BunnyHuggerz Writes

League of Humane Voters A Good Idea

2012-01-27T12:41:00.003-05:00

So I met with Kathrine McGill last night. I had met Kathrine in Washington D.C. at Lobby Day in July of 2011 and learned we are neighbors. She's been busy volunteering with the League of Humane Voters and trying to get this fledgling political action committee off the ground. The goal of the LOHV is to get animal-friendly politicians elected to office. The idea is, if we can form a voting block, like the NRA, for example, and get people elected to office that really give a damn, those people will then return the favor when we ask for animal-friendly legislation. What happens with a lot of the legislation that we manage to get to Tallahassee or even Washington D.C. is that they end up in the hands of hunters, factory farmers, egg producers and others who serve on these committees but who really don't give a damn about our legislation. If we can get people elected to office that care about animals, we may be able to make a difference. The League of Humane Voters is a nationwide effort with state chapters. They are not a charity, they are a political action committee.

If you can imagine what your dog or cat would want to say, how they would vote if only they could, you can imagine all that we can get accomplished.

Help Greyhounds-Call Tallahassee

2012-01-24T10:53:00.001-05:00

There are currently two bills sitting on lawmaker's desks in Tallahassee. These bills would bring The Sunshine State into the new millennium and leave the old ways behind. Currently, there are only seven states where greyhound racing is still ongoing. Sad to say, Florida is one of them. The rest of the country seems to know something Florida has yet to learn: Greyhound racing is a cruel and dying industry and Florida needs to get with the program, according to Grey2KUSA, a greyhound advocate group. Florida has the embarrassing distinction of being the state with the most greyhound tracks, 13 of 22 operational tracks in the United States are in Florida. It doesn't make good financial sense to keep these tracks open since gambling on dogs decreased by 57% since 2001 (source: grey2kusa.org). Why Florida is perpetuating this cruel industry is a mystery.

I know from personal experience greyhounds are gentle and sentient creatures. They are sensitive and emotional, just like any other dog. The fact that they have been turned into little more than a commodity doesn't make them less sentient. I think that sometimes humans have a tendency to think of greyhounds, and pit bulls too, for that matter, as dogs who don't really feel pain or emotion. We do this to steel ourselves against the onslaught of emotion and sadness we would experience should we let down that barrier and allow the feelings to come flooding in. It's the same thing meat eaters do. They are aware of the suffering and cruelty inherent in the meat industry, but they don't want to think about it. To do so would require a change in behavior, and we can't have that.

House Bill 641 and Senate Bill 382 would decouple live greyhound racing. Decoupling means that Florida would no longer have a mandatory racing requirement that forces greyhound tracks to offer live greyhound racing as a “loss leader” for other, more practical forms of gambling. Those tracks who want to do away with live greyhound racing in favor of more lucrative gambling practices such as casinos would be allowed to do so under the new laws. If passed, this legislation would save the lives of millions of greyhounds.

America Is A Good Idea

2011-07-05T11:35:00.002-04:00

Lately I have not been feeling very patriotic. I admit that's not a very popular thing to say. I haven't been a good American, don't feel like I love my country, am mad at it most of the time and hate that I feel this way. Bono, during the u2 360 concert last week, said "I love your country, America is a good idea." I got to thinking about that. America is a good idea. He didn't say America is a good country, he said it's a good idea. Well, I get it. I get that America is not actually what it set out to be. But what it set out to be is a good idea. Democracy is a good idea, but it's not for everyone. We are learning that right about now with the war in the middle east now in its tenth year. Who knew, back on September 11, 2001, that in 2011 we would still be fighting the bastards. Who knew?

I have been mad at America for quite some time. I think it has to do with the vitriol in politics. We are so divided, us and them, we are so far divided that sometimes I think we are not united at all. We are not united, we are divided, and we are our own worst enemy.

A member of our family has been in Afghanistan in the United States Army for the past few years. Every now and then she gets to come home for a little while to see her three-year-old son, Isaiah for a month or so. She came home last month for a year. She may not be going back at all, but for the time being, she's safe at home, stationed in Georgia and living and raising her son. I do not know this girl very well, having only met her once or twice before at my son's house. She is my son's wife's first cousin and she and my daughter-in-law, Kelly, are very close. When I saw her over the 4th of July weekend, I openly cried to see her home, sitting with her son, safe and sound. It was embarrassing, this reaction, since I don't know her very well, but I was unable to control myself. Sobbing with sincere gratitude that we were gathered for a party in her honor and not for a more sinister reason, I had to turn away so she would not think me melodramatic. I ached to think how utterly sad and tragic it would be had we not had her homecoming to celebrate that day. When I heard of how she went out for bagels one day soon after her return from Afghanistan, and Isaiah, having awakened in her absence, cried because he thought she had "gone back to Ganistan," it broke my heart. It breaks my heart still every time I think of it. I am insane with anger, furious at a country that allows a child to feel that insecurity, and I know that this little drama is being played out all over the world for U.S. soldiers and allies. I am livid with a country that will allow a president with a personal vendetta to get us into a war that we have no business fighting. We will get out of there, of course, but things will go back to the same for them and we will have lost thousands of innocent young men and women for no good reason. I'm incensed at a country that allows the mentally ill to have guns, and that radio personalities and game-show hosts get to fashion our history. How is it that decent citizens celebrate a person who kills wolves from a helicopter as someone we follow and adore? How did we get here? And why?

So yes, I'm mad as hell at our country right now, and feeling as I do, should probably move to Ireland where I belong. If I lived in Belfast during "The Troubles" I know I would have been an activist for freedom, and maybe I would have lost my life too, but there are clear reasons for fighting, and there are muddy waters in the decision making of the day, and we are nearing the weeds ever-so-slowly and painfully. We are like a person who knows that if he gets behind the wheel drunk, he may very well die, but he is powerless to stop himself. We are fascinated by those who scratch and claw their way into the limelight, and like moths to the flame we are drawn to them. But we do so at our own peril.

I was feeling very bitter about my country up until about 2100hrs last night when I happened upon a special on the naturalization ceremony for new citizens. A million immigrants become American citizens every year. Seeing America through their eyes helped me to get a grip on my own storm of negativity, my depression over being here, being a self-hating American. They were celebratory, all of them. With tears in their eyes and pride in their hearts, they took the oath to serve and protect America, to love her like they do their own homeland, and to be a good addition to the country, not a drain. I could not help myself, my own eyes filled with tears, my own heart swelled with pride, though I was still mystified at my anger. Almost all of them mentioned having pets as being a "good thing about being an American." One man said that he was impressed that Americans care about animals, care about their feelings and their well-being, because "in Iraq, where I come from, we don't care about people as much as Americans care about animals." Almost all said they were happy to own a car, a house and a few dogs and cats. They considered having a four-footed family member a blessing in their adopted country. One woman said "I love that you have 911, if you get in trouble, you call 911 and someone comes and helps you."

Wow.

A gay man was happy that he no longer had to hide who he was, and several people talked about being able to go to the church of their choice. Others discussed the fact that we have all our basic needs met; water, electricity, food and shelter. So many other countries don't even have that.

So yeah, America is a good idea.

But I'm confused, My friend, a pharmacist, laments how so many people come into the pharmacy for their prescription but, upon learning the price, cannot take home the medicine they so desperately need. He cannot help them. Yet, illegal aliens come in and for some reason, have vouchers for free medicine. In my own family, we have little children who need medical coverage, but alas, their parents make too much money - trust me on this, they don't - to deserve free health care. Yet those who are not working get it freely.

America is broken. It needs fixing. I am leaving this world someday with grandchildren and great-grandchildren and I had hoped I had brought my sons into a world in which they could thrive, not simply survive. Now, I will be surprised if they find they can get all their basic needs met.

As I write this missive that I hope someday my descendants will find and read so they will know me, know that I was here, and understand me, there are states shutting down because they have no money for basic services. America is broken, she needs some attention and some tender loving care. We inherited a country founded on tenets that are noble and right, but somewhere along the way we lost our way.

Yes, America is a good idea, and sometimes it takes an outsider, like Bono, like those people on the documentary, to help us to remember that America is a good idea.

But she's only just that, a good idea. We have a long way to go.

Day Two

2011-04-03T06:29:00.003-04:00

We arrived at the location where the animals are being kept at 7:30 am with much work to do. I learned more about the situation where they had come from. The pit bulls had been chained to the ground on 6 foot heavy chains. They had to use a bolt cutter to get them loose. The roosters had also been tethered to the ground, on 4 ft leather tethers with little tepee tents. The hens were in a barn of some kind.

I wasn't there, but this is what I was told about the "bust." The local sheriff's office refused to go in first because the last time they tried to serve a warrant on this guy he shot at the police. So they expected a gun fight. The SWAT team, the FBI and ATF were all there. The SWAT team knocked on the door and the guy opened the door. They had him on the ground within seconds, he didn't know what hit him. He had cocaine in his pocket. The sheriff and the HSUS along with local animal control went in. There was on elderly white female pit that was loose, and it appears she belonged to a woman who was living there because she "had no place else to go" but she was not a fighting dog. They took her, along with 25 other dogs and 100 roosters with 25 hens, three of which had 10 chicks each.

So our second day there was actually our first full day of normal operations at the temp shelter. We walked all the dogs first. The men walked the dogs while myself and another female volunteer cleaned out the crates. There were rules. There could only be two dogs walked at a time because of the logistics of the location. Also, there could never be two dogs in the same proximity. So, we had a system. One dog would be out walking, the next dog is taken out of his crate and brought to his walking area, the first dog would then come back. Since these are fighting dogs, we have to be more careful than with regular pit bulls who have not been trained. These dogs never had any human contact other than when in training. We don't know what their triggers are. When they get near another dog's cage, as when we have to walk them out and pass cages, all the dogs go crazy. But the dogs appear to be lovable and very submissive towards humans. They wag their tails, their whole bodies wag when we show them a little kindness. They are starved for attention and affection. They are very, very small for pits, but they are all muscle. There are three or four dogs with lots of battle scars about their faces and hindquarters. These dogs have been put through a lot and yet they don't hate or fear humans. They don't want to hurt us. Most of the dogs come bounding out of their cages, happy as can be. But a few of them are so terrified, they refuse to move. They actually freeze with fear. It's so sad. We know they do that because in their lives, coming away from where they 'live" means a fight, or training, or something bad. They cower. Two have submissive grins. We are getting to know them as individuals. Many have blood in their crates, some from tails wagging and hitting the wire windows of the crate, some in heat, and one has an open sore near his tail.

Meanwhile, back at the roosters, we cleaned under their cages and put sawdust down. It was hard physical labor because the sawdust pile was far away and we didn't have a wheelbarrow. So, we took the bottom half of a crate, tied leashes to it, and used it to haul sawdust. I did it once, but needed help it was so heavy. I used a pitchfork to put the sawdust into the crate bottom. First time ever using a pitchfork! I thought of the Greenacres song-Laura and I had sung it the day before when we first saw the farm-like atmosphere of the location. Chris went to the store and bought two wheelbarrows, along with a whole lot of other supplies.

We fed and watered the birds. One little chick had a broken leg, and we called the vet. He came out and assessed the chick, said to give it a few more hours to see if it gets any worse, and left us with Beauthanasia. A few hours later, I noticed the leg was swollen and purple, and went and got the shelter manager, Melissa. She had to put the little guy down and it was really sad.

Two of the pit bulls went to an area shelter. I am not sure why, it had something to do with the way they were behaving. I will try to find out more about that.

Everyone here is very nice. There are two volunteers that are fading fast. It is hard physical labor. By about 3:00 yesterday, one had quit altogether and the other one decided he was not really cut out for all the hard physical labor after all. It's curious how and why they deployed. The new lady who showed up yesterday, Fran, is my age and has experience and is from Tampa. We bonded very quickly and made fast friends. She just weathered a very nasty divorce after thirty years of marriage and so she is entering a new phase in her life.

Chris is in charge of the animal fighting division. He's a former police officer and very sweet. Jeanette is also with the HSUS, and she works under Chris. This is her case. She is being very careful to preserve all the evidence and keep everyone safe. Melissa is on contract with the HSUS, she has a lot of experience with managing temporary shelters in these situations and she is very capable and I like her a lot. Jim is a volunteer from Florida, as is Marty and Cheryl, two other volunteers, and then Fran showed up yesterday and that's our team. The vet, Barry, comes in to check once a day. Laura Bevan is here, but she was out with a migraine all day. I hope she comes back today.

I met the ACO's from a nearby animal control agency. They were here for the last two days and participated in the raid and setting everything up. They went home yesterday. Everyone is so professional and capable.

I love learning about all the procedures and challenges of the work we are doing. I hope to be deployed again and often. It's hard work, but every second that I am there, I feel like I did when I was a child and would go to church. As a kid, whenever we went to church, I would feel like I was in "God's House." That is what I was told. So for me, the church was a very spiritual place. Well, being in service to these animals who have been so very victimized makes me feel as if I am in a spiritual place. When I am in the presence of these pit bulls and fighting roosters I am just so humbled and awed by their ability to forgive. Working in service to these victims makes me feel like I am alive in a way nothing else does. I so love these animals that my heart burst with joy at seeing them comfortable, safe and happy. That they will never fight again, or be hurt, or be treated with anything less than the respect they deserve makes me proud to be a part of this effort. The roosters crow all day long, and though other volunteers complain, the sound is music to me. I love it so much. I am going to record it. They also coo, coo, coo, almost like a cat's purr. Melissa say's it's because they are happy and content and it shows. They eat A LOT of food. As soon as we feed them, they go for it. They drink water all day long too. I think these animals were really neglected. Melissa says' they are very skinny too, though I really don't know what a good weight for a rooster is.

It's 6:00 am and I am preparing for day three. I wonder what I will learn today?

Humbling Experience

2011-04-02T06:59:00.003-04:00

I am currently involved in my first deployment as a member of the HSUS DART (Disaster Animal Relief Team). The team went to visit a man who was fighting dogs and roosters based on a tip they received through the tipline. Visit http://www.humanesociety.org/news/press_releases/2011/04/florida_fighting_rescue_040111.html

for more information on it.

