs. Tammy is very good at what she does. Now, five years later, she has captured the attention of a nation of dog lovers. She did it by using her creativity, ingenuity and tenacity.
In February, on Valentines Day, Tammy kicks off a campaign to send valentines and biscuits to chained dogs. It’s just one of the many annual campaigns she runs to help these poor animals.
In July, DDB kicks off their “Unchain the Fifty” campaign during which activists from every state will chain themselves to a doghouse, engage in street drama, and distribute literature to help dog owners understand that dogs do not deserve to be chained, they deserve better. Tammy has some powerful Hollywood allies as Robin Williams, Candice Bergen, Jack Hanna, Daisy Fuentes and many more have donated their dog’s collars to help Tammy with her cause.
When I interviewed Tammy for my newest book, we discussed the fact that dogs are social animals. They have a need to be with a “pack” and since we have domesticated dogs, it stands to reason that we are, in fact, their pack. I asked Tammy if this was true. Here’s an excerpt from “Do Dogs Have Belly Buttons? (Adams Media, 2007):
“When I first remove the chains, dogs are often initially shy, frantic for attention, or even fearful which may manifest itself as aggression. This is all due to a lack of socialization and quality human companionship. After little more than a day or two, they begin to integrate with the pack, finding their spot, and it's not long before they recognize me as pack leader. I know this because they 'hang out' wherever I am. In my home, which doubles as the Dogs Deserve Better headquarters and foster training center, we have two fenced areas and two doggie doors. In essence these dogs could be outside all day long if they please, but they rarely are...unless I am. They spend much of the day following me around the house, trying to get me to play with them or interact with them in some way. A lot like my own children!”
Tammy believes that a dog's social neediness is why chaining or penning him for life is truly the worst punishment man can mete out to dogs. As pack animals, they long to be with their family, their pack. Since the pack society of long ago no longer exists, we humans have in essence become their pack, and they suffer terribly when ostracized from us. They've been 'thrown out' of the pack, and they don't know why. They stand looking toward the house, hoping against hope that their human pack members will come out and spend time with them; they act up, barking, whining, digging; or they give up and lay lethargically, not even bothering to show any excitement when a human comes outside.
As pack leaders, humans have to accept the responsibility of dogs who depend on us for their very survival. It's our job to ensure we are firm but loving with our dogs, so they can feel secure in their place in the pack, and we can have harmony in our households. In the wolf pack, a wolf that is kept away from the pack for some transgression panics because his chances of survival in the wild without his family are slim. A lone wolf cannot survive as well as a wolf pack, so it's no wonder a beagle or cocker spaniel who is tied to a tree acts up; he thinks he's doomed.
And many people wonder, if you are going to have a dog chained in the yard, locked up in the garage, or crated all day, why have a dog at all? What’s the point? Most dog lovers want their dogs right where they can see them and enjoy their company. Chained dogs are not effective guard dogs, and they disturb the neighbors. There is just no valid reason to chain a dog. In fact, Palm Beach County has an anti-tethering ordinance that states:
Section 24-D. Animals maintained on a tether must be in an area free of objects that may cause entanglements. All tethers must be a minimum of six (6) feet in length and longer if appropriate for the breed (i.e., Irish Wolfhound, Borzoi, Great Dane, St. Bernard, etc.). Choke type or prong type collars shall be used only while the animal is under the handler’s direction control. Between the hours of 10:00 am and 5:00 pm, animals shall not be on a tether outdoors. (Amendment August 19, 2003 – Ordinance No. 2003-029) E. Animals must be given appropriate daily exercise.
So what can you do to help Tammy and her efforts to make life better for dogs?
Visit www.dogsdeservebetter.com to learn how to help dogs have a better life. There, you will find handouts, ideas for trolleys and fences, download a power-point slideshow and much more.
I write about this because I want to commemorate Tammy and all the people like her who do amazing things. People like Tammy will probably never win a medal, or an award, or even the recognition she deserves. And now, she is being persecuted for "trespassing" on someone's property to save a dying dog. Prosecuted and persecuted for such a noble deed.
In my opinion, Tammy Deserves Better too.

Women Against Palin Blog

Well, I guess it was inevitable, I have been dragged into the national conversation about Sarah Palin. It happened quite by accident when a friend sent me what she considered a humorous video of someone mocking Barack Obama. She had entitled the e-mail “To my Republican friends” and I replied that I was surprised she had any. Of course, that set off a firestorm of e-mails. When I sent her the video of Palin engaged in the hunting of wolves, my friend was understandably shaken, but remains a staunch supporter of McCain nevertheless. She had some of her other GOP friends send e mails as well, trying to get me to see the other side.

Oh I see the other side, I just don’t agree with it.

And here’s the thing I noticed about these replies from her “Republican friends”. They don’t have a lot of cold, hard facts in their toolbox. They rely very heavily on insults, innuendo and flat out lies to wit: Obama=Muslim. They are free with the name-calling and rudeness. All I did was send out a video. I didn’t expect an assault from complete strangers calling me names and lying about my chosen candidate. But it appears that this is how the Republicans play the game. I don’t want to play the game that way. I would like to hear well thought out, intelligent reasoning as to why a person supports this candidate or that one, but I don’t want to be abused in the process. In return, I will listen attentively and patiently, consider my response, if I have one, and hopefully carry on a civilized conversation. This is how I was taught debates work. This is called fair fighting. This is how to argue. It’s how lawyers do it in court when one party disagrees with another. No name calling, no bullying, no insults. I thought I left all that in the grade-school playground.

