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        Mooch's Mastiff Rescue

Dedicated to the rescue of the Neapolitan Mastiff and other Mastiff breeds.

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Once I was a lonely dog, Just looking for a home.
I had no place to go, No one to call my own.
I wandered up and down the streets, in rain, in heat, and snow.
I ate whatever I could find, I was always on the go.

My skin would itch, my feet were sore, My body ached with pain,
And no one stopped to give a pat Or to gently say my name.
I never saw a loving glance, I was always on the run.
For people thought that hurting me was really lots of fun.

And then one day I heard a voice So gentle, kind and sweet,
And arms so soft reached down to me And took me off my feet.
"No one again will hurt you." Was whispered in my ear.
"You'll have a home to call your own where you know no fear."
"You will be dry, you will be warm, you'll have enough to eat
And rest assured that when you sleep, your dreams will all be sweet."

I was afraid, I must admit, I've lived so long in fear.
I can't remember when I let A human come so near.

And as she tended to my wounds And bathed and brushed my fur
She told me about the rescue group And what it meant to her.

She said, "We are a circle, A line that never ends.
And in the center there is you protected by new friends."
"And all around you are the ones who check the pounds,
And those who share their homes after you've been found."
"And all the other folks who are searching near and far,
To find the perfect home for you, where you can be a star."

She said, "There is a family, that's waiting patiently,
and pretty soon we'll find them, just you wait and see."
"And then they'll join our circle they'll help to make it grow,
so there'll be room for more like you, who have no place to go."

I waited very patiently, The days they came and went.
Today's the day I thought, my family will be sent.
Then just when I began to think it wasn't meant to be,
there were people standing there, just gazing down at me.

I knew them in a heartbeat, I could tell they felt it too.
They said, "We have been waiting for a special dog like you."

Now every night I say a prayer to all the gods that be.
"Thank you for the life I live and all you've given me.
But most of all protect the dogs in the pound and on the street.
And send a Rescue person to lift them off their feet."

- Arlene Pace

My Name Is Sam
     After I was discharged from the Navy, Jim and I moved back to Detroit to use our GI bill benefits to get some schooling. Jim was going for a degree in Electronics and I, after much debating, decided to get mine in Computer Science.
    One of the classes that was a requirement was Speech. Like many people, I had no fondness for getting up in front of people for any reason, let alone to be the center of attention as I stuttered my way through some unfamiliar subject. But I couldn't get out of the requirement, and so I found myself in my last semester before graduation with Speech as one of my classes.
    On the first day of class our professor explained to us that he was going to leave the subject matter of our talks up to us, but he was going to provide the motivation of the speech. We would be responsible for six speeches, each with a different motivation. For instance, our first speech's purpose was to inform. He advised us to pick subjects that we were interested in and knowledgeable about. I decided to center my six speeches around animals, especially dogs.
    For my first speech to inform, I talked about the equestrian art of dressage. For my speech to demonstrate, I brought my German Shepherd, Bodger, to class and demonstrated obedience commands. Finally the semester was almost over and I had but one more speech to give. This speech was to take the place of a written final exam and was to count for fifty percent of our grade. The speeches motivation was to persuade. After agonizing over a subject matter, and keeping with my animal theme, I decided on the topic of spaying and neutering pets. My goal was to try to persuade my classmates to neuter their pets, so I started researching the topic. There was plenty of material, articles that told of the millions of dogs and cats that were euthanized every year; of supposedly beloved pets that were turned in to various animal control facilities for the lamest of reasons, or worse, dropped off far from home, bewildered and scared. Death was usually a blessing.  The final speech was looming closer, but I felt well prepared. My notes were full of facts and statistics that I felt sure would motivate even the most naive of pet owners to succumb to my plea.
    A couple of days before our speeches were due, I had the bright idea of going to the local branch of the Humane Society and borrowing a puppy to use as a sort of a visual aid. I called the Humane Society and explained what I wanted. They were very happy to accommodate me. I made arrangements to pick up a puppy the day before my speech. The day before my speech, I went to pick up the puppy. I was feeling very confident. I could quote all the statistics and numbers without ever looking at my notes. The puppy, I felt, would add the final emotional touch.