Anyway, I drove with another volunteer from Boynton Beach. It took us 4.5 hours to get here. We checked into our hotel and waited for further instructions. About an hour late we were told to go to the staging area. We met up with the rest of the team. They pulled in with several trucks and vans full of chickens, roosters and pit bulls. We offloaded the pitties first, putting them in big airline crates. Everyone was given a number. They were beautiful pits, with lots of scars on their faces and bodies, but otherwise in very good condition. A few were very scared and of course, that breaks your heart. Next, we offloaded the birds. They were so noisy! We put them in cages with food and water. I was feeding the roosters and was astonished to see them devour the feed. The shelter leader said that the people keep the roosters starving because it makes them meaner. I felt so bad for them. They were so hungry.

This has been a most humbling experience. I am in awe of the team and all their dedication. They are an amazing team. I am so very, very grateful that I was deployed and I hope to do it again sometime. I will be here all weekend and though I can't say anything about the place where we are or anything that will hurt the case, I will post as much as possible.

I have seen roosters and chickens before, of course, but I have never really appreciated their beauty. The roosters are magnificent, truly amazing. Their colors are beyond description, I doubt there are names for the blends and harmony of colors on their feathers. The hens are so protective of their chicks. One rooster, and one hen, in particular, are absolutely stunning. I wish I had a farm so that I could bring them home. They are both a gorgeous off-white color with beige flecks. Just astounding.

I keep looking at these sweet victims of human cruelty and again, I ask "how can anyone do this to an animal?" The roosters have all had their wattles cut off in what I am sure was a most cruel and painful procedure. They look at me with curiosity in their little eyes and it breaks my heart that they will have to be put down. Roosters who have been trained to fight cannot make good pets. Also, people who have chickens and roosters can only own one rooster because they are very territorial over their hens. The hens will hopefully all be adopted out.

So day one is over. I had a good night sleep last night and got up at 6:00 am and am ready to head over for a day of caring for these poor creatures.

My Patrick Good-Bye

2011-02-23T08:16:00.000-05:00

He had periodontic gum disease but I never would have known it. He would never let me get close enough to see inside his mouth. He would hop away if you tried to pet him, waiting until just the last moment so you think that maybe this time…but no, your hand would land on nothing but air. It was like putting your hand out to shake someone else’s but they don’t return the gesture. You feel like a fool.

He was a fierce protector. He once came flying over the kitchen counter to attack Kerry because he had never seen her before and when she was hugging me, he thought she was hurting me. He bit me instead of her, but it was an understandable mistake.

He acted like a cat with John; rubbing against his legs when he got home in the afternoon, head butting his hand, following him into the bathroom for some private man to cat time. He loved John in a way he didn’t love the rest of us. Yet, John, too, carries the scars of multiple bites from a cat so conflicted he would come to you for petting and then inflict a nasty bite when you did. It wasn’t the playful nip that other cats did, it was a full-on, sink-his-fangs-into-your-flesh bite. And then he would tear away to the sanctity of his closet where he would hide out until the next time he would look at me with those gorgeous green eyes and approach tentatively in a way that said “This time it will be different, this time I won’t run away, I won’t bite, pet me, pet me please.” And we fell for it every time.

I cried not when he was put to sleep. I had to be strong for the vet whom I know hates to put down healthy animals. She said he wasn’t really healthy. She said a cat who urinates on the bed and on all the sofas and lives in the closet is not “settled,” is not a settled cat. He was far from settled, but he had shown love in his own way. Those who knew him won’t mourn him much, he wasn’t a likable cat. He wasn’t a friendly cat. He was a phantom cat. But the two of us who lived with him saw a different side of him deep in the night. He would come and lay on top of us when we were sleeping; a cat desperate for some human contact but too afraid to draw near unless we were incapacitated…asleep. His mistrust of humans is a mystery. I had raised him from a three-day old neonate. I bottle fed him and taught him to use the litterbox. He did use it for a few years. But one ambush in the litterbox by a naughty and playful bigger cat caused him to swear off litterboxes forever. And so for thirteen years I lived with the crackle of plastic on my couches, tearing up the carpet all over the house, putting down towels and plastic on the couches, using a scat mat to keep him away from the furniture. But when he began to use my bed, my side of the bed, up by the pillow, as a litter box, I knew it was time to part ways.

He was heavily sedated the last time I saw him. I could look in his mouth, pet under his chin without risking a bite, and I could tell him good-bye. I left while his heart was still beating, unable to bear the thought of being there for him at the same time commissioning his murder. Penny was kind enough to stay with him. She felt he deserved that. But in the end, she cried for the cat who would never let her near him.

Patrick is gone now but the scent of his piddle is still faint like a whisper in the air. For the first time in 13 years I am sitting on my couch without layers of towels, piddle pads and waterproof mattress covers. I know it was a high price to pay for the privilege to sit on my couch and Patrick paid the price of breaking the rules. He was unsettled, he was itchy and constantly scratching and he had gum disease. He was unhappy and distrustful and paranoid. He didn’t bond with the other cats, he kept to himself. But he was my baby and I am going to miss him. I hope wherever he is, he forgives me this trespass. In time, maybe I will even begin to forgive myself.

Do They Know?

2011-02-05T08:12:00.003-05:00

I feel so very, very guilty when I have to pill my cat or clean the yeasty bugs out of my dog's ears. She screams in pain every time I do it, no matter how gently I try. Of course, my fellow dog trainers would tell me that she's got me trained well. When I come near her with the cotton balls, she yells out before I even touch her, and I back away. Oh yeah, I'm very well trained.

I'm sure it hurts, we've all had those nasty yeasty bugs and the hot itchy pain is almost unbearable. So I can relate. But I wish I could tell her it's for her own good. That old stand-by "This will hurt me more than it does you" applies here. When a dog is injured or sick and we take her to the vet's office, and the vet has to poke and prod and jam blue sticks up their...well, you know; does the dog know that we are only trying to help? Do they get that?

It's her own fault, you know. She's got food allergies and is allergic to certain kinds of protein. She's on a special food that she tolerates. But when I turn my back, she jumps up on the counter and steals the cat food. And I tell her.....That's why you have the ear problem ya dope! If you didn't eat the cat food, you wouldn't have the bloody ear problem! Geez.

But I suspect all that yelling is more for my benefit than it is hers, because as soon as the opportunity presents itself, she's back on the counter pilfering Meow Mix.

Then there's the cat with the anal gland problem. Try shoving white liquid that isn't milk down the gullet of a cat with a pain in the ass. It's not a pretty sight. And she looks at me with such horror, like I've betrayed her and she's lost her best friend. Oh the guilt! Oh the malfeasance! It's just like when you're driving the speed limit and you see the cop and you reflexively take your foot off the gas just a little and feel guilty as all get out. It's a little like that. "I'm so sorry..." I plead "forgive me I'm just so sorry," I slobber. But does she get it that I am only trying to help her? Eventually, all is well with the world again and she's giving me those pleasant little head bumps and arching her back and purring with pleasure.

And then we are all friends again; at least for the next eight hours.

Can't We All Just Get Along?

2010-11-04T08:02:00.002-04:00

It's tough watching the news these days. Everyone's so mad at each other, nobody is getting along. It's a travesty. I think that what the pundits are doing is treason. Undercutting our country, causing dissension, bringing fear to our living rooms is treason, in my humble opinion. We used to have two parties, and that was bad enough. Now we have multiple parties, the Tea Party, the GOP, DEMS, Green, Independent....we just keep fractioning off and pretty soon we won't be speaking to each other at all.

When did we become such haters? Are these the same people that had flowers in their hair in Haight Ashbury back in the sixties? I think it is. This is the flower power generation, the Summer of Love generation. This is the generation of brotherly love, the age of Aquarius and everyday people. Is this what all those drugs back in the 60s did to us? Maybe we shouldn't have stopped taking them. How did a generation of people who worked so closely to organize anti-war efforts and marched against the Viet Nam war and heard the I Have A Dream speech in an age when there was no Internet get so angry? Why are we fighting with each other?

Can you imagine a country where everyone gets along, where everything is working, and we are all looking out for each other? What must it be like to live in a country like, oh, I don't know, Switzerland or Norway or Denmark where things run smoothly and there's enough for everyone and the government has to work on lofty goals like keeping the arts alive instead of whether a rape victim is allowed to get an abortion and if so, who pays for it? Our country used to be amazing.

It's amazing that less than a hundred years ago, black people couldn't sit at the lunch counter, and now we have a black president. It's amazing that we stood together as one voice on September 11. It's amazing that America is only 200 years old and still working things out, yet we respect and celebrate the diversity of our nation. Why can't we see that?

We are no longer the best country in the world. We aren't even in the top ten anymore. Our kids are failing at everything, our military is all but defeated by a country so small most people can't find it on a map. The United States of America is a wholely-owned subsidiary of the People's Republic of China.

The Today Show has been doing a segment on the death of civility over the past week. Civility is dead. When I see our president being portrayed as a clown, as Hitler, and being called such vicious names, I want to lay down and die, but not for this country. I wouldn't lay down and die for a country that disrespects the office of the president so very much. You have every right to say you don't like him, his politics, his name. But he is still our president, and anyone with any class at all knows you don't talk about the president in those terms. I hated Bush but I respected him as my president. He was a terrible president, but he was a president.

Yes, civility is dead. We can't all just get along. It's too late for that.

Friends in High Places

2010-11-03T08:18:00.003-04:00

It was the events taking place in a small courtroom in Palm Beach County last week that sent me to the polls yesterday. I wasn't going to bother to vote. With the current political climate and all the negative ads, I wanted to put my head in the sand like an ostrich and just hide it out. But when Judge Debra Moses-Stevens awarded custody of 20 dogs to Animal Care and Control last week, I finally saw a victory in our favor. So maybe, I figured, just maybe our packing the courtroom did have an effect on the judge. Maybe she did take into consideration how important the lives of these animals are and ruled with kindness and a human heart. So maybe our being there made a difference, and maybe our voting makes a difference too. Of course it does.

With the results of the 2010 election comes good news and bad news. The good news is we've elected a Palm Beach County judge who will be an asset to animal advocacy. Marni Bryson is an "animal lover" and if she is seated as a judge in criminal court, maybe we will finally see some justice for animals being served.

On the other hand, the bad news is we lost Ron Klein, who, as a congressman, voted 99% in favor of the animals when he could. His humane scorecard was incredible. It's too bad we have replaced him with Allen West, who, for all we know, doesn't give a damn about animals. But maybe he'll surprise us.

Bad news, too, that Amendment Four did not pass. The big developers now have free rein to rape and pillage every last acre of green left in the state without having to first ask the community if that's what the community wants. Power to the people? Not in this case. Power to the powerful is more like it.

I know, I know, I sound like a single-issue voter. Guilty as charged. While I should be more concerned about my party. I'm not even sure what that is anymore. I was a Green, but I think I had to change my affiliation to Democrat to vote in the presidential primary.

I used to think the most important thing is for MY candidate to win. Now I believe the most important thing is that everyone votes. America is a "majority rules" place. How do we know what the majority wants if nobody votes? Maybe I lose, maybe I don't get my way. But that's not as important as the people speaking with one voice. I'm glad Obama is president, I'm sorry things are not going as planned, I'm hoping the GOP winners will extend a hand across the aisle. I am tired of our country being torn apart. I hope we can get some important work done and put egos aside. We all need friends in high places.

Equine Therapy

2010-02-03T09:22:00.001-05:00

A while back I attended an equine therapy session. It was fascinating learning about this unique remedy that brings together broken people with gentle giants. The therapist began the session by talking a little about horses in general. As herd animals and as prey animals, she said, horses are blessed with a certain “sixth sense” that helps them understand the world around them in a way that many other animals cannot. Their existence, she explained, their ability to survive in the world depends on their level of awareness of changes in their environment. They can read our body language, and they can understand things about us that maybe we don’t even see ourselves.

One of the exercises involved in equine therapy (which NEVER involves riding a horse) is to approach the horse quietly and lead him or her from point A to point B. For those of us who have not spent a lot of time around horses, this can be a frightening thing. Later, we were asked to touch the horse in different places around his body such as his upper leg, his neck or his chest. There were revelations to be had from these exercises. Some of us coaxed the horse gently, trying to “talk him into” coming with us. Others attempted to force the animal by pulling on the lead or a light swat to their hindquarters. Others (me) used bribery. Whichever method we used told us a little about how we relate to other people.

The point of equine therapy is to help participants become more self-aware, and to help them overcome obstacles that may be in their lives, keeping them from reaching their life goals. This happens by seeing oneself reflected back as the horse reacts to the person’s movements. It is a gentle and beautiful thing to see two species interact on such profound level.

I learned a thing or two about myself during that session, but what I took home with me, the thing that haunts me almost every day is what I learned about horses that day.

I imagine an animal with a heightened sense of awareness, an animal that can perceive nuances in the environment, an animal that can understand the subtlety of a relaxed human body as opposed to one that is tense and rigid. I imagine how gentle and temperate that animal must be if he is so keen on his surroundings.

So when I think of horses with this newfound knowledge, it breaks my heart to see them portrayed on the movie screen being yanked this way and that in Westerns, being tripped with piano wire or having to endure the sound of gunshots, explosions and all manner of chaos that Hollywood dishes out. I truly ache to think that such a sentient creature must endure all that noise and violence. We drag them into our world and treat them like a movie prop and people pay lots of money to see it. I really hate the scenes where the horses are forced to lay down on their side so that the gunman can use the horses’ body as a shield and a barrier behind which to shoot. What must the horses think when this is happening all around them? And it isn’t just in the movies where horses are mistreated, it’s on the streets where they pull heavy carriages on hot asphalt and cars with which to contend and it’s rodeos where horses are bullied and abused while revelers get drunk, applaud and delight, oblivious to the suffering of the animal.

I knew that animals suffered greatly at the hands of humans before I attended that session. Of course I knew. But being more enlightened about the sentience of horses has left me thoughtful and angry at my fellow man. I know I am not alone in these feelings.

Cattle in Misery

2010-01-31T16:53:00.001-05:00

I read on Facebook that one of my "friends", a FB friend, I guess, which is decidedly different from a regular friend, is upset because she lives near a farm and from her perspective, the cattle are "skin and bones." I advised her to report this to someone, but not knowing where she lives it's difficult to figure out the authority in charge of this type of abuse. It sounds like the animals are suffering but what to do about it?
Of course, this is where direct action comes in, where someone who is willing and able to cut the fence and free the animals. But then what? Certainly there is not a Farm Sanctuary on every street corner like there is a Walgreens, though it would be so nice if there were.
It's hard to know what to do in a case like this, but it's easy to surmise that something needs to be done. If the statutes in her state, whatever that might be, are anything like Florida's statutes, well, they do not exclude cows. Just because an animal is not a pet does not mean he is not protected by anti-cruelty statutes. The definition of an animal is "any non-human animal" not "any cute furry animal". I hope and pray that she reports this and then sees it through. To do anything less is to be part of hte problem, and not part of the solution.