Anyway, another friend sent me an email about a blog being written by women who are against Palin. She asked me to send my reasons why I don’t like Sarah Palin as a choice for Vice President. Here’s what I had to say about that:

I am a humane educator and the author of a book called "Canines in the Classroom", a book about raising humane children through interactions with animals. I am against Sara Palin because she stands for everything I despise and have spent my whole life fighting...animal abuse. The premise of my book, and my life's work, is that children who hurt animals when they are young grow up to be people who are cruel and abusive bullies as adults; conversely, children who are taught to respect animals and show compassion for vulnerable populations grow up to be solid citizens with good character.

Palin is a hunter, and she has killed hundreds of wolves using a method called aerial hunting, where the bullets rain down from a helicopter after the wolves have been flushed out of the forest and sent running into the open. She has killed moose and elk and does so with in the presence of her children. She has fought against animal welfare activists who have attempted to help wolves and polar bears, and has stubbornly refused to halt seal pup head bashing. Her so-called reverence for life seems to go only as far as those few cells in a woman's body that may or may not become a viable human being. She cares not for our brothers and sisters in the non-human animal realm, and her judgment is suspect, her character dark and sinister. If she becomes the person who is "one heartbeat away from the presidency" then we are in a sorry state of affairs, on a slippery slope back to the dark ages. Joe Biden, on the other hand, has a record of being a friend to the animals, legislatively. The difference is day and night (a very dark night indeed).

I don’t know if the bloggers asking for this information will post it or not, but you can visit their blog yourself at http://womenagainstsarahpalin.blogspot.com/

I don’t know how many people out there in cyberspace agree with my little writings or disagree, but I hope that we show respect for eachother no matter what the issues are, and that we take a stand for something. Anything. And if that stand is for change, and Barack Obama, so much the better.

Customize It

Customize it!

Someone stole my Obama bumper sticker right off the bumper of my brand new Jeep, the very same one about which I wrote so lovingly in my last blog entry.

It may not seem like such a big deal to you, and I’m sure it won’t if you’re a McCain supporter, but it’s a big deal to me.

For one, I picked up that particular bumper sticker on my last trip to Washington D.C. I used to travel a lot for business, but not so much anymore. And so it was on a business trip that I found myself with a few hours to myself and took the Metro over to Union Station. Lots of great things to see and do in Union Station! Anyways, they have this adorable little Washington D.C. store there, and for the life of me I wish I could remember the name of it (and I really do wish I could remember the name of it) that sells lots of stuff about politics, elections and Washington D.C. stuff. My son is an ex Coastie, so I found a cute t-shirt for him announcing “No, you don’t know me” with the words Witness Protection Program underneath. Funny stuff, that.

Anyway, I was there last year too and purchased both an Obama sticker and a Hillary sticker, because, well hey, back then, they both had an equal shot. Both of them proclaimed “Make History” and I wanted to be a part of making that history. But it was Barack who won and so it was his bumper sticker I proudly placed on my car. When I went back to DC earlier this year, I found an even better bumper sticker, a black sticker with green writing on it, the “O” in Obama was made from a peace sign. The same peace sign I grew up with back in the sixties. I loved that bumper sticker from the second I saw it and it was the last one there! I would have bought more of them but I couldn’t, being it was the last one there. So I took it home and replaced the boring old Make History sticker with the cool Peace sign sticker.

But then, someone stole it.

My car had occasion to visit the great state of Tennessee without me (I loaned it to my kid) and it was there, in Tennessee, where the bumper sticker came up missing. Now my son fancies himself a rabid Republican. His dad and I have tried to figure out where we went wrong but we couldn’t quite crack that mystery. I mean, I was a welfare mother when he was only a few months old, struggling to make it in a “rich man’s world.” I was a child of the sixties before that, all about free love and peace and rock and roll and all that crap. I love animals and the environment and give to all the right causes. We try to do the right thing by our fellow man. Yet still, we raised a kid who thinks Bush is a hero. I know, I know, I don’t get it either, but here we are. Someone once asked me what the difference between a Republican and a Democrat was, and how you could tell which one you were. I replied “Let’s say we’re all at an Easter egg hunt. The Republicans will take all the eggs they can find, and when their baskets are full and eggs are spilling out, they will go home. A Democrat will fill his basket as best he can (what with all those Republicans running about) and then, when his basket is full, he will stay and try to help the other participants fill their baskets as well.”

I thought it was a pretty good explanation. What I can’t figure out is why my son would rather go home with his eggs than help others get theirs. In real life, he’s the first one to step up and help someone in trouble, but I don’t think he truly understands what’s at stake with the elections, and how Bush is guilty of murdering over 3,000 people in a trumped-up war…..but I digress. I only note it here because it crossed my mind that, well, maybe HE took my bumper sticker off my car. But I asked him, and he said no, and that’s good enough for me.

But back to my story. I have already written about how much I love my Jeep, and how others comment on how they, too, have always wanted a Jeep. But what I didn’t make so clear is that my Jeep is just so… well….me. It looks like a car I would drive, and all the bling on it is all about my personality.

At my age, I think I have earned the privilege of customizing my car and using it to make a statement about who I am. After all, the days of driving the Mommy Car are long over, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t tag along with a man (Daddy, Hubby) as HE picked out my car. Nope. I did this all on my own. I picked out the make, model, year and color. And I bought the car of my dreams.

Then, I put an Irish flag license tag on the front, framed in an “I love my rescued retired greyhound” chrome-plated plate holder. I dangled a dream catcher on the rearview mirror, the same handmade one I bought during a visit at a Cherokee Indian reservation. Interwoven in the Dream Catcher is a miniature rosary that was made in a tiny Mexican village and brought back by the nun who visits them as a missionary. I have a “woof” oval decal on the window, and a little ball with paw prints all over it atop the antennae.