     When I arrived at the Humane Society I was met by a young guy named Ron. He explained that he was the public relations person for the Humane Society. He was very excited about my speech and asked if I would like a tour of the facilities before I picked up the puppy. I enthusiastically agreed. We started out in the reception area, which was the general public's initial encounter with the Humane Society. The lobby was full, mostly with people dropping off various animals that they no longer wanted Ron explained to me that this branch of the Humane Society took in about fifty animals a day and adopted out twenty.
    As we stood there I heard snatches of conversation: "I can't keep him, he digs holes in my garden." "They are such cute puppies, I know you will have no trouble finding homes for them." "She is wild, I can't control her." I heard one of the Humane Society's volunteers explain to the lady with the litter of puppies that the Society was filled with puppies and that these puppies, being black, would immediately be put to sleep. Black puppies, she explained, had little chance of being adopted. The woman who brought the puppies in just shrugged, "I can't help it," she whined. "They are getting too big. I don't have room for them."
    We left the reception area. Ron led me into the staging area where all the incoming animals were evaluated for adoptability. Over half never even made it to the adoption center. There were just too many. Not only were people bringing in their own animals, but strays were also dropped off. By law the Humane Society had to hold a stray for three days. If the animal was not claimed by then, it was euthanized, since there was no background information on the animal. There were already too many animals that had a known history eagerly provided by their soon to be ex-owners. As we went through the different areas, I felt more and more depressed. No amount of statistics, could take the place of seeing the reality of what this throw-away attitude did to the living, breathing animal. It was over overwhelming.

    Finally Ron stopped in front of a closed door. "That's it," he said, "except for this." I read the sign on the door. "Euthanization Area." "Do you want to see one?" he asked.  Before I could decline, he interjected, "You really should. You can't tell the whole story unless you experience the end." I reluctantly agreed. "Good." He said " I already cleared it and Peggy is expecting you." He knocked firmly on the door. It was opened immediately by a middle aged woman in a white lab coat. "Here's the girl I was telling you about," Ron explained. Peggy looked me over. "Well I'll leave you here with Peggy and meet you in the reception area in about fifteen minutes. I'll have the puppy ready." With that Ron departed, leaving me standing in front of the stern-looking Peggy.
    Peggy motioned me in. As I walked into the room, I gave an audible gasp. The room was small and spartan. There were a couple of cages on the wall and a cabinet with syringes and vials of a clear liquid. In the middle of the room was an examining table with a rubber mat on top. There were two doors other than the one I had entered.  Both were closed. One said to incinerator room, and the other had no sign, but I could hear various animals noises coming from behind the closed door.
    In the back of the room, near the door that was marked incinerator were the objects that caused my distress: two wheelbarrows, filled with the bodies of dead kittens and puppies. I stared in horror. Nothing had prepared me for this. I felt my legs grow weak and my breathing become rapid and shallow. I wanted to run from that room, screaming.
    Peggy seemed not to notice my state of shock. She started talking about the euthanization process, but I wasn't hearing her. I could not tear my gaze away from the wheelbarrows and those dozens of pathetic little bodies. Finally, Peggy seemed to notice that I was not paying attention to her. "Are you listening?" she asked irritably. "I'm only going to go through this once." I tore my gaze from the back of the room and looked at her. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing would come out, so I nodded. She told me that behind the unmarked door were the animals that were scheduled for euthanasia that day. She picked up a chart that was hanging from the wall. "One fifty three is next," she said as she looked at the chart. "I'll go get him." She laid down the chart on the examining table and started for the unmarked door. Before she got to the door she stopped and turned around. "You aren't going to get hysterical, are you?" she asked, "Because that will only upset the animals." I shook my head. I had not said a word since I walked into that room. I still felt unsure if I would be able to without breaking down into tears.
    As Peggy opened the unmarked door I peered into the room beyond. It was a small room, but the walls were lined and stacked with cages. It looked like they were all occupied. Peggy opened the door of one of the lower cages and removed the occupant. From what I could see it looked like a medium-sized dog. She attached a leash and ushered the dog into the room in which I stood.  As Peggy brought the dog into the room I could see that the dog was no more than a puppy, maybe five or six months old. The pup looked to be a cross between a Lab and a German shepherd. He was mostly black, with a small amount of tan above his eyes and on his feet. He was very excited and bouncing up and down, trying to sniff everything in this new environment. Peggy lifted the pup onto the table. She had a card in her hand, which she laid on the table next to me. I read the card. It said that number one fifty three was a mixed Shepherd, six months old. He was surrendered two days ago by a family. Reason of surrender was given as "jumps on children." At the bottom was a note that said "Name: Sam."
    Peggy was quick and efficient, from lots of practice, I guessed. She laid one fifty three down on his side and tied a rubber tourniquet around his front leg. She turned to fill the syringe from the vial of clear liquid. All this time I was standing at the head of the table. I could see the moment that one fifty three went from a curious puppy to a terrified puppy. He did not like being held down and he started to struggle.
    It was then that I finally found my voice. I bent over the struggling puppy and whispered "Sam. Your name is Sam." At the sound of his name Sam quit struggling. He wagged his tail tentatively and his soft pink tongue darted out and licked my hand. And that is how he spent his last moment. I watched his eyes fade from hopefulness to nothingness.
    It was over very quickly. I had never even seen Peggy give the lethal shot. The tears could not be contained any longer. I kept my head down so as not to embarrass myself in front of the stoic Peggy. My tears fell onto the still body on the table.
    "Now you know," Peggy said softly. Then she turned away. "Ron will be waiting for you." I left the room. Although it seemed like it had been hours, only fifteen minutes had gone by since Ron had left me at the door. I made my way back to the reception area. True to his word, Ron had the puppy all ready to go.  After giving me some instructions about what to feed the puppy, he handed the carrying cage over to me and wished me good luck on my speech.
    That night I went home and spent many hours playing with the orphan puppy. I went to bed that night but I could not sleep. After a while I got up and looked at my speech notes with their numbers and statistics. Without a second thought, I tore them up and threw them away. I went back to bed. Sometime during the night I finally fell asleep. The next morning I arrived at my Speech class with Puppy Doe. When my turn came to give my speech. I walked up to the front the class with the puppy in my arms. I took a deep breath, and I told the class about the life and death of Sam. When I finished my speech I became aware that I was crying. I apologized to the class and took my seat. After class the teacher handed out a critique with our grades. I got an "A." His comments said "Very moving and persuasive."
    Two days later, on the last day of class, one of my classmates came up to me.  She was an older lady that I had never spoken to in class. She stopped me on our way out of the class room. "I want you to know that I adopted the puppy you brought to class," she said. "His name is Sam."
            Author Unknown