Paranormal Activities

2009-10-17T13:10:00.001-04:00

So I attended a sort of “séance” last night that blew me away. It was pretty intense and there were quite a bit of things that went on that were kind of unsettling. It was not the weird, we-are-all-in-the-dark-and-the-table-levitates kind of séance, it was more of an updated version, where the medium is facing the gallery and delivers messages from heaven. I am kind of a skeptic but I have to admit, the guy was pretty good. So listen in on Monday night at 10:00 and hear us discuss this very unusual event on Chick Chatter. And if you are a skeptic and can help disavow this information, well, call in. I would love to hear a logical explanation for the things I am about to divulge.

Wild Things

2009-10-17T13:05:00.001-04:00

With the release of the movie “Where the Wild Things Are” I can’t help but think of the book “Why the Wild Things Are”, a book by Gail Melson that discusses just why a relationship with animals is such an important part of the lives of children.

Children learn to be compassionate with animals, they learn to be sympathetic and nurturing, but only in the right environment. Children should be encouraged to love the wild things as much as we ask them to love companion animals, or even ourselves for that matter. In 1933 the National PTA Congress said that children trained to respect animals will grow up to be better adults (paraphrasing).So it’s important and incumbent upon parents to teach their kids to be gentle, kind and respectful of all animals. They should teach them the Golden Rule, as we understand it by our Golden Retriever…who loves everyone and treats everyone with respect and courtesy.

How simple a concept…the Golden Rule, yet so hard to follow.

Michael Jackson

2009-10-08T19:28:00.001-04:00

Michael Jackson, by Michelle Rivera
I have always loved Michael Jackson. His music meant the world to me.
As a battered wife living overseas, I was miserable, and it was Michael Jackson’s music that helped me survive that awful time. I danced wildly and with abandon to his music every day resulting in a weight loss of 80 pounds. I used to think, “I wonder if that little black kid from Gary Indiana knows that there is a terribly unhappy military housewife living far from home and family who is depending on him to get her through yet another day.” If we had had the internet back in the late seventies, I would have found a way to send him a message to let him know. It’s ironic how he always said that his fans helped him get through the difficult times in his life. When news of his death reached me, I was heartbroken. I was hoping that he would schedule a concert tour here in the states when he returned from his Euro tour. But that hope was dashed and now he is gone forever.
When I tried to explain my adoration of Michael Jackson to my kids and grandkids, they looked at me like I was crazy. They never knew the adorable little Michael of The Jackson Five, they didn’t grow up with his amazing roster of hit after hit after hit. They never danced to Thriller or Billie Jean and they never heard the heartbreaking song he sang to a rat named Ben. I recently listened to a live version of Ben, Michael singing his heart out to a live audience and recorded on a “hits” album. The song is so beautiful and he sings it with such veracity that it brings tears to my eyes. Their frame of reference of Michael Jackson was the “Wacko Jacko” we saw in the papers. They only knew him as a possible pedophile, and they thought I had lost my mind grieving for such a nut case.
But I didn’t care, I still loved him and missed him and I devoured every piece of literature I could get my hands on about Michael. I watched his funeral and cried the entire time. I felt like I lost a beloved family member because indeed, he was about my age and we had grown up together. Him in infamy, me quietly loving his every note.

Alien

2009-09-18T19:53:00.001-04:00

Alien
By Michelle A. Rivera
I am an alien
An outsider in an unfamiliar world
But I am not alone
And sometimes
We find one another
And when we meet
Oh, such Joy
Such symmetry
“Are we the only ones?” we ask
But no, there are many more
They’re everywhere, really
Some still waiting for enlightenment,
revelation,
certitude
Arriving not as a thunderclap
But incessant and soft,
A purr
And there will be one more
In the world
Until soon
We will be a greater number
Embracing balance, compassion and peace
As it was in the very beginning
When humans and animals lived together in paradise
And saw that it was good.

Chick Chatter

2009-09-09T11:29:00.001-04:00

So my friend Mary Jane and I are going to open a new chapter in our lives. For months, years, really, we have been discussing running away to New York City to become writers and actors. I want to live and work in Manhattan as a writer or editor and she wants to live and work in Manhattan as an actor and we dream about it all the time. But the closest we are getting to this dream is a radio gig.

It’s going to be fun, really. It’s a comedy show about women and for women and of course by women. Us. We have this chemistry between us that is really quite amazing. It’s so phenomenal how we become different people when we are together, and this happens time and again. So we want to share that with all of our new cyber-friends. We will feature all kinds of cool things like new martinis to try, the best chocolate to eat when you’re indulging a craving, how to attract nice friends and repel the losers and animal rights and politics and all kinds of stuff. We’ll be like Cheech and Chong without the pot. And we rarely agree on anything, which makes for a great argumentative time. We are hoping that our callers will take sides and give their opinions as well. That’s what makes the world go ‘round, right?

So that’s the new thing in my life. That’s my new exciting news and I hope it turns out to be a big success and that we get lots of fans. We’ll be on the air this coming Monday at 10:00 pm at www.w4cy.com. Give a listen!

Crazy

2009-08-31T19:41:00.001-04:00

It’s my belief that we’re all crazy—Trudy, the bag lady

Still crazy after all these years-Paul Simon

If we weren’t all crazy we would go insane—Jimmy Buffet

I think it’s safe to say that we’re crazy. And I don’t mean in that nutsy, fruity, flaky kind of way. I mean we’re crazy in that dangerous, weirdo, Glady’s grab the gun and hide the cats kind of way. We’re crazy in ways that have not even been discovered yet. They haven’t come up with a name or a diagnosis for the kind of crazy we are. It’s the kind of crazy that involves so many symptoms that they can’t even come up with a prescription drug for it and you know how that works, they stumble across some chemical and because they’ve spent like a zillion dollars on research and killed a bazillion rats they figure they need it to do something so they invent a disease for it. We all know how that works. We’ve seen the adverts. Man, I’m gonna ask my doctor if “we-don’t-have-a-clue-what-this-shit-is-amax” is right for me!

And we’re way too anal about things. We are uptight and bothered and edgy and I don’t mean that in a good way. If we weren’t Americans, we may have a chance at being normal but we are, and that’s our doom. We’re doomed. Americans have the strangest way of being in the world. We’re not like Europeans. They have their own problems but for the most part they aren’t bonkers. Oh sure, there’s a few Germans that really need to go to the Cracker Factory and there’s that one guy out there in Korea who’s a little, oh, demented and murderous and homicidal…so much so that you would think he’s an American living in a foreign land. But no, I’m pretty sure he’s Korean. Anyway, Americans are crazy because we are all suffering from a national schizophrenia. So I guess that’s two symptoms right there, anal and schizo. We’ve got an obsession with obsessions. We seem to have to be preoccupied all the time, and when we aren’t preoccupied, we’re occupied. And it’s not with important stuff either. I swear I heard my son scream the f word last night like he’d mashed his thumb with a hammer and there was blood everywhere but no, nothing like that. Nope, his avatar was under attack and had just been felled in a hail of bullets. How lame is that?

We have chicks on tv telling us to “Have a happy period!” like it was a greeting. Can you imagine the checkout clerk down to the Piggly Wiggly? He’d be this weird old guy with buck teeth and long straggly hair and skin about as yallar as a used cigarette filter and he’s saying “Thanks for shopping today Ma’am and have a happy period!” That’d be some messed up shit that would.

And we’re so schizoid. We don’t know what the hell we want. Take dogs, for example. I mean, I love dogs, right? Everyone loves dogs, they’re man’s best friend and all and that’s cool. But then as soon as your best friend pisses on your couch you’re like “Oh hell no! I need to find a home for this puppy!” Or we say we want to get a dog for protection. So we tie ‘em up in the yard and forget to feed and water ‘em but we expect they’ll be right there on the front lines if a burglar comes in. I’m tellin’ you, if there’s trouble, that dog’s gonna be truckin’ down the road and not looking back. Either that or he’ll ask the burglar to take him too! Hell, he’ll take his chances with a new owner, one that works nights this time. They’d be home during the day, maybe watch some videos together.

It’s like shopping on Canal Street. You pretend the shit is real, they pretend the shit is real, but you know that they know that you know that the shit’s not real. That’s not really a Coach purse you just bought for $20, but hey, what the hell, you pretend it is and they pretend it is and everyone’s happy, right? ‘Cept maybe those fuckers in the sweat shop somewhere just outside of Hong Kong aren’t so happy but hey, even they get paid and don’t have to worry about where their rice will come from for a day or two so everyone wins.

But I am so off point. Like, you know when you drive down a rural road and you see all those cows on the side of the road and you just have to roll down the window and tell them “Moo”? Why do we do that? I mean, in cow language does our saying “Moo” really mean just what we mean to say, which is “hey cow, enjoy it while you can, Buddy, cuz I’m actin’ all like I wanna relate and all but really, we both know that I’m gonna be stuffin’ my face with McShit tonight so rock on!”

And the cows looking back at us saying Man that is one ugly bovine. They kinda lookin’ at eachother saying “Do you know that weirdo? We got three stomachs but he got four faces lookin’ out at us ain’t that some weird stuff right there. Don’t let the bull see that, you know how he gets when he thinks he’s trippin’ on that bad grass again.”

Oh, and we Americans love our horses. We talk about how noble and magnificent they are and how they are so sensitive and oh isn’t it nice how they work with those poor kids and all but then what? We trip ‘em up with piano wire so they go flying all for some cowboy movie that makes that actor look all big and bad and all but you know that´s not real right? That actor had to pay some other dude to get up there in the saddle and take all the risk but who gets the big bucks? Not the dude in the saddle and certainly not the horse. No, it’s the pretty boy that gets the million dollar contract and for what? Just ‘cuz he ended up on some list? We are so ass backward in our thinking.

But it’s all right. We’re gonna be ok because you know what? We may have all these weird symptoms and we may be royally screwed in a lot of ways and we may be schizo and suffer from OCD and ADD and what all ever we have wrong with us but it ok because we’re Americans dammit! And we got a drug for that!

Today’s Prompt: You are in the backyard

2009-08-27T20:51:00.001-04:00

I am in my backyard and I notice that the squirrels are waiting for me to leave. I will leave, eventually, but not before I am absolutely sure that they have everything that they need. I toss some peanuts, raw, unsalted, that I purchased at the grocery store. When I bought the bag, the cashier asked me if I was buying them to eat, to cook with, or for squirrels. I told her that they were for the squirrels who live in my backyard. She grinned, and said, “I ask everyone that and I have to say that, like, 99% of the people who buy the raw peanuts buy them for the squirrels!” That is very exciting to me. I am so happy to know that.

I also buy corn for them. Hard corn with kernels that they need to chew really hard on. They don’t seem to like them as much as the peanuts but they eat them just the same. But being that there are Palm trees, there are palm nuts. Nuts that grow like a cluster of grapes on our palm trees and they are there for the taking and I have to wonder if I didn’t give them peanuts and corn that maybe they would thrive very well on the palm nuts. I sometimes wonder if I do a big fat disservice to the wildlife in my backyard by supplying them with all the food they will ever need. I swear you would think I am an Italian Mamala with the way I act about these squirrels and birds. If I were not here to help them, well, they would have to fend for themselves and God forbid if I get hit by a Mack truck, or any other truck for that matter, what would they do? So maybe, just maybe I am not doing the right thing by supplying them with food. But I so enjoy watching the squirrels and the BlueJays and the Cardinals and the Mourning Doves, especially those doves, that I am not above being just a little selfish. But I do know that it is selfish. It is not for them that I purchase and keep these animals in food. I know that. I admit it. It’s not for them. It’s for me.

And I’m ok with that, as long as we know what’s what.

Something's burning

2009-08-23T22:26:00.001-04:00

The job was both a blessing and a curse. At once, I was fortunate that I was able to work in an environment where I could help animals; yet unfortunate enough to be faced with the day to day consequences of humanity’s inhumanity towards our best friends, dogs and cats. I was getting paid to go into schools and teach children about animals. It was important work and certainly work I would be more than happy to do whether I was getting paid or not. Then again, I had to report each day to a shelter where animals were put to sleep on a daily basis for having done nothing wrong except be born. It was very sad work indeed.

It was a few weeks before I noticed the fine dust that had been accumulating on my vehicle day after day. I was driving a grey Camry at the time, and the grey on grey dust was not all that noticeable, nor noteworthy, it was just there. Anyone seeing the car would assume, perhaps, that I lived out in one of the areas where people lived at the end of a long dirt road. But they would be wrong. No, I live in a snooty gated community, with nary a dirt road to be seen for miles around situated as it is quite within city limits. I’m sorry, and I apologize, for all of the gopher tortoises that were displaced, no, dispatched… when my neighborhood was built. I know that it can take up to three months for a gopher tortoise to expire and for that I am truly sorry. Another day, certainly, I will write about the plight of these unassuming animals. Today, my assignment is to write about something that is burning.

Another student of writing may write, perchance, of a barbeque picnic or a forest fire. Or maybe she would wax poetic about the nights she strummed her guitar around the bonfire on the beach when she was just a bikini-wearing hippie back in the day, passing the occasional joint and chugging a warm beer or two. She may juggle words about her heartthrob Stevie Roberts or Billy, the long-haired hunk who rode the Harley. She may even try her hand at a song about how the stars at night on a tropical beach in Florida…….Oh, but that writer is not this writer. Not today, not anymore. Today, I see a writing prompt entitled “something's burning” and immediately my mind goes to the fine dust on my car that I couldn’t for the life of me figure out of which was the cause. And one day, I had the severe misfortune of asking someone, John or Phil or who the fuck knows, or cares.

So innocently. The conversation began so very innocently in the lunch room. “Do any of you guys notice that your cars are, like, I don’t know, kind of dirtier since you started working here?” I asked. They looked at one another in that knowing way, that way that people look at one another when they know something and you don’t. “What?” So very innocent. “Well, is it kind of like a whitish dust?” Someone asked. ‘Yeah,” I said, “Is there like construction going on around here or is it the shell rock in the parking lot?”

Again with the goddamned looks.

“It’s the crematorium". Someone murmured. Nobody was looking anywhere now. Suddenly everyone was very concerned with what their fingernails looked like or how their sandwich was constructed. I won’t pretend I didn’t know what a crematorium was. I knew bloody well what it was. “So the dust all over my car is, it’s dust from the chimney from the crematorium?” I asked.