And, I had an Obama bumper sticker on the bumper.

In other words, the car was all mine. It is possibly the only thing, other than my books, that is truly mine. So the taking of my bumper sticker wasn’t just an act of petty thievery or criminal mischief, it was more than that. It was, here again, someone elses’ will being imposed upon my own, something that I thought I was way past.

And I’m sorry that someone is so angry, so threatened, so ignorant that they think they can stop the power of the first amendment by stealing a bumper sticker. I hope that whomever did it has the courage of his convictions. Despite all of it, I hope that the person who did this doesn’t stay home in November. I hope that this person will go out and vote. Because simply stealing a bumper sticker does not an activist make. Voting gives voice.

And if that voice is for McCain, well, I guess that’s better than no voice at all.
Bye Ce.

Jeepers Creepers

Hello, it's me! Me, the schmuck that purchased the last SUV seconds before gas prices went through the roof. I am here, right here, trying to find a way to defend my decision.
But hey, we’ve all made mistakes, right? I mean, as mistakes go, this one isn’t all that bad.

Hear me out.

There I was, happy as a clam, driving my sweet little, gas-sipping Toyota Camry, never dreaming that I would ever find a reason to give it up. I mean, this little baby had 110,000 miles on it and was still going strong. Sure, it looked like some old man’s car. It was grey, with grey interior, and it wasn’t very sexy, or racy, or trendy, but wow, was it great on gas. And when Tabitha (that’s my Standard Poodle) and I would go to the beach or the dog park or just about anywhere, we were comfortable, it was a comfortable ride. Tabitha would stretch out on the back seat, lounging about while I chauffeured her around town.

Life was good.

Then came Murph.
Who is Murph?

Only the best Golden Retriever in the retrieving business, that’s who! He’s a sweet old galoot of a dog who started out life as a puppy having been bred solely for the purpose of helping some wheelchair-bound soul who needed assistance getting around. But this guy found his way out of a life of servitude, smart cookie that he is, and this Golden Retriever refused to, well, retrieve! He could not be taught, trained, wheedled, educated, sweet-talked, cajoled, coaxed, wheedled or bribed into picking up objects dropped on the floor so that they could be handed over. And really, that’s a pretty necessary skill for a service dog. What good is a service dog who won’t serve?

So he was looking for a home and, what with the “Sucker” tattoo on my forehead and all, wormed his way into my heart, home and family. Now, I can’t imagine life without My Murph.

‘Cept for one thing…..remember the Camry? Well it wasn’t big enough for two big dogs to lounge around in the back. It was only big enough for me and Tabitha. Oh it’s not that I didn’t try, I surely did (and don’t call me Shirley)….sorry…couldn’t resist.

I tried very hard. I pushed and shoved and folded and shmushed but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get two dogs to fit on one little backseat. So, it was time for a new car.
C’mon, work with me here, a new dog is as good a reason as any to buy a new car, yes?

Here’s the thing, I’ve always wanted a Jeep. I don’t know why, but I think of Jeeps and I think of rebels. I think of cruising down the beach and bouncing along mountain roads and all kinds of cool things. I’ve always wanted a bright yellow Mustang Convertible too, but no ‘Stang can hold two big dogs so it was off to the Jeep dealership for me, dogs in tow.
The Jeep Liberty worked out beautifully. It’s big and roomy and so cool looking. Mine is bright red and has a satellite radio and the seats fold down making a huge queen-size bed in the back for Tabitha and Murphy to spread out and ride in style. I love my Jeep, I really do. I got it in January and the honeymoon is not over yet. I really love my Jeep. I guess it’s true what they say, “It’s a Jeep thing…..you wouldn’t understand.”

But a funny thing happened on my way through menopause. My Jeep makes me feel really hip and brings me back to my motorcycle-riding youth when I went cruisin’ down the beach road in my polka-dot bikini on my electric-blue Kawasaki crotch rocket. It takes me back to a happier, more carefree time and I like that a lot.

But then I found out something curious. A lot of people now confess to me that they, too, have always wanted a Jeep. They will admire my car and say “I’ve always wanted a Jeep” to which I always cry “Me Too!”

What’s going on here? I thought we were all supposed to be lusting after BMW’s and Porches and Mercedes Benzes. You remember Mercedes Benz, don’t you? Oh Lord, won’t you buy me? Worked hard all my life, no help from my friends… Janis got it. Why don’t I? Oh my God, could that possibly mean that I really don’t want to be a “have not” after all?

Allow me to explain. Whenever I throw blood on someone wearing a fur coat (all in a day’s work) or burn down a Hummer or shame my leather-bound, circus-going friends (whips and chains belong in the bedroom!) I always hear the tired old refrain “It’s just the haves vs. the have nots. She’s just jealous because she doesn’t have a bunny-fur coat….money for ossa bucca or tickets for the circus and because she’s jealous, she has to pretend she is against this stuff but she’s really just a have not.”

Yep, that’s what they say. THEY, in THEIR infinite wisdom, say things like that all that time.

In your face, Haves, guess what, we don’t want your shit. We want Jeeps. Jeeps!
That’s what woman of a certain age are craving these days. And I would love to talk to a psychiatrist or psychologist or one of those people who take all the fun out of dysfunctional, and find out what’s going on here. I mean, why Jeeps? Is it a TAWANDA syndrome? Are we harking back to a more carefree time?