After you finish crying, HUG your pets , take them for a walk, and when you feel a little better, do ANYTHING that you can to help these victims of our toss-away society.  They really need US. -- EDUCATE, make someone understand the importance of spaying and neutering their pet, vote for stricter breeding laws, something.... anything. -- Pass it around. PLEASE.  Help a local rescue by donating what you can to help them pull and rehab all the Sam's that didn't ask to be put in this situation or that didn't get the training (time) needed to let them stay.  Rescues are people just like you who are trying to take that one myriad drop of water out of that huge ocean of the problem with their own time and money.  We can't do it all.  For the cost of a dinner from several  of you, we could pull one more.   Think about it.    Thank you for listening....

 Please take the time to read the wonderful story of Blizzer... a very loved furboy... Photobucket

How Could You?  A letter from that unwanted dog...

When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh.  You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" - but then you'd relent, and roll me over for a belly rub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the
cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day. Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad
decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."  As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch - because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.  I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret
dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every
expenditure on my behalf.

Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family. I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home.  They shook their heads and asked "How could you?" They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting
and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dog speak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her
with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.

The End

A note from the author:
If "How Could You?" brought tears to your eyes as you read it, as it did to mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the millions of formerly owned pets who die each year in America's shelters. Anyone is welcome to distribute the essay for a non-commercial purpose, as long as it is properly attributed with the copyright notice. Please use it to help
educate, on your websites, in newsletters, on animal shelter and vet office bulletin boards. Tell the public that the decision to add a pet to the family is an important one for life, that animals deserve our love and sensible care, that finding another appropriate home for your animal is your responsibility and any local humane society or animal welfare league
can offer you good advice, and that all life is precious. Please do your part to stop the killing, and encourage all spay & neuter campaigns in order to prevent unwanted animals. Thank you.
Jim Willis Director, The Tiergarten Sanctuary Trust, accredited member of The American Sanctuary Association, and Program Coordinator, International Society for Animal Rights.

Just a Dog
From time to time, people tell me, "lighten up, it's just a dog," "that's a lot of money for just a dog."
They don't understand the distance traveled, the time spent, or the costs involved for "just a dog."  Some of my proudest moments have come about with "just a dog."
Many hours have passed and my only company was "just a dog,” but I did not once feel slighted.  Some of my saddest moments have been brought about by "just a dog."  In those days of darkness, the gentle touch of "just a dog" gave me comfort and reason to overcome the day.
If you too think it's "just a dog," then you will probably understand phrases like "just a friend," "just a sunrise," or "just a promise."  "Just a dog" brings into my life the very essence of friendship, trust, and pure unbridled joy.
"Just a dog" brings out the compassion and patience that makes me a better person. Because of "just a dog," I will rise early, take long walks, and look longingly to the future.
So for me and folks like me, it's not "just a dog" but an embodiment of all the hopes and dreams of the future, the fond memories of the past, and the pure joy of the moment. "Just a dog" brings out what's good in me and diverts my thoughts away from myself and the worries of the day.
I hope that someday they can understand that it's not "just a dog" but the thing that gives me humanity and keeps me from being "just a woman."
So the next time you hear the phrase "just a dog," just smile because they "just don't understand."
  