Yes.

Yes. It was….

Something burning.

So you picked up a hitchhiker

2009-08-22T10:18:00.004-04:00

Meanwhile, back at the writing exercizes, today's challenge is 'You Picked Up A Hitchhiker" so here goes:

I was driving to the beach the other day when I came upon the most distressing sight. The cars in front of me slowed down, but didn't stop. Some of them swerved to avoid the nuisance, some honked, and some just stepped a little harder on the gas pedal and just sailed on by. But of course, I couldn't do any of those things. I had to stop.

It has long been my unhappy faculty in life to be The One who notices things that others don't. Case in point: a friend of mine, Teri, was chatting amiably on the phone with me the other day when she casually mentioned she had seen the move Julie & Julia. There was an uncomfortable silence, as I didn't respond with the usual "Oh, how was it?" or "Oh, I've been meaning to see that." So when I didn't respond she asked me if I had seen it.

"No, and I don't think I will, I think it will make me very unhappy."

"Unhappy?" she laughed, "Unhappy? How can a movie make you unhappy?" She laughed again, as if I was saying something really funny. And, what the hell, maybe I was. To her.

"Well," I figured I would try to explain, futile as I knew it would be. "I was no fan of Julia Child. I didn't like her. She advocated boiling lobsters alive and she talked endlessly about tender veal meat and young spring lambs. I think it's disgusting, and I really don't want to hear about some young woman following in her footsteps. I don't want to watch a movie about killing lobsters so inhumanely and cooking meat. It doesn't sound like a happy movie to me."

She considered this. "Wow," she said, "Here I am just prattling on, trying to make happy conversation not even thinking about stuff like that and you thought of it that way. That is so weird."

Yes, it is. And it has always been my curse. I see a box on the side of the road and I just know it's full of kittens. I see a huge palm frond lying in the street a half mile down the road and I just know it's a dead dog. I see a lone duck flying overhead and I wonder if his or her mate had been shot down because I know ducks mate for life. I avoid restaurants now because I don't want to be surrounded by people shoving dead animals in their faces. Other people don't see things that way, and isn't it nice that they can go through their whole lives and be so oblivious to the pain of others? How very wonderful for them. Like the drivers in the fictional story I started to tell.

The ones who were avoiding the nuisance on the road. Well, naturally, I stopped. I didn't have to try too hard. I simply opened my back door and said 'OK, get in" and he hopped in the car as if he had been riding in my car his whole life.

But now, what to do with him. They say it's dangerous to pick up hitchhikers. But if I hadn't picked him up, it would be him in danger, not I. Besides, I think I can read body language well enough to tell the friendlys from the unfriendlys.

I eased back into traffic and back into my lane. But I didn't continue on to the beach. Now, I was on a mission. I had a hitchhiker who needed my help.

So instead of going to the beach, I brought the hitchhiker home with me. I gave him food and water, I gave him a bath. I took pictures of him and then I put those pictures up on the internet for all to see.

"Does anyone know this homeless guy? Can someone put him up for a few days?"

Because I am making this story up as I go along, I am going to give it a happy ending. I printed out flyers and put them around. My phone rang. Someone knew the homeless guy. They came to pick him up. And "Snuffy" as I later learned he was called, ran happily into the arms of his beloved human. His eyes shining bright, his tail wagging hard, his coat clean and fluffy.

The bible says that we should be kind to strangers because some have given quarter and comfort to strangers and in doing so have "entertained angels unawares."
And sometimes I think that maybe all this obsession over animals is not really a curse, but a blessing. Because just about everything good that has ever come to me in my life was because of my dedication to animals. I never would have had the first book published, let alone six. I never would have met the most wonderful and compassionate people in the world. I never would have traveled all over the country.

So I'll leave it at that. It's not a curse, it's a blessing. And I am very "awares."

Beached Whale

2009-08-18T14:31:00.001-04:00

The television was on low in the background this morning as I sipped my coffee and pored over Ric O’Barry’s To Free A Dolphin in an effort to extrapolate some information for a new project on which I am working. It may have been divine providence that I was multi-tasking in this way when I saw the “Breaking News” from Jupiter on the TV and reached for the remote to turn up the sound. The video was obviously being shot from a helicopter and it was transmitting a picture of a small whale who had beached herself right here in Jupiter. A crowd had already begun to surround her. I grabbed my camera and shot out the door, intent on getting to the beach.

I guess I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I got there. I am not trained in marine mammal rescue, after all. But I know enough to follow directions, and I was hoping that there was someone that was in charge there, someone who knew just what to do. I was hoping that there was an expert there who could make it all better.

And, as it turns out, an expert is what this poor animal needed. An expert. One. But instead, what she got was a whole bunch of people who said they were the “deciders” and nobody who could actually make a decision. And because of this ineptitude, this poor animal had to suffer for hours on the beach, struggling to breathe beneath the her own weight pressing upon her lungs, in front of hundreds of gawkers, before she was finally, humanely put out of her misery.

It seemed to me that there were three options here. She could have been brought back out to sea; she could have been euthanized on the beach; she could have been removed to a rehabilitation center. I don’t know why it took them so long to figure out the best way to handle the emergency. And there were people standing around inside the police line that were clearly not there to help, but to gape and look important. They were making phone calls and taking photos oblivious to the fact that a magnificent and sentient being was fighting for her life right in front of them. I saw a man from The Town there who worked at the motor pool. What was his purpose there? There were scores of Jupiter Police there yet crowd control left a lot to be desired. One activist friend of mine called ahead to ask what she could bring to help. She was told to bring fresh water for the rescuers who had been out in the hot sun for hours. She stopped and purchased bottled water and ice. She dragged a cooler full of water and ice along the beach after parking far, far away. She told the police officer what she had for the rescuers only to be blown off. She had to lug her offerings all the way back to the car.

And the crowd acted as if they were at the state fair. One man commented that it was a good thing that he didn’t have to go on a whale watching trip now because the whales come to you! Kids were laughing and horsing around, as were young men. People were laughing and joking and acting like this was a party instead of a solemn tragedy. I was sickened by their attitude.

In the end she was put down. But it took too long because nobody wanted to make the decision to do the right thing. Nobody wanted to say that “No, she cannot be saved” or “Yes, let’s take her to rehab”. So they stood around and did nothing until it was too late to do anything.
We have a beach here. Now, we need a plan.

It's bigger than I am

2009-07-29T14:12:00.000-04:00

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

Write about a scent

2009-07-29T13:24:00.004-04:00

Back to the writing exercises. I stopped doing them because of the cast on my right arm and, well, lack of discipline. But I see that they do help, and I do need all the creative help I can get. So today's prompt is to write about a scent.

I have several favorite scents. I love the smell of lavendar, and patchouli oil. I love the smell of frankincense and I especially love the scent of my favorite perfumes, Chanel No. 5 and Clinique's Happy.

But if I am to write about a scent that really moves me, it would have to be the lovely, sweet scent of a new puppy's breath. Those who have been around very new puppies know just what I mean. I wonder if it is the bitch's milk that, when mixed with canine saliva turns into a perfume so heady and wonderful that I want to inhale deeply. I don't know if it is the puppy's tummy, which is not full of anything other than mothers' milk and so is pure and unsullied. I don't really know where the scent comes from or why it is so very sweet, I only know that the scent of a new puppies' breath takes my own breath away. Holding a puppy with two hands, looking into those sleepy brown eyes, and breathing in that very unique and wholesome fragrance is one of life's pure joys. I feel sorry for anyone who has never enjoyed the smell of a newborn puppy's breath, or who cannot relate. With all of today's technology, I know that they can bottle everything from the scent of a fresh orange to deer urine. But I doubt they will ever be able to bottle the smell of a newborn puppy's breath. That is one that Mother Nature will keep all to herself. And that is a lovely thing.

If you're not outraged.....

2009-07-26T10:57:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago I took my grandson to Burger King for some veggie burgers and fries. Normally, I would use the drive-through window, but I had some time to kill and I didn’t want the smell of fast food in my car, so I decided to park and go in.

It was distressing to me to find myself giving our order to a woman who had to be in her eighties. She was frail, thin, pasty white with skin that looked like it was made from tissue paper. Her arms were blotted with age spots, both red and brown, and her eyes were a rheumy grey. I felt terrible for her. But I wasn’t inclined to ruin my little outing with Alexander by feeling sorry for the woman at he counter, so I decided to believe that she was there because she wanted to be there. She was bored, lonely, and friendless, I convinced myself. Maybe she felt abandoned, so she took a job where she could be around people. Maybe it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she needed to work just to make ends meet. Maybe she was just fine, financially. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Later that same day I fell and broke my arm and forgot all about the little old lady at the Burger King.

But then, yesterday, I was driving same grandkid to school early in the morning and was stopped by a Mexican guy holding a stop sign. There was construction underway on the road, and traffic was being stopped alternatively in both directions. There is nothing unusual about that. But it’s difficult not to feel a pain of compassion and sympathy for a man who has to stand outside in the brutal Florida heat while the sun beats down on him. I always wonder how they can withstand it. I know I would pass out within ten minutes. I contemplated all of this while waiting for him to turn the sign and allow us to pass. When he finally did, I was stunned to see the “flagman” on the other side of the line of cars. There, holding the stop/slow sign was a chubby little grandmother, who couldn’t have been less than sixty-five years old, standing out in the hot Florida sun. She was tiny, plump and had grey hair. Her face was wrinkled and beet red, and her orthopedic shoes looked to be tight and uncomfortable. She was standing next to a pick-up truck that held a large cooler in the bed. She had set up a beach umbrella for herself, and a small chair. Though she was unable to sit in the chair for more than a few seconds before jumping up to allow cars to go by. She was drinking bottled water and sweating like racehorse. I thought about the woman at the Burger King, and found myself wondering again; what circumstances had brought a stranger to this unfortunate, unkind situation.

Have we as a society sunk so very low as to make it necessary for our elderly to take these menial jobs just so that they can afford their medicines? When we think of people making the choice between meds and foods, are these the people to whom we are referring? I can’t help but wonder what their children must think, if, indeed, they have any. As for me, I know I spend every moment I can getting to know my three grandkids. I never knew mine and I know I will die one day and I want my grandchildren to know I was here. Do these women have grandchildren, or even great grandchildren, that they would prefer to spend this time with?

I don’t know why these scenes bothered me so much, but they do. Perhaps I identify with these unfortunate women: there but for the grace of God go I. I would be mortified if someone that I knew, a colleague of my husbands’ perhaps, a fan of one of my books or an acquaintance from my vegetarian group were to see me taking orders at a Burger King or standing on the hot pavement holding a stop sign. Would my pride allow me to do such things or would I have to find a way off this planet if I were ever to find myself in such dire straights.

“They’ say that it can’t happen to the likes of me. I have children who will care for me in my old age, I have a lifetime of Social Security in my “bank”. But when little old ladies are taking jobs from teenagers and illegal aliens, well, it’s time for us to take a good, hard look at our values as a country. It’s time to make a change. And once again, I challenge those who don’t think about these things: If you are not outraged, you are not paying attention.

So you want to volunteer with your dog?

2009-07-14T11:14:00.001-04:00

So you have the best dog that's ever been created and you want to share him with the world! Good for you! Here's how to do it:
First, therapy vs. service dogs, what’s the diff? Let's get this straight: a therapy dog, sometimes known as an activity dog, is a dog that is taken to visit patients in hospitals, hospices, nursing homes, classrooms, all kinds of places, in order to spread joy and happiness and diversion to an otherwise mundane day. A therapy dog’s job is to send his energies outward, to make friends, to provide some kind of therapy for those in need. These dogs do not enjoy protection under the Americans With Disabilities Act (ADA). In other words, once your dog is registered as a therapy dog, you are not automatically allowed to take him to stores and other public places. That protection applies only to service dogs.
Service dogs are those dogs who perform a service to one individual. This dog’s energies are not directed outward, but only to one person, the person holding the end of the leash. They are specifically trained NOT to “make friends” because they have to help someone navigate about their day. These dogs cannot be making friends with the people they meet because they have to be someone’s ears, or eyes, or emotional support. Sometimes, the disability is not apparent, as some dogs are able to alert when their person is about to have a heart attack, or epileptic seizure. So they cannot be distracted.
What we are talking about here is a therapy dog. And here are the steps:
1. You must have a dog with a great temperament. That means, he loves people, loves to go places and engage with a host of different personalities. He should be friendly towards kids, cats, older people and other dogs. A good temperament is a must.
2. Your dog needs to have basic obedience skills. He should be able to: sit, stay, down, come and, most importantly, heel very nicely. He cannot pull on the lead, there must be a nice “u” between you and the dog, showing that there is “slack” in the leash.
3. He must be in good health. He must be well-groomed, with bright, shiny eyes and coat, clean ears, free of fleas, ticks and internal parasites. He should be emotionally stable, with no signs of depression, anxiety or aggression.
4. You will need a certification from your veterinarian attesting that your dog is up to date on all vaccines and that the veterinarian agrees that the dog, whom should be a well-known patient to the vet, is a good candidate.
There are several agencies that presently register dogs, and in some case, all kinds of pets, to become therapy dogs. Since I am an evaluator with The Delta Society, I can speak a little more authoritatively on their programs and procedures. The best way to get started is to visit DeltaSociety.Org and explore their volunteer opportunities. You will find a list of Delta Society volunteers in your area. Some of these volunteers are licensed by Delta to teach a training class, others are licensed to evaluate your pet and determine if he is, indeed, a good fit for Delta. If there are no trainers in your area, you will be encouraged to purchase the Home Study Guide. In it, you will find all the things you need to do with your dog in order to pass the evaluation. You will learn about Delta’s policies and procedures, and rules and regulations. You will learn how to conduct yourself in a variety of settings and the expectations for you and your dog.
Once you have finished the Home Study Guide, you will call a local evaluator in your area, and set up a time and date for the evaluation.
On the day of the evaluation, wear whatever clothing you would normally wear as a therapy-pet escort. Your dog should be well-groomed and clean. There is a specific list of things you must bring with you, as well as items that are not allowed. There may be a small charge ($20-$35) for the evaluation. Know that the evaluation begins from the moment you step out of the car. The evaluators are observing: did you arrive on time? Did the dog chase a squirrel when he exited the car? Are you yelling at the dog for any reason? If the dog sees another dog in passing, does he act aggressively?
The evaluation should take approximately 30 minutes, but can be stopped at any time that he evaluator feels that the dog is not doing well. You will be counseled on the dogs’ progress and given advice on how to improve your dogs’ skills. If your dog is not a candidate for this kind of activity, you will be given a written evaluation as to why.
Once you have passed the evaluation and sent in the required forms, you will be given a photo I.D. with a photo of you and your dog. You will then be eligible to purchase a green vest which will proudly announce to the world that your dog is a member of a very special team of animals.
Working with your companion animal in a variety of settings can be a rewarding experience and I encourage you to try out for it.
For full information, visit www.DeltaSociety.org.