Who cares?
I have always wanted a Jeep and now I have one, thanks to an underachieving Golden Retriever.
Like I said, I love my Murph!

That two-legged dog

If you're like me, you get lots of forwards in your mailbox. I get a lot of animal-related forwards and I have to say, I really enjoy the pictures. I even enjoy it when I get the same pictures again and again, because it gives me pause, causes me to be still for a few moments to celebrate animals.

But there is one e-mail that I get that always contains somewhere in the message “Awwww. How cute! How adorable! How inspiring! How wonderful that he was able to adapt to two legs.”

But I have to say, that dog who walks on two legs is not one of the forwards I enjoy getting over and over and over again. In fact, well, I’m not sure that this will make me many friends, but the truth is, I think it’s a terrible thing to watch. Truly.

Yes, that dog has overcome adversity, but…..umm..why? Why would we force a dog to do that when a humane euthanasia would have stopped his pain and forced adaptation? Of course he walks on two legs, what choice does he have? That dog had to either learn to walk on two legs, or find a way to crawl around using his back legs to push him. Would we be saying “aaawww” to that as well?

Now, I don’t know about you, but I have my share of back problems, just as millions of other human beings have theirs. Back pain is a terrible thing. But luckily, we have heating pads, nerve block injections, pain pills, pain patches, hot baths, massage, acupuncture, prayer, healing touch, aura cleansing, Reikki, and who knows what all else. All things to which this poor dog has no access. I can’t even imagine the pain that dog must be experiencing because he is forcing his spine to take a position it was never meant to take. His hips, his legs, his pelvis, in fact, his whole body, are all designed for an animal that walks on all four. Four on the floor! That’s the way dogs are designed to go through life. And that’s just the physical aspect of this poor hounds’ lot.

Emotionally, it can’t be easy. I mean, dogs are predator animals. Predator animals are not very good at being disabled, handicapped, “differently abled” or whatever the PC term is these days. They don’t like being “different” from the others. They are very sensitive to the fact that they are missing a limb, or two, and that they can no longer care for themselves.

And dogs communicate with us, and each other, using complicated and choreographed body language. While I was at the dog park yesterday with my two dogs, I saw lots of other dogs there and so did my dogs. They ran and played with most of them. But there was this elderly, almost blind yellow lab. She was off to the side, by herself, sniffing around, minding her own business. Not one dog so much as even sniffed her. The dogs recognized that this was a geriatric dog who couldn’t play and who was even a little fragile, and they respected that. They kept their distance. It was a beautiful thing to observe.

I love dogs. Anyone who knows me knows that I truly love dogs. Dogs are my life. Cats too. In fact, I truly love all animals. The joy in my heart is so big that I feel it will burst when I see the fuzzy face of a happy dog, a sagacious kitty, or even a little mouse. I get all warm and fuzzy when I look into the eyes of a silver back gorilla, recognizing that sentient being who is my brother. And my spirit soars at the sight of wild dolphins, my sea faring cousins.

And it’s because I love dogs that I can’t bear to see them suffer. I think that dog is suffering. I am sorry others don’t see that as well (though, truth be told, I am not the only one who feels this way, I’m just the only one who has the impudence to say so.)

Don’t get me wrong, I am not starting a campaign to have this dog put to sleep. Far from it. That ship has long sailed. Now that he’s here, and now that he has found a way to survive, I guess the best thing to do is to watch and wait. When this dog is elderly and frail, and can no longer stand on his own two feet, I hope that whomever is in charge of this dog (and I fervently pray that someone, somewhere, is the guardian of this dog) will do the right thing.
Bye Ce.

A Day in the Life of a Shelter

I hope you had a good day today. I hope I have a good one tomorrow.

It's hard to have a good day when all around you there is desperation. At the large municipal animal shelter where I spend my days, it's not easy to have a good day. It's not a county-run shelter, it's a humane society. It's been around since 1925 so I figure they know what they're doing. More educated minds than mine are working on the problem of homeless animals and yet they still keep coming.

I blame Bush.

I do. I blame him because in this horrendous, reprehensible economy, people are losing their homes. Their houses are getting foreclosed, and people are becoming desperate. Oh we all love to say that animals are part of the family, but which member of the family do you think is the first to go when the house is being taken away? It's not little Emily or Stephen. It's Rover or Fluffy. We have more lovely, adoptable, pampered animals in our shelter than I have ever seen before. They are cute, they are smart, and they are confused. I see their sad faces, I look into the eyes of these animals who, just last week, were lounging on someone's couch, running by someone's side or begging at someone's table. Their haunting eyes tell the story. They're confused, they're sad, they don't understand why they are in such a strange place, surrounded by strangers and kept at bay by iron bars and cement blocks.

How can you go to work when this is what you face day after day after day? How can you not? These animals need hope, they need friendship, and they need a new home. When it's your job to be that friend, provide that hope, and find that home, you don't stay home, you yearn to get in there and do your job because you know you can't rest until you do.

I doubt that pet stores, with their overpriced, underbred, genetically-needy dogs, are faring much better. But if anyone is still purchasing a dog at a petstore, shame on them. If anyone is still breeding dogs and selling them, shame on them. We don't need to bring more dogs into the world when shelters are overloaded, full to the max with perfectly healthy, well-adjusted, adoptable dogs.

You know, it's those eyes. You look into the gentle, benevolent brown eyes of a sweet-tempered yellow lab and you can almost hear the plea: "Can you take me out of this cage now and bring me back to my family please? I don't like it here. It's noisy, and it smells bad. I miss my bed, my toys, my humans." And you want to fling open the cage door and fly to the door and open it wide and say RUN, RUN, RUN AWAY TO FREEDOM but of course you can't do that because they would no sooner be out the door when they are hit by a car, or picked up by some sicko. So you try to explain it. You tell them, "you're safe here" you say "we will take good care of you here" and you mean it with all your heart but still, they look right through you, into your very heart and soul, and plead, "let me out, please, I want to go home now."