 

POST FROM A SHELTER MANAGER - VERY GRAPHIC

    As a shelter manager, I am going to share a little insight with you all - a view from the inside, if you will.
    Maybe if you saw the life drain from a few sad, lost, confused eyes, you would change your mind about breeding and selling to people you don't even know - that puppy you just sold will most likely end up in my shelter when it's not a cute little puppy anymore. How would you feel if you knew that there's about a 90% chance that dog will never walk out of the shelter it is going to be dumped at - purebred or not!
    About 50% of all of the dogs that are "owner surrenders" or "strays" that come into my shelter are purebred dogs. The most common excuses I hear are: We are moving and we can't take our dog (or cat). Really? Where are you moving to that doesn't allow pets? . The dog got bigger than we thought it would. How big did you think a German Shepherd would get? We don't have time for her. Really? I work a 10-12 hour day and still have time for my 6 dogs! She's tearing up our yard. How about bringing her inside, making her a part of your family?
    They always tell me, "We just don't want to have to stress about finding a place for her. We know she'll get adopted - she's a good dog". Odds are your pet won't get adopted, and how stressful do you think being in a shelter is?
    Your pet has 72 hours to find a new family from the moment you drop it off, sometimes a little longer if the shelter isn't full and your dog manages to stay completely healthy. If it sniffles, it dies. Your pet will be confined to a small run / kennel in a room with about 25 other barking or crying animals. It will have to relieve itself where it eats and sleeps. It will be depressed and it will cry constantly for the family that abandoned it. If your pet is lucky, I will have enough volunteers that day to take him / her for a walk. If I don't, your pet won't get any attention besides having a bowl of food slid under the kennel door and the waste sprayed out of its pen with a high-powered hose.
    If your dog is big, black or any of the "bully" breeds (pit bull, rottweiler, mastiff, etc) it was pretty much dead when you walked it through the front door. Those dogs just don't get adopted. If your dog doesn't get adopted within its 72 hours and the shelter is full, it will be destroyed.
    If the shelter isn't full and your dog is good enough, and of a desirable enough breed, it may get a stay of execution, though not for long.
    Most pets get very kennel protective after about a week and are destroyed for showing aggression. Even the sweetest dogs will turn in this environment. If your pet makes it over all of those hurdles, chances are it will get kennel cough or an upper respiratory infection and will be destroyed because shelters just don't have the funds to pay for even a $100 treatment.
    Here's a little euthanasia 101 for those of you that have never witnessed a perfectly healthy, scared animal being "put-down".  First, your pet will be taken from its kennel on a leash. They always look like they think they are going for a walk - happy, wagging their tails. That is, until they get to "The Room", when every one of them freaks out and puts on the breaks when we get to the door. It must smell like death, or they can feel the sad souls that are left in there. It's strange, but it happens with every one of them.
    Your dog or cat will be restrained, held down by 1 or 2 vet techs (depending on their size and how freaked out they are). A euthanasia tech or a vet will start the process. They find a vein in the front leg and inject a lethal dose of the "pink stuff".
    Hopefully your pet doesn't panic from being restrained and jerk it's leg. I've seen the needles tear out of a leg and been covered with the resulting blood, and been deafened by the yelps and screams. They all don't just "go to sleep" - sometimes they spasm for a while, gasp for air and defecate on themselves.
    When it all ends, your pet's corpse will be stacked like firewood in a large freezer in the back, with all of the other animals that were killed, waiting to be picked up like garbage. What happens next? Cremated? Taken to the dump? Rendered into pet food? You'll never know, and it probably won't even cross your mind. It was just an animal, and you can always buy another one, right?
    I hope that those of you that have read this are bawling your eyes out and can't get the pictures out of your head. I do everyday on the way home from work. I hate my job, I hate that it exists and I hate that it will always be there unless people make some changes and realize that the lives you are affecting go much farther than the pets you dump at a shelter.
    Between 9 and 11 MILLION animals die every year in shelters and only you can stop it. I do my best to save every life I can but rescues are always full, and there are more animals coming in everyday than there are homes.
    My point to all of this is DON'T BREED OR BUY WHILE SHELTER PETS DIE! Hate me if you want to - the truth hurts and reality is what it is. I just hope I maybe changed one person's mind about breeding their dog, taking their loving pet to a shelter, or buying a dog. I hope that someone will walk into my shelter and say "I saw this thing on craigslist and it made me want to adopt". That would make it all worth it.