What's in a Name?

2009-02-25T15:39:00.001-05:00

What’s in a Name?

Are you a “bunny hugger”, or an “animal lover” Or maybe you are a “radical liberationist”! What’s in a label, after all?

Do you give your money to the Humane Society or Peta? How do you know what organizations are using your money in a way you think is right and good? What’s the difference between all those organizations out there helping animals? Here’s a lesson on who does what.
Those who believe in “animal rights” (animal rights activists or ARA’s) subscribe to the philosophy that animals are here for their own purposes. They are not here for us to experiment on, slaughter for food, use for entertainment purposes, or otherwise exploit. Prize-winning author Alice Walker summed up this philosophy best when she said: “The animals of the world exist for their own reasons. They were not made for humans any more than black people were made for white, or women created for men.”

Examples of an animal-rights organization would be People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (Peta), a hard-working organization of activists who have brought about many important changes in legislation that makes life better for animals worldwide. In the Sunshine State, we have the Animal Rights Foundation of Florida, (ARFF). ARA’s are necessarily vegetarian or vegan, eschewing animal products for ethical reasons; if one believes in animal rights, one cannot eat animals or wear them since they believe that animals have the right not to be eaten or worn.

“Animal welfare” organizations are mostly concerned with companion animal issues such as spay/neuter initiatives, animal cruelty and rescue/adoption. Those who subscribe to an animal welfare viewpoint believe that it’s acceptable for people to exploit animals for food, entertainment and experimentation as long as it is done humanely. (ARA’s will argue that it’s impossible to be humane while slaughtering food animals, that vivisection is cruel because anesthesia is usually not employed during certain procedures; and rodeos, greyhound racing, circuses, horse-drawn carriages and other forms of animal exploitation are by their very nature inhumane). Examples of animal-welfare organizations would include The Humane Society of the United States (HSUS), American Society for the Protection of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA).

Animal control, if you pardon the pun, is a different animal altogether. Where animal welfare and animal rights organizations exist to protect animals from people, animal control exists to protect people from animals. As a function of the Public Safety Department, their main goal is to keep the public safe from stray animals that may bite or spread diseases. However, they are involved in rescuing animals, providing adoption services and veterinary care, so animal control has a dual focus. Palm Beach County Animal Care and Control is our animal control agency.

“Animal ethics” is that area of animal rights that is concerned with scientific evidence that animals have the right to be treated with respect and reverence. Animal ethicists are scientists, philosophers, lawyers and professors, who argue a better world for animals based on scientific evidence that animals have the capacity to feel emotional and physical pain and are possessed of a self awareness; all of which conveys upon us, as compassionate human beings, a requirement to treat animals with value. Animal ethicists argue that animals should be celebrated for their unique gifts and talents. George Bernard Shaw put it this way: “The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them. That's the essence of inhumanity.”

“Animal liberation” is what is usually referred to as the most radical wing of the animal rights movement. Those brave (some would call criminal) souls who don black masks and break into animal-testing labs to free dogs used in experiments, or liberate minks at a fur farm, or cause financial damage to a whaling vessel, are called The Animal Liberation Front, or ALF. ALF is at the helm of the animal liberation movement, and is sometimes referred to as “domestic terrorists” for their bold and illegal actions. Their contribution to the movement includes undercover video of abhorrent practices and untold cruelty to animals in industrial settings that have brought about many changes that stop animal suffering in its tracks.

Hopefully, with this explanation, you will find yourself and your strongly-held beliefs somewhere among the hundreds of animal advocacy organizations that can be found on the internet. Sometimes, to the benefit of all concerned, they work together to effect changes for animals. Pro-hunting groups have been seen working hand in hand with anti-hunting groups such as Defenders of Wildlife because both believe the practice of canned hunting (shooting elderly so-called trophy animals as they come out of a crate) is cruel and unsportsmanlike. At a recent conference, Peta and the HSUS hosted several farmers who do indeed raise animals for food, but they do so humanely and have an interest in stopping the horrendous practices of factory farming. Strange bedfellows indeed.

February 18, 2009 write about Blue, the color or the emotion

2009-02-18T17:42:00.003-05:00

Blue. I like the color blue because it comes in so many shades. I guess all colors come in lots of shades, but blue is in so many colors of nature, unlike, say, brown, which is in dirt and tree trunks and some animals and insects. Gray isn't found much in nature either, unless it's something that is not good, like a dying thing. Or poi.

Blue is in the sky, it's in the ocean, it's in the birds, it's in some flowers, it's even in the eyes of some wild mammals. Blue comes in shades so light they look like a pale grey, or so dark they look like a shade of black. Blue can be for a baby's room, blue can be for the United States Navy, and blue can be the beauty of my Siamese cats eyes. I could look into those eyes forever. I don't know, for the life of me, how anyone could look into the eyes of a Siamese cat, or any animal for that matter, and see anything but a soul there. Of course they have souls, you can see it in their eyes. Does God love my Siamese cat as much as I do? All I need to do to find that answer is look into her eyes. Her trusting, loving eyes.

I could have chosen to write about the emotional blue. Feeling blue, singing the blues, having a blue day. But I prefer to think about the color blue, for that makes me happy. And that's always a good thing.

February 11, 2009

2009-02-11T21:47:00.003-05:00

Today's assignment is to write about a time your heart was broken.

I faithfully recount here the post of June 26, 2008.

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

January 10 You Hear Church Bells in the Distance

2009-02-10T14:40:00.004-05:00

Did you hear the bells? The beautiful pealing of church bells in the steeple of St Peters' Catholic Church down the street. They sound so idyllic and beautiful, and I wonder why they are ringing.

In the olden days, the church bells meant much more than they do today. Their chimes would ring out in the noonday sun, setting the musical score for the choreography that is life. The birds flying in the brilliantly blue sky, the clouds white and fluffy, the sun shining brightly, all of the life that is going on around us this very minute. How we are all connected, all of us, and the bells chiming at this hour is an experience we all share. Our ears are all attuned to the sound of church bells ringing their magnificant song.

Could it be that two people in love are getting married and the bells are ringing in celebration of their joyfulness! Or perhaps there has been a funeral, and the bells signal a departure from this life, someone is crossing over and the bells see them safely on their way....as when a ships' horn blows as it leaves the harbor. Or perhaps a local sailor has just returned from a war on foreign shores and the bells are ringing a welcoming home to our native son. Maybe someone's just been baptized, and the bells declare that a new soul has joined our community, and has been given a name...the bells call out that name with every "ding, dong, ding, dong."

Or perhaps, it's just noon, and we are being alerted to the idea that our day is almost half over, and what have you to show for it?

Will the bell ring for you and me one day? Is it ringing now? I think I hear the bells telling me to wake up, and be present in this moment, for this is the day that the Lord has made, so let us rejoice and be glad in it.

February 6, 2009

2009-02-06T08:49:00.003-05:00

I have skipped some, I know. I tried to stay on task but it's no use going backwards so I am moving forward. Today's exercise is Paul Simon's "Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance, everybody thinks it's true.."

Since I am a Paul Simon fan, I have heard these words over and over again. I often wondered at their meaning. For me the sound of a train in the distance means a lot of things. The sound evokes romanticized ideals of hopping a freight train and just leaving. In the night, the train slows down. It slows enough for you to actually jump onto a car, and just go, wherever you want to go. Where will it be?

The sound of a train in the distance can also mean travel of the highest order. One thinks of train travel of days long ago, when people would get all dressed up to go travelling on a train. There were sleeper cars, and dining cars and it was all so very elegant. Not so anymore, but isn't it nice to dream?

Fans of J.K. Rowling's work will think of a train in the distance and remember train station number 91/2. Fans of old westerns will think of train robberies and stories of when the train rails were being installed.

The sound of a train in the distance is true. It's real. It does seem odd that the line is that "everybody thinks it's true" instead of "..knows it's true" because it appears that maybe it isn't true. That it isn't what it is, which is, real.

We may never know what Mr. Simon meant when he wrote that line. Maybe I will someday have the honor of asking him. I'll put it out there like a train in the distance.

Sick leave

2009-02-04T15:38:00.002-05:00

I'm on sick leave. See you when I feel better!

January 30 A forbidden activity

2009-01-30T20:30:00.003-05:00

A forbidden activity is so delicious. I think the exercise is asking for a specific forbidden activity, but I think it is more challenging to write about forbidden activity in general.

But I can't. I will probably have to put this off for another day as I sliced my left pinky scooping out dog food to make a meatball for my dog so she would not know that there was medicine in there. This makes it almost impossible to type so, I bid adieu for the time being. But only for a moment.

And not following through on a commitment to type every day is a forbidden activity. But I have a band aid on my pinky the size of a ducks' bill and I can't type very well. So I know you will forgive me, Ce.

January 29 The End of the Day

2009-01-30T20:23:00.002-05:00

"At the end of the day" is one of those sayings that people like to say upon summing up an argument, presentation or point. They mean to make their point, but they have to put a lot of stuff in there first. Like "blah blah blah but at the end of the day, it's all the same."

So why not just say "It's all the same?" instead of putting that disclaimer in there? It is like, "when all is said and done" which to me would be self-evident and therefore stating the obvious. "At the end of the day, no matter what happens, we're still yada yada yada." It gets me thinking about some of the other sayings we have. Like "so, in wrapping up I just want to say" which means someone is not wrapping up at all, they are just getting started.

The thing is, I have not written my exercises for a few days because the weather has been so cool and beautiful and any spare time I have has been spent walking the dogs and playing with them outside. So I am trying to make up the time by writing inane things like this. But the thing is, I have spent more time with my dogs and, at the end of the day, isn't that what it's all about?

January 28

2009-01-30T20:17:00.003-05:00

Write about The sky you were born under:

I was born under a May sky
It was evening, the sun was just beginning to retire for the day
I was restless
it was
time for me to make my way into the world.

I was born under a May sky
I was ready, I had no more patience for floating about aimlessly day after day
I was cramped
it was
time for me to stop putting off the inevitable

I was born under a May sky
I was one of the children born to the Taurean sign
I was Taurus
I didn't
want any secrets or lies or betrayals, only honesty

Becasuse

I was born under a May sky.

January 27, Write About a Used Car

2009-01-27T07:17:00.003-05:00

It was 1975 and I was about to purchase my second car. My first car was a 1962 Mercury Comet. It was remarkable because of its color, which was turquise. Honest to God turquise, a color not seen in a car before or since. And it had a white and chrome stripe down the sides.

I loved that car, but the time came when I wanted a convertible. So I got my Dad to help me sell it so I can buy a shiny black 1964 Ford Falcon convertible that I saw on the lawn of some gas station in Palm Beach Gardens. It was a manual transmission, but I wasn't afraid of that, I wanted the car and I had learned to drive a manual transmission on a friends' Toyota Corolla. So we bought the car and I brought it home and wow, did I make it shine!!! I loved that car with all my heart. It had a black interior, but in my youth I didn't care that I had a black car with black interior in South Florida. I can't imagine that today. The interior had red accents here and there. There was chrome strips along the sides of the car. I put some white pinstriping on it. Later, I purchased hood ornaments that were made to look as if you had to lock down the hood because the engine was too powerful! They were chrome locks which necessitated drilling holes in the hood of the car which Daddy was not crazy about but, to his credit, he did it anyway. I had my boyfriend at the time (who later became husband number 1 and the father of my kids) install a Thrush muffler to make it sound like a racecar and I even took it out to Moroso Speedway to see how fast it would go. In the vernacular of the time, it turned twelves in the quarter mile!

I named the car Diamond Girl and had a license plate on the front bearing the name. It was for the Seals and Crofts song by the same name because of the lyrics, "you sure do shine".
Later, when the CB craze hit, that was my 'handle'.

My Falcon died one day when I was trying to make a dramatic exit from Randy's house. We had just had a fight and I had stormed out the door of his house, gotten in my car and slammed the door, turned the key and the engine roared. I gunned the engine in neutral and heard this deafening BANG. The tranny had given out. So much for dramatic exits.

It turned out to be too expensive to fix the tranny on a ten-year-old car so we had it towed to a VW dealer and traded it in on a bug. I loved the bug too, but it was no Diamond Girl. I never felt that way about another car.

Until I got my Jeep, Jenny Girl.

Stay tuned.

January 26 2009 Write about a closet.

2009-01-26T21:50:00.006-05:00

The topic this week is to write about someones closet. That's a great descriptive verse exercise, but I believe a metaphor is in the offing. So I will write about emotional closets.

Some people have a beautiful house, and most have a mediocre house. And you go inside, and you see their rooms, and you think, well, this is pretty ordinary. But people have a tendancy to shove things in their closet when having company. And when one opens the closet, evil lurks therein.

In their closet is rage, and anger, and dishonesty. In their closet, though they may have a perfectly normal coutenance, you will find deciet and hatred. Buddah says that hate never disappated hate, only love dissapates hate. So when it's present, it has nothing to do but build up, like layers of paint on a bedroom wall, unless love comes to replace it. But in some closets, there is no innocence, only guilt.

So why are there people in the world who have such demons in their closets? And why do they feel the need to unleash it on the rest of us?

Is it because they have deep hurts in their lives so they, in turn, have to turn around and hurt other people?

Buddah teaches that basic decency means treating people fairly, not hurting them when they are hurting already, being ethical and kind. It's the Golden Rule, to treat others how they want to be treated. Jesus told it on the Mount, Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God...

Yet time and time again, I run into people who are not pure of heart, in fact, they are evil. Really evil. Maybe they are the unenlightened, those just beginning their journey and have many, many incarnations to go through before they reach Nirvana. My big challenge in life is to not judge others. I feel deeply that however harshly I judge my brothers and sisters, I will be judged thus in the afterlife. I worry about this often and so I make a conscious effort not to judge others.

But I cannot help but to ponder why people are the way they are. Why they have to be so evil. I am not judging, far be it from me, I am lowly myself. And, I do understand that we all, all of us, come from different backgrounds and we bring many crosses to bear. We bring the hurts and lessons and loves and losses from this lifetime and possibly others, and so one cannot possibly judge another unless she has walked a mile in his moccasins.