It takes everything you have not to throw them all in the car and bring 'em home. But of course, even if you could do that, the next day the shelter would be full of homeless dogs and cats again, and then what?

I think it's the cats for whom I feel the most sympathy. The dogs, at least, get to go for a walk now and then. They get to feel the fresh air and sunshine. The cats, well, they live for months and months in a sterile, steel-bank cage, no bigger than an open newspaper. They cannot walk, or climb, or scratch, or even play very well. All they can do is sleep. We have an awful lot of beautiful cats. Of course, all cats are beautiful. But the cats seem to be getting more beautiful all the time. They are bigger, somehow, and fluffier, and their eyes are green or blue or gold and wise beyond light years. I spend as much time as I can with them but it's never, ever enough. And then, when I go home to my own cats, I hug them just a little tighter, feed them just a few more "mouse bites" and linger with them just a little longer. I cannot imagine my sweet tiny Siamese, or my huge orange tomcat, or my little white 'fraidy cat ever spending even an hour in a place like that. And yet, here are a hundred or more, just like them, enduring life in a cage. It's not the shelter's fault. They do the best with what they have to work with. Nobody likes to see them in cages. But what can we do?

I had lunch with a friend of mine today who is an animal cruelty officer with the Sheriff's office. She told me about the newest fad, "Trunking". If you think what Michael Vick did was bad, you're going to really hate this. This is where they lock two fighting dogs in a trunk, drive around the city with their boom-boxes blaring, and take bets on which dog is left alive when they open the trunk.

So yeah, as much as I hate to see them in cages, I know they are much safer with us than out on their own, or even with a family who won't make a commitment to them. If I can't find a dog or cat a good forever home, maybe it's better to send him off to the Rainbow Bridge. It's kinder. The animal suffers no more. But of course, it haunts forever those who have to do administer the blue juice that sends them on their way. It's never an easy fix.

My job, as a humane educator, is to go out in the community and into the schools and convince everyone that the shelter is the place to get your pet, and do it now, quickly, because euthanasia looms like a eagle in flight, ever ready to dip and dive below and pluck some unfortunate, unwary little critter out of the sky. I must be happy and cheerful and positive and upbeat. After all, I work with kids, most of the time.

And you can't fool kids. Kids know. They always know. So if I think they see the desperation in my eyes, they do. And if I think they hear the desperation in my voice, they do.

And maybe they can somehow get through to their parents and teach them to be kinder to animals. Maybe they can start by voting for someone who will turn this economy around. Maybe, just maybe, our next new president will be responsible for keeping families in their homes. Every member of the family. Every day. Every time.

Oh, and vote Obama. He promised his kids if they get into the White House he would get them a dog. He promised US that the dog would be a shelter dog. What a fine example that would set! So for the sake of shelter pets, the economy and the world, please vote Obama.
Bye Ce

A little dog name Felipe'

So here we are getting soaked by a tropical storm named FAY. That's cool, we can handle it. We have been through hurricanes, so this is just a minor inconvenience. I am fostering a little Chihuahua these days. I am not really a small dog person, I think that when it comes to dogs, the bigger the better! But this little guy, who I am calling Felipe', was rescued from a terrible situation, a Tennesssee puppy mill.

When I first became involved in the animal rights movement, I was inundated with literature about every animal issue you can possibly imagine, and then some. There were graphic photos of animals in labs, their eyes and skin burned and the suffering intense. There were "insider" videos of circus elephants being abused, and rodeo horses being sodomized with electric prods. Then there are the seal hunts, factory farming, chickens in battery cages, the fur trappers, marine mammels and the Higgens Pigeon Shoot. The list went on and on, and still does.

But something snapped in me the day I saw a video on television of dogs in a puppy mill. The video depicted a young dog, so young that she must have been a baby herself. She was in a tiny cramped cage, and she had a litter of about eight puppies. There was no place for her to go to get a break from those puppies, and the look on her face was a mixture of sheer exhaustion, panic and fear. I saw in her eyes a dog that still had some hope but was quickly coming to the realization that this was her life. Her puppies were clammoring for her attention, but the exhausted dog could only sit there, panting, looking for an escape that would never come. When I saw that video, my heart broke and it has stayed broken ever since. This was in 1985. And although the pictures of other animals who are suffering still get to me and cause me to become physically ill, it is that one video of that one dog that continues to haunt me. I will never, ever get the image of that dog's face out of my head. I really couldn't even tell you what breed she was because I was so focused on her terrified eyes.

And so, I decided to dedicate myself to putting a stop to puppy mills. And all these years I have been doing my level best to keep everyone I know from purchasing dogs from pet stores, online, or through "puppy brokers". How do you go about ending something as prevalent as puppy mills?

Humane education. That is the only thing that I know and so that's the tool I use. It is a very slow process and my efforts seem to effect nothing, and nobody. I never feel that I am making any headway.

So when Oprah decided to dedicate an episode of her show to puppy mills, I was thrilled. Although I had been writing to her on a weekly basis, visiting her website and faithfully clicking on the "comments" link. Week after week I suggested puppy mills as an important show to air. But it wasn't until someone leased a billboard outside Harpo studios that Oprah got the message and decided to do the show.