 

The Unwanted Dog
I found this anonymously posted on Craigslist.org and thought I would share it. The story is painfully accurate and I hope everyone will indeed have a wake-up call after hearing a different side of the story.

{Anonymous}
I think our society needs a huge "Wake-up" call. As a shelter manager, I am going to share a little insight with you all...a view from the inside if you will. First off, all of you people who have ever surrendered a pet to a shelter or humane society should be made to work in the "back" of an animal shelter for just one day. Maybe if you saw the life drain from a few sad, lost, confused eyes, you would stop flagging the ads on craigslist and help these animals find homes. That puppy you just bought will most likely end up in my shelter when it's not a cute little puppy anymore. Just so you know there's a 90% chance that dog will never walk out of the shelter it is dumped at Purebred or not! About 25% of all of the dogs that are "owner surrenders" or "strays", that come into a shelter are purebred dogs.

The most common excuses: "We are moving and we can't take our dog (or cat)." Really? Where are you moving too that doesn't allow pets? Or they say "The dog got bigger than we thought it would". How big did you think a German Shepherd would get? "We don't have time for her". Really? I work a 10-12 hour day and still have time for my 6 dogs!  "She's tearing up our yard". How about making her a part of your family? They always tell me "We just don't want to have to stress about finding a place for her we know she'll get adopted, she's a good dog".

Odds are your pet won't get adopted & how stressful do you think being in a shelter is? Well, let me tell you, your pet has 72 hours to find a new family from the moment you drop it off. Sometimes a little longer if the shelter isn't full and your dog manages to stay completely healthy. If it sniffles, it dies. Your pet will be confined to a small run/kennel in a room with other barking or crying animals. It will have to relieve itself where it eats and sleeps. It will be depressed and it will cry constantly for the family that abandoned it. If your pet is lucky, I will have enough volunteers in that day to take him/her for a walk. If I don't, your pet won't get any attention besides having a bowl of food slid under the kennel door and the waste sprayed out of its pen with a high-powered hose. If your dog is big, black or any of the "Bully" breeds (pit bull, rottie, mastiff, etc) it was pretty much dead when you walked it through the front door. Those dogs just don't get adopted. It doesn't matter how 'sweet' or 'well behaved' they are.

If your dog doesn't get adopted within its 72 hours and the shelter is full, it will be destroyed. If the shelter isn't full and your dog is good enough, and of a desirable enough breed it may get a stay of execution, but not for long . Most dogs get very kennel protective after about a week and are destroyed for showing aggression. Even the sweetest dogs will turn in this environment. If your pet makes it over all of those hurdles chances are it will get kennel cough or an upper respiratory infection and will be destroyed because the shelter gets paid a fee to euthanize each animal and making money is better than spending money to take this animal to the vet.

Here's a little euthanasia 101 for those of you that have never witnessed a perfectly healthy, scared animal being "put-down". First, your pet will be taken from its kennel on a leash. They always look like they think they are going for a walk happy, wagging their tails. Until they get to "The Room", every one of them freaks out and puts on the brakes when we get to the door. It must smell like death or they can feel the sad souls that are left in there, it's strange, but it happens with every one of them. Your dog or cat will be restrained, held down by 1 or 2 shelter workers depending on the size and how freaked out they are. Then a shelter worker who we call a euthanasia tech (not a vet) find a vein in the front leg and inject a lethal dose of the "pink stuff". Hopefully your pet doesn't panic from being restrained and jerk. I've seen the needles tear out of a leg and been covered with the resulting blood and been deafened by the yelps and screams. They all don't just "go to sleep", sometimes they spasm for a while, gasp for air and defecate on themselves. You see shelters are trying to make money to pay employee pay checks and don't forget the board of directors needs to be paid too, so we don't spend our funds to tranquilize the animal before injecting them with the lethal drug, we just put the burning lethal drug in the vein and let them suffer until dead. If it were not a making money issue and we had to have a licensed vet do this procedure, the animal would be sedated or tranquilized and then euthanized, but to do this procedure correctly would cost more money so we do not follow what is right for the animal, we just follow what is the fastest way we can make a dollar. Shelters do not have to have a vet perform their euthanasia so even if it takes our employee 50 pokes with a needle and 3 hours to get the vein that is what we do. Making money is the issue here not loosing money.

