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.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
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
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
Monday, August 4, 2008
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
Bye Ce
Saturday, August 2, 2008
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)