I tried leasing a billboard once. It was, ideally, in the parking lot of a shopping strip that included a pet store. I wanted to lease the billboard and adorn it with photos of dogs in puppy mills. But I learned that the monthly rent on that billboard was $3,000 and required a year's lease. I don't have $3,000 and couldn't raise it. So I depended instead on getting a few people together and having a demonstration outside the store. This angered the proprieter, who called the police. He was told that we were exercising our first amendment rights, which angered him even more. But the upshot was, eventually, the store did go out of business.

Then I figured I would try to get some legislation to put those puppy mills out of business. I tried calling the humane society, the animal rights groups, talking to my own legislators. Nobody cared enough to take this issue on. But then, one day, a person who has a lot of money and influence learned about puppy mills and, suddenly, there is a pending puppy mill bill moving slowly through the system.

As a writer, I have often asked my agent, editors and publishers if I could write a book about puppy mills. "Who would buy it?" They all countered. "It's not marketable," they all said. But then, this same person of influence came out with a hardcover book, A Rare Breed of Love, that tells the story of puppy mill dogs.

Someone once told me that in every movement there are those of us who chip away at the issue for years and years. They make slow progress, they rarely see the results of their actions. And then, suddenly, someone comes along and gives the issue a big, fat, aggressive push and things begin to happen.

The point is, it doesn't matter who brings about change, it's only that change is brought about that really matters. Oh, and it helps to have money. A lot of it.

But back to little Felipe'. The shelter where I work was involved in a seizure of 32 dogs from a puppy mill. It took the vet techs weeks to get these dogs ready for adoption. First, they had to be groomed because they had fecal matter matted in their fur. Their little paws had to be treated because the chicken wire on which they lived sliced through the pads. They all needed to be altered, of course. And what is strange about this story is that we have over four hundred animals in our shelter, but it took a puppy mill seizure to bring people out of the woodwork. Everyone wanted one of the puppy mill dogs when we had other, perfectly adoptable dogs who have been waiting for weeks to find a home.

The dogs then needed to be rehabilitated. Their emotional and psychological state was a mess. Some of them had to be put on amitriptoline (elavil) for anxiety. They continued to spin into madness, even though they were in long kennels instead of tiny chicken wire cages. Some of the dogs snapped out of it rather quickly, and they were soon adopted. But others continued to be catatonic, and unreachable. Felipe' is one of those dogs. He's a beautiful, pure white, long-haired Chihuahua. He'd make someone a nice companion. But we needed to get him to "come around". So I took him home, much to the chagrin of my big dogs and cats. Within hours he was wagging his tail. He became housetrained within a half a day, and is learning to walk on a leash. He's a good little soul who needs a home where he can be free to be himself and continue to work out his issues. I hope he finds a home soon. But in the meantime, I have an extra little bow-bow who has funny little habits. He likes to lick my hair, and he walks on the back of the couch. He plays with cat toys just like a cat would, batting the little mouse here and there and chasing after it. He runs to the safety of his crate when he sees any men--my husband and sons included. But I think he'll get over it and be just fine.

I am happy to be able to play a part in the rescue of an actual puppy mill victim. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And that's something all the money in the world can't buy.
Bye Ce

Prayers for Morgan Freeman

It may seem odd placing a plea for prayers for an actor on an animal advocacy website but I think he's one of the good guys and I hope he will be ok. I loved him in Evan Almighty, especially the part where he gives the stray dog a bowl of water, and then, while listing the wonderful things that "Evan" did, he listed "giving that stray dog a home" as one of them. Of course, we know that giving a stray dog a home is one of the most honorable things one can do! But to have it articulated by someone as special, and talented, and sexy as Morgan Freeman is such a rush!
Bye Ce

Safe and Sound

A few weeks ago I was in a terrible place. I wrote about my sadness over the loss of my wonderful Golden Retriever, Murphy, who was taken away from me by a very bad person. I sued, I won, and I have my dog back! I can't tell even tell you how many people have said that they cannot imagine having their beloved family pet ripped away from them without so much as a five-minute warning. The people who did this know who they are, and they are not to be trusted, ever.


But its' over and Murphy walked into the house as if he had only been out for a walkie! He went straight to his toy box and grabbed his favorite toy, then on to the food bowl to see if "The Poodle" had left any kibble in her bowl (she had) and then lay down on his favorite spot in the house as if he'd never left. We can learn so much from a canine! For example, how many of us could have come home after being away six weeks and just 'settled in' without checking e-mail, snail mail, phone calls, etc. Not many. But dogs are very forgiving, and I think that is a very good thing indeed. The three cats looked at him and, basically, yawned, a disdainful look of "Oh, I see YOU'RE back" in their eyes.



My world is lighter. When Murphy was taken away from me, the little ray of sunshine which follows me around expired. When Murphy was gone, I needed drugs and therapy and lots and lots of Bacardi to help me get through the terrible days of loneliness. But when he came back, the light came back on for me and my world is right again. It's an amazing thing, what companion animals can do for us. I always sing to my dogs, whether they like it or not (and just between us, I think that they are annoyed sometimes), and most dogs respond pretty dramatically to a happy song. They jump up, they wag their tails, they run in tight little circles. But not Murphy, when I sing to Murphy, he just lays motionless on the floor and looks up at me with those sad Golden Retriever eyes, eyes that are perpetually "puppy dog" eyes. So, of course, I had to sing louder, happier, and more elaborately. I am forced to bust a few dance moves in the process, and maybe, just maybe, he will deign to raise his head. But then, if I am very fortunate, he will suddenly jump up, tail wagging, happy smile, and join me. He would run between my legs and jump for joy in the air and the three of us (The Poodle, don't forget) would dance like happy idiots. But it took work to bring him to that point, and that was my challenge. And how can you help but be happy and spiritually cleansed with all that singing and dancing going on? I love it that Murphy doesn't make it easy for me. I love it that he makes me work for it. I love him for bringing out the best in me. And I am so grateful I have him home.