When it all ends, your pets corpse will be stacked like firewood in a large freezer in the back with all of the other animals that were killed waiting to be picked up like garbage. What happens next?  Cremated? Taken to the dump? Rendered into pet food? Or used for the schools to dissect and experiment on? You'll never know and it probably won't even cross your mind. It was just an animal and you can always buy another one, right!

I hope that those of you who still have a beating heart and have read this are bawling your eyes out and can't get the pictures out of your head, I deal with this everyday. I hate my job, I hate that it exists & I hate that it will always be there, unless we the people make some changes and start educating the  public. Do research, do your homework, and know exactly what you are getting into before getting a pet. These shelters and humane societies exist because people just do not care about animals anymore. Animals were not intended to be disposable but somehow that is what they are these days. Animal shelters are an easy way out for ONLY YOU, if you get tired of your dog, cat, horse or whatever.

Between 9 and 11 MILLION animals die every year in shelters or worse and only you can stop it. PuppyMills (PetShops), BackYard Breeders & irresponsible owners are the ones to blame for this. I just hope I maybe changed one persons' mind about taking their dog to a shelter, a humane society, or buying a dog from a PetShop or BackYard Breeder or Online; because no matter how nice the site looks it could just be a PuppyMill in disguise & those poor dogs are usually NOT well cared for, spending their whole lives in tiny cages, many sick, malnourished, overbred & rife with inherited defects! If you absolutely must buy a PureBred Pet, PLEASE go to REPUTABLE BREEDER! SO PLEASE PEOPLE ~ SPAY/NEUTER ~ OPT TO ADOPT ~ MAKE SURE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GETTING INTO ~ DO YOUR RESEARCH ~ CHECK AT THE SHELTERS FOR PUREBREDS FIRST THEN FIND A REPUTABLE BREEDER IF A PUREBRED IS WHAT YOU MUST HAVE ~ PROPERLY SOCIALIZE YOUR PET ~ DON'T FORGET SOME BASIC TRAINING, AT LEAST SOME MANNERS.

For those of you that care--- please repost this at least one other place in another city/state. Let's see if we can get this all around the US and have an impact.  THANK YOU FOR READING & PLEASE PASS THIS ALONG. WE'RE THE ANIMALS' ONLY VOICE!  DO SOMETHING, LOVE YOUR PETS, STOP THE MADNESS!!!!!!! {End Quote}

There I sat alone and afraid, you got the call and came to my aid.

  You bundled me up with blankets and love and, when I needed it most you gave me a hug.   

I learned that the world was not all scary and cold, that sometimes there is someone to have and to hold.  

You taught me what love is, you helped me to mend, you loved me and helped me and became my good friend.   

And just when I thought you'd done all you could do, there came along not one new lesson, but two.

First you said, "sweetheart, you're ready to go, I've done all I can and you've learned all I know."

 Then you bundled me up with a blanket and kiss,  and along came a new family -- oh! what bliss!

They took me to their home, forever to stay.  At first I thought you had sent me away.

Then that second lesson became perfectly clear:  No matter how far, you will always be near.

 And so, now you know that I have moved on.  I have a new home, with toys and a lawn.

But I'll never forget what I learned that first day --- You never really give any of us away.

 You gave me these thoughts to remember you by.  We may never meet again, and now I know why --

You'll remember I lived with you for a time; I may not be yours, but you'll always be mine.

 

-author unknown-

Senior Love

One by One, they pass by my cage, They say, "Too worn, too broken, too old of age. Way past his time, he can't run and play." Then they shake their heads and go on their way.

A little old man, arthritic and sore, It seems I am not wanted anymore. I once had a home, I once had a bed, A place that was warm, and where I was fed.

Now my muzzle is grey, and my eyes slowly fail. Who wants a dog so old and so frail? My family decided I didn't belong, I got in their way, my attitude was wrong.

Whatever excuse they made in their head, Can't justify how they left me for dead. Now I sit in this cage, where day after day, The younger dogs get adopted away.

When I had almost come to the end of my rope, You saw my face, and I finally had hope. You saw through the grey, and the legs bent with age, And felt I still had life beyond this cage.