I have a sister. She's a spiritually small, meek, mouse who would never hurt a living thing (other than the cows and pigs she eats, but that's for another day). She is a victim of life. Life has been very hard on her, beaten her down, made her days a shambles. She has made some decisions that have shaped her life in ways that has brought unimaginable pain and heartache. And she has nobody to blame for these misfortunes but her own self. She freely admits this.

And yet I find, time and time again, that people go out of their way to hurt her. They bully her into submission until she is a crying, quivering mass of nerves. They tread on her and dig their claws into her flesh until she cannot bleed anymore, and still they keep coming. Someone says they will help her, but they have an agenda, they want only to hurt her. Someone says they will make a place for her at the table, but they only want to take, take, take what meager possessions she has. Someone says, "Come in from the storm and I will give you safe harbor" but they are the most vicious of them all.

How do you continue to be a good Christian and turn the other cheek when people knock you down? Is it possible to chalk it up to Life Lessons and understand that this is karma at work, and one day they will get theirs? And shame on us for even hoping that is the case?

I know a woman who has a dark heart, yet she wields great power and enjoys a good life, a full life. I know a man who was not deserving of the highest place in the world, and yet, for eight years he had just that. I know a lady who is selfish, and mean, and cruel to other people, yet she is living a life of luxury, working in a field she loves, employing being a puppeteer of human and animal lives. I don't understand.

Time and time again I have looked into their closets and I see that they are all the same. They are cut from the same cloth. The ones who took my dog, the ones who bully a poor soul who cannot defend herself for all the emotional and spiritual wounds she carries, and they create problems where none existed. They find fault with the slightest thing, and they don't forgive. They just pack every imagined slight into their closet, shut the door and smile. They accuse and they belittle and their souls are as dark as a rotting dead thing that does nothing for the world around it but suck the energy.

I never go out without my white light of protection. I meditate every morning so that I am steeled against the day and whatever it may bring. But sometimes, like the time they stole my dog, there is a crack in that white light, a chink in the armour, and they find their way in. I guess I need to keep something in my closet to defend against treachery.

So the question for today is not why they have these things in their closets, but what can I put in mine to defend myself from them? How how to deal with them?

The Desiderata says "As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all people" and I have tried to live by that, child of the sixties that I am. But how far is too far without surrender? Where is that fine line? And what do you do when people cross it?

I hear all the time about how people love their animals better than people because animals are so straightforward. I believe it. I know an woman, a person who has taken quarter in my life, though I offered no quarter there, who spends hours doing volunteer work at an animal shelter so that all will see what an angel she is. Then she goes home and abuses her own animals. The bible says that when you pray, you should go in your room and shut the door, and not stand on the street corner wailing loudly for all to see. I think that means, too, that when you do little acts of kindness, that you should not do it for show, but in quiet. Good character is doing something good when nobody is looking.

So why can't everyone just live by the Golden Rule and apply that not only to just people but to animals too?

I saw a few red flags when this woman was first on my radar. I disliked her immensely when I first met her, my hackles rose immediately. But then, she offered to help, and I figured, well, maybe I should get to know her, not pre judge her, ignore the red flags and give her a chance.

But you never know what's behind that closet door and so you should always trust your first instinct. It's God's way of giving you vital information. It's the Universe, your spirit Guide, your ascended masters, the saints, trying to get your attention.

That's the lesson.

January 25, Shadows

2009-01-25T12:38:00.003-05:00

Shadows.
I think that this is a subject about shadows, the kind of darkness that comes when something gets in front of the sun.

But when I hear the word Shadows, I think of something far different. I think of all the black cats and dogs who are named Shadow. It's so common a name that I can practically guess it when I see a black dog or cat. I wish people would put a little more effort into naming a soul. After all, Shadow is not a very unique or creative name. It's a very ordinary name.

Some people name their dog or cat shadow because they are black. Others name them Shadow because the animal follows them around all the time, like a shadow. The word Shadow itself is a pretty word, it is euphonious and lovely. But as a name, it's common as dirt.

And speaking of all those black dogs and cats, I hate to bring this up but, more dogs and cats named Shadow are put to sleep than any other name. I do not know this for a fact, it is an educated guess. Because people are inherently afraid of black dogs and cats, they are difficult to adopt out. And if they are so hard to adopt, then, well, I'm afraid that euthanasia is the only solution. It's better than living ones' life out in a cage, after all.

Like I said, I don't know this for sure, it's not a statistic or anything. But if we looked into it, I believe, beyond a SHADOW of a doubt, it to be true.

January 24, Write About Leaving

2009-01-25T12:17:00.005-05:00

This one is easy. I was just laid off from a job that I loved. It was hard leaving, but I have to make the best of it so I am trying to make it look as if it doesn't bother me.

But it does.

I guess I knew it was coming. I guess I knew that it was inevitable. With all the lay-offs in this economic down-turn, I had to be the next one to receive a pink slip. It wasn't an unpleasant experience, my boss made it as painless as possible. She said all the right things, was very nice, insisting that I will be back after a few months. But I know when I am being "handled" and sometimes, that's an insult. Better to rip the band-aid off quickly: "We have no more money, we gotta let you go for the moment." But instead, I get a lecture about the budget, the economy, the donors, blah, blah, blah. It's insulting. But I guess others would say they were nice about it. I know they were not so nice about it to others. They treated some of the others like criminals....escorting them off the property, making them feel so unwanted. From what I hear, it was pretty ugly. So I guess I have to count my lucky stars that this did not happen to me. But then again, after the last time I was LAID OFF without my beloved Murphy, anything would be a piece of cake. At least I got to take my dog with me this time.

Leaving. It is not as exciting as coming. But then again, it still represents a change. When you are coming, you kind of know a little about what to expect. You know what the job will be, you know where your office is, what your environment is all about. But leaving.... well, you don't know quite as much about what to expect. Will I get another job? Will I be ok? Will anyone else hire me?

Then again, maybe it's time I left the job market for good this time. Leave it to the next generation. Maybe I should simply write about all that I have been through and all that I have seen and done, for better or for worse. And maybe, just maybe, in the leaving, I will find my true self.

January 23, 2009 Write a Love Letter..to anyone

2009-01-23T19:17:00.004-05:00

My Dearest Grandchild:

I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love you. You are the manifest of everything that makes me a feminine spirit with boundless love for a child. You have no idea how much you have awakened my soul.

I loved your father when he was my little boy, and of course I wanted only the best for him. But there is something much different about having the-child-of-my-child to love. Maybe it's because I never had a grandmother to love me. I never knew what that was like. I always resented and envied the kids around me who had grandmothers. They were always going to Grandmom's house for holiday, or recieving presents from Grandmom, or talking about how, when their grandmother died, they were so very, very sad. I even envied them because they knew someone who had died! I wondered what that was like as well.

So when I saw you for the first time, I felt a sting of pride knowing that you will never know that envy, that longing for someone who loves you so unconditionally. Someone who gives you a little break from your daily routine but who loves you just as much as your own mother and father do. Maybe more. Believe me, it's possible, though your parents may not agree.

I knew I wanted to be that grandmother that I never had. I never knew I would love the role so much, in fact, I secretly thought I would resent it. But no, not for a moment. Never.

Alexander, you were my first. When you were little you cried and cried for so long and so hard that I felt that my very essence was being ripped out of my soul and flung to the far reaches of the world. You were in pain, we could see that. Your poor mother and father were besides themselves with exhaustion and worry. What could be hurting you so? My heart broke for you. In time, of course, the crying stopped and it turned out to be colic. It seems trivial, but if you have ever had a gas pain in your abdomen that brings you to your knees, and you think about a tiny baby having to undergo that pain, it almost takes your breath away.

And the first time I ever saw you smile, you did just that. You took my breath away. I remember the exact moment. You were in your Daddy's arms, sitting on his hip. I came in the front door and you regarded me seriously for a moment. Then, your eyes flew wide with recognition and you smiled at me. My heart leapt and I fell instantly, irretrievably, head over heels in love. Oh what a beautiful moment. And there has been one beautiful moment after the next ever since.

And Austin, I remember the first time I met you too. You had a shaggy haircut, and it made you look adorable. You stood just inside our doorway, with your finger to your mouth, eyes down, afraid to look at us. We tried to get you to talk to us but you were painfully shy. Of course, this brought out the PROTECTOR in John and he was smitten immediately. You became his project. He wanted to show you how much you were wanted and loved. We accepted you as our own just as my in-laws had accepted my boys before you. You sat on the steps, it was the fourth step from the bottom, and you put your chin in your hands, your elbows resting on your knees. Your big brown eyes took in everything that was going on below, and you reserved your judgement.
And then, one day, a while later, I read you a book. It was called "Hey Little Ant" and you couldn't believe that the story ended with you, the reader, having to make a humane decision about the ant. You cried out "I love this book" and my heart said "I love this little boy" and I did, Austin, I truly did. And as I watch you grow into a big boy, I cannot wait to see what you have in store for us because Austin, I truly believe you are a sensitive and caring soul who is destined for very great things. You will be president one day, if you want it. You will save lives, or make them better. You will be The One they look up to. You, and the "white man" you tell us about all the time. The man who, I suspect, is not a white man, but a man bathed in white light. I think he is your guardian angel, your spirit guide, and he will see to it that you do great things.

And Adrienne. I have waited a lifetime for a little girl and here you are. I saw you in the hospital when you were just hours old. We waited in that hospital for you all night and finally, finally, you were here! Your smile is radiant, your personality defiant. You, little lady, will never be well behaved and good for you! Well behaved women rarely make history! You are living life on your own terms at the age of two, and wow, I can scarcely believe how smart and intuitive you are. You are a beautiful little girl, and you are well loved. I know that the Irish mother who raised me, and the Irish mother who is raising you, and the Irish mother who raised your daddy will always be together, looking out for you, watching over you. And someday, you will be an Irish mother too, if you want that, and you will have a wee one of your own to raise. Good, strong Irish women..may we be them, may we raise them....may we love them. Adrienne, you are the little girl of my dreams. Do you know why you have a special bond with your Uncle Jay? Because the Blessed Mother showed you to him while you were in heaven. Ask him about it sometime, he'll tell you all about it. It's a fascinating, true story.

My heart bursts at the thought of spending even a few minutes of time with my grandchildren, and I am so blessed, and fortunate to be young enough to enjoy them for a time to come, God willing, and old enough, finally, to really know how to love.

January 21, 2009 Write about something you bought mail order

2009-01-22T13:00:00.000-05:00

I buy every thing on Ebay. I love mail order. I have been doing it ever since I first learned about it. I love shopping this way.

I have purchased so many things on Ebay that it would be hard to narrow it down to one thing.
But there was one thing, a "find." Being that John is a public defender, he is an unsung hero. You never hear of Public Defenders, only the flashy defense lawyers that catch the big cases. But Public Defenders are the best. They aren't in it for the money, they are in it for the love of justice. They believe in the rights of others. And they believe in our justice system.

So it was particularly fitting this past Christmas that, while searching for a gift for my husband who is The Most Difficult Man On Earth To Buy For, I found a television series from the 1950's about Public Defenders on DVD. I bought the entire series, and John seemed pleased, not only with his gift, but with my creativity in finding such a perfect and thoughtful gift.

Ebay rocks!

January 22, 2009 In the Meantime

2009-01-22T01:20:00.000-05:00

I spend a lot of time "in the meantime." "In the meantime" is the time that you have while waiting for other things to happen, such as "You go to the store, and in the meantime I will start the vegetables," or, "I have to wait for this train to pass, so in the meantime I will read this passage in my book."

I spend a lot of time in the meantime because I am a multi-tasker. I like to do several things at once. But there is one thing that I refuse to do in the meantime, one thing that I refuse to clump in with other things, and that's write. I cannot write in the meantime. I must have quality time to write. And so I set aside a few minutes, and it can be as little as 10 minutes, or as much as several hours, to write.

I used to say, "well, unless I have a solid block of at least two hours to write I can't 'get into it' but since starting these writing exercises I have learned that even a few minutes is helpful.
Oh, I have a phone call, I will be back. In the meantime, I hope you have a great day!

January 20, 2009

2009-01-20T10:23:00.003-05:00

The topic for today is to "Look out your window, write what you see" which would be a great exercise in descriptive writing. But I will use my imagination today, and pretend I am in a hotel room high above the National Mall in Washington D.C. because today is a day like no other.

So from my hotel window, here is what I see, feel and hear.
There are tens of thousands of people lining the mall and the streets of our nation's capital. The celebratory sounds fill the air and rise high above the streets, making everywhere you go, anywhere you are, a party. Every once in a while, there will be a huge, collective noise of shouting as some dignitary, celebrity or event happens that awakens the crowd. And you just know that this is a moment in history that will never be forgotten. Like the time the lights went out on the entire eastern seaboard, or the Kennedy assassination, and of course, 9/11, we all will know exactly what we were doing when Barack Obama was sworn in as our first black president.

I asked John just yesterday, "Did we make this big a fuss for Bush? For Clinton? For Kennedy even?" "No, I don't think so," came the answer. So why are we making such a big fuss now? I think it's because our country has been through a terrible eight years. President Bush will go down as the worse president in U.S. history. We have suffered economic losses, military defeat, apathy, job losses, even our 'place in the world' as the best democracy ever has been compromised. People around the world hate us. But it's all different today. Today, we make a big change. I see thousands of police officers, secret service and military personnel from my window, all there with one goal in mind, to keep our new president safe. There are those who are unhappy about our president being black, and who will try to hurt or kill him. Those people are the unenlightened, the ignorant, and the evil. They refuse to give anyone a chance who looks different from themselves.

I see a country on the verge of a great change. And whether or not President Obama goes down in history as a good president, a great president or a bad president, one thing is for sure, he has brought this country, indeed, the world, together in a way that not one of his predecessors ever has. He made us all sit up and take notice. People who never voted before, never gave a rats' ass about politics before are paying attention, and eager to see what happens next.

I see a country that has been given a second chance. I hope we don't blow it. There are some, my own son included, who have bought into the fear that the far right has been forcing down their throats, telling them that this man is a Muslim (he's not, but so what if he was?), that he will bring our country down, that he will cause us great harm. But if we can look past all that and see what good he has done so far, maybe those people will be more open and wait to pass judgement. He hasn't done anything but good things so far, there is nothing to complain about, yet. Give peace a chance!