There are still people in this saga who need to be sued, who need a good ass-kickin' if the truth be told. But maybe I can find it in my heart to let it go. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord" and so I guess I have to take the high road and let Karma step in and even that score. To do anything less would bring a pox on my house too, and we don't need no stinkin' poxes, we're ok now. And that's the way we'll stay.
Bye Ce

Taking Action For Animals

I was so pleased to be a part of the Taking Action for Animals (TAFA) Conference in Washington DC this year. We worked hard on several bills: The Horse Slaughter Act, the Downed Animal Act and Baby's Bill, a bill to make things a little better for dogs in puppy mills.

And while I always enjoy writing about the important work that the HSUS and other organizations do every day, I know that others do it much better than I do and so I invite the reader to visit Wayne Pacelle's blog on the HSUS.ORG website.

But I want instead to write about how perplexing it is to me how cruel people can be, especially to small, sentient animals. I knew that there is evil in the world, but at TAFA we heard excuses that made absolutely no sense, i.e. "animals don't have emotions, they don't have feelings" and this is why it's ok to treat them like chattle and to comodify them. How any thinking person can say something like that with a straight face and feel that others will believe it is beyond me. And these words are spoken with great authority, as if there is no discussion necessary or even invited, the matter being settled merely because someone uttered the statement. But truly, if one understands that animals have the same nervous systems as do we, the same capacity for fear and loneliness, the same hearts that beat and break within their chests as the ones that beat in ours, how can they say such stupid things?

When discussing food animals, the excuse is usually, "Well, animals are made for food. If we didn't breed cows, they wouldn't have life. Cows are bred for food." Thankfully, many of us don't believe that to be true, and even if we did concede that point, that cows were bred for food, that speaks not to the horror and pain of the abatoir. The adrenaline pumping, the fear coursing through the bodies of the animals about to be slaughtered, watching their own being butchered even as they stand in line awaiting their turn, these animals certainly suffer the panic one feels when faced with their imminent death. Think about being in a plane suddenly losing power and going down, with no hope of survival, and maybe you will understand billions of cows must feel every day.

The little dog we met, Baby, for whom the puppy mill bill was introduced, is a lovely little white poodle who was bred over and over for nine years before she was rescued. Her vocal chords were cut with a scissors! A scissors! Because the monsters who ran the puppy factory did not want to hear her cries for help, for relief, for release. So they slid a pair of scissors down her throat and cut her vocal chords. I have heard of people "debarking" dogs surgically and I thought that was bad enough, but this, this is beyond cruelty. I often wonder how people who do these heinous things find the peace to fall into sleep each night. They must drink themselves, or drug themselves into a stupor. How else could they put the deeds they have done in perspective.

They, in their infinite wisdom, say that "what goes around comes around" and "they will get theirs in the end" but I don't know if that is true, and if it is, if it happens fast enough for the rest of us. And that is why there are laws to protect animals from people; more laws in fact than protect people from animals. And that says something about our society. In fact, it says something profound indeed. Bye Ce

Back in the saddle

I am so very happy to be back at the Humane Society of the Palm Beaches! It has been five years since I left there and I can't believe how much things have changed in just five short years. Many of the staff are still the same, and that's really good because all the good people stayed, or are coming back. I still have some reservations about working in the shelter and seeing all those sad, sad faces. I found a cat in the cat room who had been there since November of 2007! I can't believe how long he's been there. I think it's very hard to place cats, everyone wants kittens. I so wish I had a big, big farm with lots of land far, far away from any roads or cars or trucks and I would have lots of "barn cats" who could live on the premises and just be free. But of course I would take twenty and in a day or so twenty more would have taken their place. It never ends and that is the tragedy of working in a shelter. I keep looking for Siamese, and wondering what I will do if I find one. It will be very hard for me to leave a Siamese behind. Or if I find that perfect Maine Coon that I have been waiting for my whole life. I don't think I can bring any new cats into the household though. The existing resident cats wouldn't like that and have made that perfectly clear every time Rocky and Clyde come to visit. Maybe they would get over it, but they are all older now and so set in their ways.

And there is a very sad greyhound. He's a love. He's black with a little white blaze on his chest. He reminds me of my sweet Eli who I miss so much but he's much, much thinner, scrawny, actually. He is usually up there at the cage door, always the first to be curious and interested to see who is visiting. But not today. Today he lay in his bed and all my efforts to make friends with him were in vain. It's all so very, very sad.

I am looking forward to going to Capital Hill this weekend to work on all the pending bills. I always feel as if I have made a big difference after going to this conference. This is not a conference with a bunch of people with big egos just wanting to see and be seen. No, this is a very important work time to get a lot of work done. There was quite a bit of controversy over TAFA last year because of the humane farming activities, but that does not seem to be an issue this year.