You took me home, gave me food and a bed, And shared your own pillow with my poor tired head. We snuggle and play, and you talk to me low, You love me so dearly, you want me to know.  I may have lived most of my life with another, But you outshine them with a love so much stronger. And I promise to return all the love I can give, To you, my dear person, as long as I live.  I may be with you for a week, or for years. We will share many smiles, you will no doubt shed tears. And when the time comes that I must leave, I know you will cry and your heart, it will grieve.  And when I arrive at the Bridge, all brand new, My thoughts and my heart will still be with you. And I will brag to all who will hear, Of the person who made my last days so dear.

Leslie Whalen

My Foster Dog by Unknown Author
My foster dog stinks to high heaven.  I don't know for sure what breed he is.  His eyes are blank and hard.  He won't let me pet him and growls when I reach for him.  He has ragged scars and crusty sores on his skin.  His nails are long and his teeth, which he showed me, are stained. I sigh.  I drove two hours for this.  I carefully maneuver him so that I can stuff him in the crate. Then I heft the crate and put it in the car. I am going home with my new foster dog.  
At home I leave him in the crate till all the other dogs are in the yard. I get him out of the crate and ask him if he wants "outside." As I lead him to the door he hikes his leg on the wall and shows me his stained teeth again.
When we come in, he goes to the crate because that's the only safe place he sees. I offer him food but he won't eat it if I look at him, so I turn my back. When I come back, the food is gone.  I ask again about "outside." When we come back, I pat him before I let him in the crate; he jerks away and runs into the crate to show me his teeth.
The next day I decide I can't stand the stink any longer.  I lead him into the bath with cheese in my hands. His fear of me is not quite overcome by his longing for the cheese.  And well he should fear me, for I will give him a bath.  After an attempt or two to bail out he is defeated and stands there. I have bathed four legged bath squirters for more years than he has been alive. His only defense was a show of his stained teeth, that did not hold up to a face full of water.
As I wash him, it is almost as if I wash not only the stink and dirt away but also some of the hardness. His eyes look full of sadness now. And he looks completely pitiful as only a soap covered dog can.  I tell him that he will! feel better when he is cleaned. After the soap, the towels are not too bad, so he lets me rub him dry.  I take him outside. He runs for joy . . . the joy of not being in the tub and the joy of being clean.  I, the bath giver, am allowed to share the joy. He comes to me and lets me pet him. 
One week later I have a vet bill. His skin is healing. He likes for me to pet him ( I think). I know what color he will be when his hair grows in.  I have found out he is terrified of other dogs, so I carefully introduce him to my mildest four legged brat. It doesn't go well.  Two weeks later a new vet bill for an infection, that was missed on the first visit. He plays with the other dogs.  Three weeks later his coat shines, he has gained weight.  He shows his clean teeth when his tongue lolls out after he plays chase in the yard with the gang.  His eyes are soft and filled with life. He loves hugs and likes to show off his tricks, if you have the cheese.
Someone called today and asked about him. They saw the picture I took the first week. They asked about his personality, his history, his breed. They asked if he was pretty. I asked them lots of questions.  I checked up on them.  I prayed.  I said yes.  When they saw him the first time they said he was the most beautiful dog they had ever seen.  Six months later, I got a call from his new family. He is wonderful, smart, well behaved, and very loving.  How could someone not want him?  I told them I didn't know.  He is beautiful.  They all are.

If this doesn't make you sob... I don't know what will.  Wouldn't it be wonderful if all shelter dogs came with a letter?

 