I remember the labels "whites only." I remember the lynchings and the segregation and the race riots. I remember Dr. King's "I have a dream" speech. That the media is calling us "Post Racial America" makes be believe that there has been a shift. The American people are ready to embrace tolerance. And that is no small feat.

From my imaginary hotel room I see a country on a quest to become great again. And I say "Yes we can!"

January 19, 2009 Remember A Sound

2009-01-19T09:40:00.004-05:00

It was September 11, 2001. I was sitting in a workshop at an American Humane Association conference in Crystal City, Washington D.C., just eight blocks from the Pentagon.

The twin towers had just come down, and the attendees sat stunned, half-listening to a speaker who had no idea whether she should continue, or just give up.

Suddenly, there was a loud sound that seemed to be coming from the floor above us. We all jumped in our seats, startled, and looked at one another for reassurance. It sounded like someone had been carrying something really big and heavy, a Grand Piano, perhaps, and the workmen had dropped it. But how could that be? It would have to have been dropped from a great height to make such a loud THUD.

Unsure of what to do, the speaker began again. The workshop was on storytelling, how to keep your audience involved, how to tell a story, how to illustrate the things you want to say using word pictures. But she was having trouble keeping our attention that morning.

From the back of the room the doors burst open and someone rushed into the room. We turned in our seats, all 40 or 50 of us in unison. "They just bombed the Pentagon!" she screamed.

And then there was chaos.

It did not dawn on me until much later, when I was re-visiting the experience, that the sound I heard was, indeed, the sound of a plane hitting a building. Our nations' building, the one where we plan and carry out war. And just like that, I was in a war zone. Me. The middled-aged grandmother who works at an animal shelter. I was stuck in that Marriott for four days, unable to find a way home. The sounds of war were all around me. The sounds of urban warfare are: fire, ambulance and police sirens, car horns honking, people running and crying, non-stop television coverage, Blackhawks circling above, policemen on horseback, the horses hooves clop, clop, clopping in the streets, whistles being blown, men with bullhorns shouting, miltary aircraft zooming overhead, cell phones ringing. These are the sounds of urban warfare.

And it all began with a terrible, tragic THUD. I will never, ever forget that sound.

January 18, 2009 "It was noon and nothing was concluded"

2009-01-19T09:34:00.003-05:00

This is a line from a work by Donald Rawley and I have no idea what it means. But it brings to mind board meetings. It brings to mind all of the board meetings through which I have sat thinking, "It's noon and we have accomplished nothing, let's eat!" or worse, "It's 6:00 and nothing is near finished, let's eat!"

I have been on several boards. One in particular, a board for an organization made up of professional humane educators, had me as a member of their board for six years. It was a wonderful time and I spent it with wonderful people. We travelled around the country, visiting shelters and getting to know the other people in the humane movement. I hung out with people from the big four: The Humane Society of the U.S., Best Friends, American Humane Association and the ASPCA. Yes, Peta was not a part of this and that is a long story for another day.

I learned so much from this experience and I hope to be able to serve on many more boards before I am through.

Because it's noon,
and nothing is concluded.

Let's eat.

January 17, 2009 About a time you learned something you were not supposed to know

2009-01-17T13:27:00.003-05:00

I find out things I am not supposed to know all the time. For example, I was walking out of a room the other day and the door I was approaching was all glass. The people behind me, the ones I had just bid good-bye, were watching me. Not only could I feel their eyes on my back, but I could see them in the glass. They were appraising my looks, and gossiping about me, I could tell by their body language, which, again, I saw in the glass.

Then there is a family member who believes I am jealous of her. She does not think I know this, but I do. I could tell by the things she tells me, and the way she and her husband watch me closely for my reaction. I'm not jealous,but it's ok that she thinks I am.

There was the time I was not supposed to find out about an employee who was making a lot more money than I was for virtually the same job. That was not much fun.

I wish I could say that I found out about a surprise party but nobody has ever thrown one for me. I wish they would, but they won't. It's way too much trouble and nobody likes me that much.

I can read people and I can "tell" things by the things they say or don't say, or the way they look, or act. I read body language really well.

I am having trouble with this topic and that's ok. Because it's supposed to happen from time to time. I can always come back to this if I think of a time I learned something I was not supposed to know. I could write a fictional account of a sordid affair, or a deadly illness but let's keep it real for now.

January 16, 2009 Write About A Bed

2009-01-17T12:49:00.002-05:00

In a little po-dunk town in northeast Florida there is an American Treasure. It is a B & B called the Herlong Mansion. The mansion has 7 or 8 rooms, all decorated according to its own theme, and all a beautiful sight to behold. Legend has it that the Herlong Mansion is, in fact, a haunted house. The owner of the house had died, you see, way, way back in the early 1900’s. The mansion had been home to several siblings and when the mistress of the house died, she did so intestate. Since the decedent left virtually no instructions as to what would become of the house, that is, which of her daughters would succeed her as the mistress, there was a terrible fight. For nine long years the family was embattled in a lawsuit over who was the rightful owner of the beautiful mansion.

When one of the heirs finally prevailed, she was ecstatic. She moved into the home immediately but, alas, she died within a year and so never got the opportunity to fully enjoy the residency for which she had alienated her entire family. So angry was she at this very unfortunate turn of events that she vowed to never leave the mansion and she never did. To this day she haunts that beautiful home and the visitors who sleep there. And that, patient reader, brings us to the bed.

The room in which we stayed was the master suite. It has a four-poster bed that is so far off the floor that it necessitates a small ladder be placed nearby. It is wide as it was tall and elegant in its own, semi-Victorian way. The room was built in the 1800’s, the walls and doors are solid, heavy and wooden. Upon entering the room, the bed, which is to the left, beckons and you cannot help yourself, you must climb atop the heavy white quilt with the tiny blue violets. But should you resist the temptation you will notice across the room is an imposing fireplace. It has a heavy wooden mantel on which are carefully placed lace runners and lovely little knick knacks: a small blue Delft cat, a
Victorian lavender teacup and saucer, and two small votive candles.

On either side of the fireplace are windows, treated with lacy powder-blue curtains and old-time shades, the kind with the string and the little circle. The window sills are white-painted wood.

The walls are covered in white wainscoting halfway up, meeting white pin-striped wallpaper with tiny blue and purple African violets about. The ceiling is cantilevered with heavy wooden, unpainted beams, giving the room a semi-rustic feel it does not deserve.

To the right is a sitting area, with a dusty- blue upholstered rocking chair, a small side table, and a floor lamp with an eggshell shade trimmed in beige fringe. Atop the table are a leather-bound journal and a feather pen. The journal contains entries from previous guests and many of them reported seeing and hearing energy, spirits or unexplained phenomena. One such entry told of how the light by the table suddenly went on and the candles that were on the mantle were blown out as if synchronized. This entry was written by my own hand and I tell you to this day, it’s the truth.

Beyond the sitting room is the bathroom, tiled in pocked white tile. The tub is an old-fashioned claw foot, and it is enormous. There is a side table with a light blue and yellow porcelain bowl and pitcher, the kind they used before they had running water and sinks. The deep purple bath linens are rich and luxurious, and there are several baskets and bowls about which contain lavender- scented soaps, lotions and bath oils. These lovely accoutrements are responsible for the heady, sweet scent of lavender that fills the room.

But this is a story about the bed. The bed with the ruffled bed skirts that lightly dust the hardwood floor. The four posters stand ten feet high, the quilt is an antique and the shams are plump and decorated with the same tiny blue and purple violets that were on the wallpaper and the quilt itself. It was as if someone took a handful of African violets, blew into them as one blows a dandelion, and dispatched the flowers to float in the air and settle comfortably about.

Sleeping in the bed, I dreamed of feminine visages floating about in mists of lavender. I dreamed of Lady Herlong and her troubled soul that refused to vacate the home she loved. I dreamed I was in a snow globe surrounding a beautiful, ancient room and I was sitting on the bed. But instead of tiny white specks I saw miniature blue flowers floating lazily about. After one shakes a snow globe, the specks begin to settle and all is at peace.

January 15, 2009 It's Saturday Afternooon, You're not at home

2009-01-15T20:19:00.003-05:00

It's Saturday afternoon, and I'm not home. I'm elsewhere, it matters not where.
I have left my Siamese cat in charge. As I was leaving the house, I lined up all my fur children and looked at them, one by one. Doing a tail count before I leave the house is imperative to my sanity. For if I don't see each one before I leave, I will imagine that one of my furchildren has somehow gotten out, or is caught somewhere, or is in dire need of a snack, and I am not there to appease.

So as I was leaving the house, my furchidren lined up (or lounging about, whichever) I looked from one set of brown eyes to the next, to the green eyes of my orange kitty, to the golden eyes of the white one, and finally into the blue, blue eyes of my Siamese. "Maggie" I pronounced, "You are in charge." And that was that.

The job description of The One In Charge is simple: the others must listen to him or her and acquiese to his or her every command. The catch is, each command must be to get along, stay out of eachothers way, and go lie down somewhere. Staying out of trouble is optional.

Maggie is the littlest, and so putting her in charge is truly an exercise in futility, were it be a "for real" assignment. But since it's only a token, it means very little. But make no mistake, though Maggie is the smallest, she is, without a doubt, the one with the most ATTITUDE. She has a Siamese voice, with a Siamese body, and a Siamese mind-set. This means that she can sound louder, meaner, braver, bigger and more ferocious than any tiger. When she is annnoyed, the whole house knows about it. If she doesn't want another cat on the bed, she lets everyone know it, and everyone runs for cover.

So it's Saturday afternoon, and I have left my Siamese in charge. I hope she doesn't kill everyone.

January 14, 2009 Write about the Horizon

2009-01-14T20:09:00.005-05:00

Sometimes, we cannot see our own horizons. But more often, and to our detriment, we can. For it is in seeing the horizon that we fail to see beyond it, and when we react accordingly, we tend to make very bad decisions.

There has been a lot of talk lately about "the Secret". Here's a better secret, The Secret is not such a secret. Think good thoughts, like Dorothy clicking her heels and thinking her way back home, and you will draw good things to you. I believe that. But I think that the good things we draw towards ourselves is not in the form of material things, but more important, long-lasting things. I think that the good things we draw towards ourselves are those things that will give us a long life, both in this life and the next. From the moment we are born, we edge toward our horizon, the end of our lives as we know it. We know not what is beyond that horizon, and so we act as if there is no 'beyond'. There is. There is a beyond and those who fail to see that are doomed to never see it. Those who fail to see that are forever seeing only the horizon and never past it. If we only see our horizon, next week, for example, or next year, or the NEXT BIG THING in our lives, if we live with "if only's" we won't be prepared for what comes next. If only I was thinner, if only I were richer, if only I had married that other guy, if only I had a bigger house, blah, blah, blah. Life is what happens when we're busy making other plans, said John Lennon. Look at him! He lived his life as if every day were his last, and we are all the better for it. I know he certainly was too.

I can write about the horizon because I know that there is a place past it, both in this life and in the next. Death is nothing but a beautiful experience into another dimension and it is as natural a part of life as breathing. I am not hoping my horizon will come soon, but I am not afraid of my horizon. I'm ready to see what is on the other side. I know it will be great. Really, really great.

January 13, 2009 After Midnight

2009-01-13T22:52:00.003-05:00

Today's topic, After Midnight, brought to mind the old song from the sixties-After Midnight, we gonna let it all hang down.....After Midnight, we gonna shake the tambourine....

I always wondered what "it" was and why we need to wait to the stroke of midnight to shake the tambourine.

After midnight, if I'm still up, I feel as if I am being a rebel. If I am reading, I am likely to fall asleep if it's after midnight. I love to turn off all the lights in the living room, maybe light a candle or two, get my lava lamp going strong and settle in with a really good movie. I lie on the sofa with a light blanket, assorted cats tucked in here and there, a glass of red wine on the coffee table and become absorbed in somebody elses' life for two hours.

After midngiht is not the time to watch a musical. For some people, after midnight may be the time to watch a horror flick, but not for me. I don't watch them. Why invite more uglniness into my life? There's enough horror in my work and on the daily news to last me a lifetime. I certainly don't want to deliberately bring that stuff into my psyche.

No, for me the best After Midnight movie is a mystery. Fallen, with Denzel Washington and John Goodman, is kind of like that. It's a scary mystery with a demon and stuff, but it's not the same as a horror movie.

Or maybe a courtoom drama, a romantic comedy or a love story. I don't always like those romantic comedies, but some are not so bad. It depends on the actors. It just seems to me that they all follow the same plot line. Boy meets girl, girl pisses off boy (or the other way around) somehow they sort it all out and fall in love. Is there nothing new under the Midnight Moon?

After midnight.....my favorite time because I am a night owl, not a morning person. But it's not my favorite thing to write about. After midnight, there's mystery. Let's keep it that way!

January 12, 2009 Write about an acceptable loss

2009-01-12T17:16:00.003-05:00

I don't even know where to begin. This seems like an oxymoron to me. If it was acceptable, it wouldn't be considered a loss.

Unless we're talking about weight loss, it guess that's acceptable. Or maybe when a cruel, mean, horrible person dies. Hmm, I'm on a roll! it's time to make a list!

It's an acceptable loss when:

The cat that puked on your bedspread and pissed on your carpet for 15 years finally dies of natural causes....

When that rat bastard boyfriend who has been cheating on you for three months with his own secretary finally breaks up with you.....

When your well-insured house that is all broken down and in need of repairs catches fire (and nobody is inside)

When your boss who has been keeping you up all night stressing out and forces your working with assholes finally "lets you go"....

When the housekeeper that you were afraid to fire because little pieces of jewelry and whatnots go missing every time she comes finally moves away....

When your friend who is hypercritical and bossy and flirts with your husband moves away....

When we lose a president who was the worst president in American history....well, that's more than an acceptable loss....It's a win!

When you finally divorce the bastard.....

When you can't remember where you put that gi-nor-mous bag of M & M's (they are lost)...

When a misogynistic rap artist finally sees the light and turns the corner......

I guess there are some acceptable losses after all. And in the words of Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

January 11, 2009 You are in a motel room

2009-01-11T13:11:00.003-05:00

I was in a hotel room standing at the window which overlooked the busy street. It was 3:00 am and there wasn't a car on the road. I was up on the fourth floor and was very much alone since I had been traveling on business.

Across the street from me was an empty post office. It was brightly lit, and I could see the rows of postal boxes. I stared out the window, unable to sleep. I had been up since 8:00 the previous morning, and was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep nonetheless.