I have to try to talk myself out of taking home this little white, long-haired Chihuahua. This little guy has a whole lot of issues and I am not sure I am strong enough to deal with them all. He's not housebroken, of course, and that will be an issue. I wonder how long it will take him to learn? But there is the bigger issue of his emotional stuff. He really has a lot of psychological issues, as do all the other dogs in the shelter who came from the Tennessee puppy mill. I pray that they will all recover, and find loving and caring homes. I am proud to be a part of the effort.
Bye Ce

Horse therapy in Montana

I suffered an intense loss a few weeks ago. Eighteen months ago I adopted a gentle-hearted Golden Retriever from a "service dog" organization. He was up for adoption because he had not fully made it through the training. I bonded with him, as did all the children we work with through our Reading Dog program, several of whom are autistic, their trust hard won. But suddenly, the organization decided they wanted him back. Without discussion, and without forewarning, they literally stole him away from me. “He’s still our PROPERTY,” they declared. They didn’t charge malfeasance, they simply wanted him back. It was a bizarre, incredibly cruel thing for them to do. And what do you do with that? How do you deal with evil when it presents itself in an otherwise gentle life?

Well, this Florida girl took off for Montana for a week. In a peaceful valley close to the west Yellowstone entrance is a place of utter tranquility. "I feel something here, sacredness, a spirituality in the air," I remarked to my hostess, who lived on the other side of the ranch. "You should," she replied, "This is the place where all the Native American tribes would meet to have their peace conferences. It was safe, surrounded as it is by mountains. With the wide open fields, they could see enemies coming from far away. The Indians, they thought of this place as consecrated. It's a healing place."

And indeed it was. It was quiet and tranquil and I faced my demons head-on there. I had to, there wasn't much else to do. Of course I thought of my beloved Murphy, to whom I had given all of my heart. Of course, I thought about all the ways I could have done better, tried harder, and fought tougher to keep him, but I was physically outnumbered, and they took him away. Oh that hindsight, it is an effective but brutal teacher.

I tell you this because I want you to fully understand the pain and torture that was in my heart those days, and for many days. It is only through empathy that you can understand the grace the horses bestowed upon me.

On the property where I was staying lived two lovely brown horses. I knew nothing about them: not their names, their gender, their breed, their purpose there on the ranch. I only knew they were there because I heard them whinnying from my bedroom window and went to investigate. Oh what beautiful animals! Such soulful eyes and handsome features they have. And so I went and stood with them, basking in their presence, feeling the mighty spirit that lives within the horse, and I was calmed.

Up until that point, I had been lonely. This was a retreat for me, in every sense of the word. Like a soldier retreating from battle, I had withdrawn from the fight in Florida to seek solace in a new and unfamiliar state. But sometimes, loneliness envelopes one like a weighty velvet cloak. The deep “purple-ness” of it more a feeling than a color, its heaviness pushing down deeply into one’s body, making muscles ache and spirit weak. Being lonely is not the same as being alone, after all. To be lonely is to be fearful of one’s very own thoughts as they intrude and harass and, damn it, won’t take their leave. They strike fear simply because of their dreaded potential to do oh-so-much harm. In the dead of the night, when there is not so much as a moth to keep you company, not another beating heart, not another breathing soul, just you and the night, that’s when it happens. The anticipation of it is almost as bad as the terrible thoughts themselves. Have you ever feared your own thoughts with still ten hours of night to suffer through? No? Then count your blessing, friend, because to experience this kind of loneliness is to peak into a tiny corner of hell.

Oh, but those beautiful horses. They were just there, outside my window, keeping watch. Saint Michael himself could have been astride one of these beautiful animals and maybe he was. Can he help me get my dog back?

I don’t know a lot about horses. Naturally I Googled horses and spent most of the next day trying to understand them. I know that there are those who are fighting for them to be saved from slaughter; legislation is on the table which would save them from an inhumane and unnecessary death. I wrote my congressman about it a while back and forgot about it. But now, it was critical that I understood them. I wanted to learn more. I read articles, journal entries, stories, blogs and anything else I could about horses. I learned a great deal, and also felt a great shame at the way horses have always been treated by my kind. Just watch a Western movie, really watch it from a horses’ point of view, and you’ll understand my disgrace. These two horses were gentle souls, with eyes full of the wisdom of generations of beautiful brown horses who came before. They looked at me curiously, and allowed me to feed them carrots and pet their soft velveteen ears. I was grateful for their ministry, and spent hours sitting in the sun by their corral just to BE. And just to be with them.

One day, I saw two young girls saddled them up and take them for a ride. As they were walking with them on lead, one horse stopped to graze from the fresh green grass just outside his pasture. How long had he been staring at that bright, wet grass that was, maddeningly, just out of reach? Now he had his chance. But the girl kicked at his nose and face with her boot to get him to stop, and so the moment was not so idyllic after all. The horse didn’t seem to mind. But who taught that girl that it’s ok to kick a horse in the face? And what else are they teaching her?

And so I thought that maybe, if young girls like her are taught that horses are sentient beings deserving of our admiration and respect, they wouldn’t grow up to be the kind of woman who callously breaks two hearts: The canine heart that beats just under the bountiful mane of the chest of a Golden Retriever, and the human heart that is my own.
Bye Ce

It's Bigger Than I Am

It’s bigger than I am…….
By Michelle A. Rivera

I love all creatures great and small
I don’t distinguish them at all
I don’t just love the cute and fluffy
I love the scaled, the finned, and scruffy
It’s bigger than I am…..a grave and heavy weight

They do not have a voice, you see
And so I fear it falls to me
If what I say strikes then a chord
I fear my swift linguistic sword
It’s bigger than I am…..a sharp, incisive blade

I’m sorry if I do offend
I cannot for peace just pretend
Or deafen to the words you say
For in my dreams I’ll dearly pay
It’s bigger than I am…..a demon, haunting dread

I will not ask you to forgive
I ask you only live, let live
And speak not of this scorching plea
And speak not harshly thee, of me.
It’s bigger than I am…..it’s bigger than I am
Bye Ce