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.