From out of the darkness came a lone figure. He had parked his little red car in one of the parking spots in front of the post office, and was entering the building. I watched from my window, curious as to why someone would be checking his mailbox at 3:00 am. He had a backpack which he carried in front of him, both arms crossing his chest, the backpack snuggly between them. I couldn't see him at all, just a figure of a man. He was inside the building now, and he was acting strangely. He was pacing, back and forth, several times over the length of the small post office. My heart began to race, my anxiety rising with each breath I took. I became alarmed, frightened. He dropped his backpack on a chair in the lobby of the post office, and stood there for a few moments, just looking at it. Then he quickly exited the building, leaving his car right where he left it.

Oh my God! What should I do? Becoming hysterical now, I thought about calling the police. But that seemed a little like overkill. I mean, maybe he would be back in a few minutes. I was frantic and began to pace myself. He could come back, right? He just went to find a bathroom, right? He’ll be back, right? I picked up the phone to call the front desk, but what would I say? What would they do? So I waited, and watched over that car and that backpack for three hours, until the sun came up. I went to the coffeemaker and brewed myself a cup of coffee, and turned on the news. I heard the sirens on the television and on the street, making it all seem so surreal. Should I have called the police? Should I have sounded the alarm?

I went back over to the window and watched the street begin to come alive. Still no cars on the road but people were beginning to stir. An old woman pulling a cart behind her, a man out walking his dog, a jogger, a woman with a stroller. They all walked by the post office and the little red car, not giving either a second look.

Soon the police came. They seemed to be interested in the little red car. They found the backpack and more police came. A tow truck arrived and took the red car away. The police stayed for a long time. Were they looking for anyone? Should I tell them what I saw? Did I do a terrible thing by not calling them?

I sat on the bed to watch the news some more, still hearing the sirens in the distance as well as on my television. I saw the live streaming video on CNN of the smoke rising in the air, and I smelled its acrid, unmistakable odor. I could see it from my windwo, it looked smaller on tv. In fact, even the wounded Pentagon itself, from where I could see it, looked larger in real life.

It was September 12, 2001 and I was in a hotel room.

January 10. 2009 Write About a Wound

2009-01-10T13:04:00.003-05:00

Something happened to me that left a scar. I have always felt that people were basically good. In my naivete' I thought that evil people, those with evil agendas and cruel intentions stand out in a crowd. You recognize them immediately. I believed with all my heart that karma would always win out.

But that was before what I now call "The Hanley Incident". They laid me off from my job as an animal-assisted therapist. I didn't care, I already had another job all lined up. But then, they took away my Murphy. To this day I don't know why I let them. I don't know how I could have allowed them to take away my power, my will, my determination, and then my Murphy. Why did I give up so easily? I was outnumbered, yes, but right was on my side and Mother always told me that Right Makes Might. I take full responsibility for not being stronger, more willful, more creative in my resistance. But how and why would a person deliberately separate a loving dog and his guardian? Why would someone do that? The only logical answer is that they are evil people. Dr. Barbara Krantz took away my dog with the support of security guards (did I see a gun? I think I saw a gun!) I lost before I even started to fight. I was in shock. And so I was terribly wounded. This was an open wound that would stay open and oozing and infected until I got my Murphy back. This wound, this psychic wound, may have healed up somewhat, but it left a scar. A big, deep, angry-looking scar. And I wear that scar proudly because it means I learned something. I learned that people are good, that's true, but that people, when given half a chance, will hurt you badly if they can. And they will. I learned that even doctors and other educated people will do evil things if they think they can get away with it. I learned not to trust anyone ever again. I always look for the veil and, upon seeing it, attempt to peer beneath it to see what's there. I need to know what is there because it may be a lie, or an evil intent.

I was a happy-go-lucky soul, full of whimsy and humor. And in some ways I still am. But it's all changed now. I am not so happy, not so lucky, and whimsy, well, there's no time for that. I still have my humor though, and no matter how evil the adversary, they can't take that away from me.

January 9, 2009 Write About A Ceremony

2009-01-09T11:51:00.003-05:00

It was a funeral for all the dogs and cats who were killed in our nation's shelters during the past year. I had organized these ceremonies before, but this was, by far, my most memorable one.

I was working at Safe Harbor, a lovely litttle shelter in Jupiter, and decided to take advantage of the fact that we were so close to the ocean. The distance was about two miles as the crow flies right to the beach. Safe Harbor has a distinctive van, brown with green writing on it, with a twirly green light on top. Organizing volunteers, one for each dog, and a driver for the van, we paraded our way, under police motorcyle escort, over the bridge that spans the intracoastal, down Indiantown Road, to A1A, the beach road. We walked a short distance to Carlin Park, where a minister awaited our little procession. Along with the minister was a contingent of lifeguards with an enormous surfboard. A small motorboat awaited us a little ways out in the ocean.

We placed the cremains of animals that had died, a small representation of the millions of animals that die every year because of overpopulation, at the feet of the minister who prayed over them, and then led our little group in a prayer. Beachgoers, unaffiliated with our group, assembled as well. We then handed the cremains, along with floral wreaths that had been donated by local florists, to the lifguards. Using their over-sized surfboards, they paddled out to the waiting boat, and handed over the cremains and the floral wreath. With a wave of his hand, the boat captain carried the cremains out to sea where they were scattered to the wind.

This was, by far, the most beautiful of all the Candlelight Vigils I ever organized on behalf of ISAR, the International Society of Animal Rights, a group that "sheds light on an American Tragedy" every year.

Besides my dedication to the animals, this ceremony was special for me in another way as well. Vikings were sent to sea in a flaming boat, so that their bodies were always reduced to ash and their remains became part of the sea. So in a way, this was, after a fashion, a modified Viking Funeral, the way my Viking ancestors did it so long ago.

Taking a Journey

2009-01-08T15:06:00.005-05:00

I am making a New Year's Resolution. Just like athletes must practice every day, just like musicians must practice every day, so do writers. If I have nothing to write for publication, even if I am not on deadline or under contract, I must still write. And so I have committed myself to 15 minutes of writing every day. More if I have the time. But hopefully my muse will show up and keep me writing for hours.

In any event, I think I will post my writing exercises here for all the world to see when I die. I mean, eventually, when I die, someone somewhere will look for the things I have written and find this little blog. Maybe my grandchildren, maybe not.

I have purchased a book of writing exercises. Each day, I am given a topic on which to write. I can write a paragraph, or even a sentence, or I can go on for hours and hours.

Since it is already January 8, I have a lot to catch up on. So I have written on each topic so far and am placing the lot right here and now. But from this day forward, each topic will be a different blog.

You can choose to read it, or not. You can pass it along or pass it up. I am not writing for you, I am not even writing for me, I am writing simply for the sheer joy of doing so.

Oh sure, I could do it in a little WORD document and keep it all to myself. But if I have to put it on my blog, there are two benefits. First, I can do it from anywhere, any computer at all. And second, it makes me accountable. Like weighing in at Weight Watchers. I figure someone, somewhere knows I have made this commitment. So if I miss a day, feel free to e mail me and give me a little jab in the ribs to get me going again.

Here it is, and it brings us to today. The topic that I am given will appear just under the date, so you know what my assignment is.

If you are a writer too, feel free to use these excercises for yourself as well, they are very good and they are meant to get your muse up and about. Oh, and before I forget, some of this may be fictional, some not. It doesn't matter. It's the craft that matters, not the veracity.

January 1, 2009
A Sunday Afternoon

Sunday afternoons are best for sleeping. It’s a treat that one gives oneself, to get up on a Sunday morning, have coffee, read the paper, and then, when the clock strikes noon, go back to bed. It’s an easy thing to do because you have not taken off your pj’s yet, and so you just fall right back into bed as if you have never left. You know you won’t miss anything because, really, nothing ever happens on a Sunday afternoon. Others may think that Sunday afternoon is for sports. But not me. Sunday afternoon is for naps. And reading books. Curling up on the sofa, ice tea by my side, a cat or two tucked in the bits that can accommodate them, and diving headfirst into a good book. That is my idea of the best Sunday afternoon. And if you have to get up at 6:00 or so to turn on a light because you have been there all afternoon, well, so much the better.

January 2, 2009
A time someone said no

I don’t like the word no. It’s not easy for me to say but damn, it sure seems easy for others to say it to me. Have I ever asked for a raise and been told no? Not that I remember, but I think that would be a pretty disappointing no. Vacations. There are places I want to go. To Vermont. To Alaska. To Ireland. Ok that last one is a little off the charts but surely we can take a vacation to Vermont without breaking the bank. But I get told No about that over and over again. And usually, I don’t get the “no” in a verbal way. I get it in a silent, non-verbal way. I ask a question, I get a shrug. That means no. I don’t like being told no over little things that can be so easily turned into a yes. But when you make someone else responsible, you give up your freedom.

January 3, 2009
You’re Standing in a Doorway

So I was standing in the doorway of the new car dealership when I saw it. It was this years new Mustang and it was gorgeous. It looked so much like a ’65 that I just know that someone, somewhere, said, it’s time for a throwback! I wonder how Lee Iacocca feels about his Mustang being the car that all the people look at and say, Yes! That’s it! That is the car!!! I Hope someday that I, too will leave my mark on the world. The ’65 Mustang. Can you even imagine being the father of THAT? Others will be known for great works of art, literature and theater. But Lee Iacocsa, the father of the ’65 Mustang, he’ll be known as the inventor of cool. And that’s not bad at all.

January 4, 2009
A year after your death

A year after your death, I was still mourning your loss. Tabitha had come but she didn’t come to replace you. How could she? That would be impossible. Nobody could replace you. You were such a love in my life and I miss you my friend. A year after your death I still remember the moment I put my hand on your belly. “It’s the steroids” I said confidently, though inside I knew that your belly was much too swollen to be steroids. No, it was gastric torsion….bloat. I knew it and I knew what it meant but I couldn’t face it. A year after your death, I still remember rushing you to the hospital, going down a dark road at midnight, hoping you weren’t too uncomfortable, that I could deliver you into good hands. I wish I could have done more. A year after your death, I still wonder….could I have done more?

January 5, 2009
A day moon

Sometimes I look up into the clear blue sky and I spot you. “Are you still up, my friend?” I wonder how it is that you are still hanging around. You should have been to bed hours ago. And if I spot you late in the day, much later than usual, I marvel at your staying power. You, who are so brilliant and commanding of attention at night, you look so meek and washed out in the daytime. You don’t belong here, I think. But then again, neither do I.

January 6, 2009
Bathing

I love to take a bath. I know that some people can lounge around for hours in the tub. Well, maybe an hour. But not me. I want to, I want to lay there and bask in the scented hot water, releasing all my problems and issues and negativity into the water. I desperately want to do that. But I get bored. So that’s why I wonder if I would ever be able to meditate. I think so, but I’m not very sure. I just get so bored. And sometimes I get too hot too. I sweat in the tub. I hate the heat. I hate being hot and sweating. I hate being all red and hot. But I like the fragrances in the tub, and sometimes if I remember to put candlelight in the room that helps too. I like to take a bath instead of a shower. I think I get cleaner, but it has to be done right. You can’t lay there in a bacteria soup. You have to run the cool, clear, clean water over your whole body before you get out, because if you don’t, you will have sticky stuff all over you and that’s not good for anyone.

January 7, 2009
Once, When No One Was Looking…..

I made a U Turn at a red light at Northlake Blvd. and Alt. A1A. And now every time I go there, I think about that time I did that and wonder if I will ever summon up the nerve to do it again.

January 8, 2009
It’s what I do in the middle of the night…….

Sometimes when I have trouble sleeping, and I wake up with absolutely nothing nagging at me, I see if I can name all the states. I go through them first in alphabetical order, beginning with Alabama, Alaska, etc. But I seldom get all fifty. Then I forget, is there fifty or fifty two? But then I remember that we in the states are sometimes called “The lower forty-eight” and realize that Alaska and Hawaii make up fifty. So when I can’t remember all fifty by alphabetical order, I try by their place on the map. I go up the eastern seaboard: Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina… but that is more difficult since some states encroach on others. I usually forget New Hampshire and sometimes I forget Minnesota but I never forget New York or New Jersey. I would like to say that it helps me to fall asleep, but it seldom does. I begin to think of the states I have visited, and that brings me to my reasons for being there, which conjure up even more memories and so on and so on and so on. Or I think about the states I have not visited, and get worried that maybe I never will. I have a heart wish to visit Vermont. I don’t know why, I just do. So if there is anyone in Vermont willing to have a houseguest for a few days in the dead of winter, I’m your girl. I would love to find a house-swapping gig with someone in Vermont, but I doubt the person swapping with me would want to deal with the husband, four foster kittens, one nice cat and two weirdos and two big dogs that live here. Oh, and there seems to be a gecko about.

Anyway, that’s what I do sometimes in the middle of the night. Sorry if I disappointed you.

It's a new day

2009-01-02T00:04:00.002-05:00

2009 is here and it's a new day. I am filled with optimism and hope that this year will be a great one. I am so proud of our country for electing Barack Obama and I cannot wait to see what he will bring to our country. I am sure we will have growing pains but in the end I think we will have advanced the ball just a little further and that is always a good thing.

It's like when I clean my house. I look around and I think, "Well, does it look even a little better than it did when I started? It does? Well, that's an improvement and that's a step in the right direction."

I am about to bring this blog to a close for a while as I concentrate on my Peta Prime blog. I am happy to be a blogger for Peta Prime and I hope you will catch me there!
Until next time.
bye, Ce

Im' Sorry Wilbur, we failed you

2008-11-04T09:29:00.001-05:00

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

2008-10-31T17:07:00.002-04:00

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?

2008-10-27T11:24:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-19T22:23:00.000-04:00

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..............

2008-10-12T12:16:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-08T05:53:00.001-04:00

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

2008-10-02T15:48:00.002-04:00

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............

2008-09-26T10:36:00.001-04:00

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!

2008-09-26T10:29:00.003-04:00

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

2008-09-20T22:02:00.001-04:00

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

2008-09-14T22:02:00.004-04:00

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

2008-09-12T17:26:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-31T08:57:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-28T20:10:00.007-04:00

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'

2008-08-19T10:41:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-04T20:23:00.005-04:00

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

2008-08-02T20:28:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-28T22:11:00.007-04:00

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

2008-07-14T22:11:00.005-04:00

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

2008-06-26T00:26:00.001-04:00

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

2008-06-26T00:16:00.001-04:00