To Whoever Gets My Dog
 
They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen.  the shelter was clean, and the people really friendly.   
I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open.  Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt.  Give me someone to talk to.
And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news.  The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant.  They must've thought I did. 
But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner.  See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home.  We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home).  Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too.  Maybe we were too much alike.
 For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls - he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes.  I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he settled in.  but it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.
 I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it.  He never really seemed to listen when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth of fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever.  When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.
 This just wasn't going to work.  He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes.  I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell.
 The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cellphone amid all of my unpacked stuff.  I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest room, but I also mumbled, rather cynically, that the "damn dog probably hid it on me."
 Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter..  I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home.  But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that Come here and I'll give you a treat."  Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction - maybe "glared" is more accurate - and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down.  With his back to me.
 Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought.  And I punched the shelter phone number.
 But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope.  I had completely forgotten about that, too.
 "Okay, Reggie,"  I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice.".... .....
 "To Whoever Gets My Dog:
 Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner.
 I'm not even happy writing it.  If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter.  He knew something was different.  I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time...  it's like he knew something was wrong.  And something is wrong...  which is why I have to go to try to make it right.
 So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.
 First, he loves tennis balls...  the more the merrier.   Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hordes them.   He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there.  Hasn't done it yet.   Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads.  I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
 Next, commands.  Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again:  Reggie knows the obvious ones - "sit," "stay," "come,"  "heel."  He knows hand signals:
 "back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left.  "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five.  He does "down" when he feels like lying down - I bet you could work on that with him some more.  He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone"  and "treat" like nobody's business.
 I trained Reggie with small food treats.  Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.
Feeding schedule:  twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening.  Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
 He's up on his shots.
 Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due.  Be forewarned:  Reggie hates the vet.
 Good luck getting him in the car - I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
 Finally, give him some time.
 I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life.  He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can.  He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain.  He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.
 Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....
 His name's not Reggie.
 I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie.  He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt.  but I just couldn't bear to give them his real name.  For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again.  And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine.  But if someone else is reading it, well...  well it means that his new owner should know his real name.  It'll help you bond with him.  Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.
 His real name is Tank.  Because that is what I drive.
 Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news.  I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander.  See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with...  and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call the shelter...  in the "event"...  to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption.  Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed.  He said he'd do it personally.  And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.
 Well, this letter is getting to downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just writing it for my dog.  I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family.  but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.
 And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me.
 That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things...  and to keep those terrible people from coming over here.  If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so.  He was my example of service and of love.  I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.
 All right, that's enough.   I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter.  I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though.  I cried too much the first time.  Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.
 Good luck with Tank.  Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me."
Thank you, Paul Mallory
 I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope.  Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me.  Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies.  Flags had been at half-mast all summer.
I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.
"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.  "C'mere boy."
He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor.  He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.
"Tank," I whispered.  His tail swished.
I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him.  I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me."  Tank reached up and licked my cheek.  "So whatdaya say we play some ball His ears perked again.
"Yeah Ball You like that Ball "
Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room. And when he came back......he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

 

Grow Old with Dogs

Author Unknown 

When I am old I will wear soft gray sweatshirts and a bandana over my silver hair...

and I will spend my social security checks on wine and my dogs.

I will sit in my house on my well-worn couch and listen to my dogs' breathing.

I will sneak out in the middle of a warm summer night and take my dogs for a run...

if my old bones will allow it.

When people come to call, I will smile and nod as I show them my dogs

and talk of them and about them... 

the ones so beloved of the past and the ones so beloved of today.

I will still work hard cleaning after them... mopping and feeding them and 

whispering their names in a soft loving way.

I will wear the gleaming sweat on my throat like a jewel and I will be an embarrassment to all...

especially my family... who have not yet found the peace in being free to have dogs as your best friends.

These friends who always wait at any hour for your footfall and eagerly jump to their feet out of a sound sleep

to greet you as if you are a God with warm eyes full of adoring love and hope that you will always stay.

I'll hug their big strong necks and I'll kiss their dear sweet heads and whisper in their very special company.

I look in the mirror and see I am getting old... this is the kind of person I am and have always been.  

Loving dogs is easy... they are a part of me.  Accept me for who I am.

My dogs appreciate my presence in their lives and they love my presence in their lives.

When I am old this will be important to me... you will understand when you are old... 

if you have dogs to love too.

A PET'S TEN COMMANDMENTS.........
1. My life is likely to last 10-15 years. Any separation from you is likely to be painful.
2. Give me time to understand what you want of me.
3. Place your trust in me. It is crucial for my well-being.
4. Don't be angry with me for long and don't lock me up as punishment. You have your work, your friends, your entertainments, but I have only you.
5. Talk to me. Even if I don't understand your words, I do understand your voice when speaking to me.
6. Be aware that however you treat me, I will never forget it.
7. Before you hit me, before you strike me, remember that I could hurt you, and yet, I choose not to bite you.
8. Before you scold me for being lazy or uncooperative, ask yourself if something might be bothering me. Perhaps I'm not getting the right food, I have been in the sun too long, or my heart might be getting old or weak.
9. Please take care of me when I grow old. You too, will grow old.
10. On the ultimate difficult journey, go with me please. Never say you can't bear to watch. Don't make me face this alone. Everything is easier for me if you are there, because I love you so.

A Rescue Dog's Christmas Poem

Tis the night before Christmas and all through the town, every shelter is full - we are lost, but not found, Our numbers are hung on our kennels so bare, we hope every minute that someone will care,
They'll come to adopt us and give us the call, "Come here, Max and Sparkie - come fetch your new ball!! But now we sit here and think of the days...
we were treated so fondly - we had cute, baby ways, Once we were little, then we grew and we grew now we're no longer young and we're no longer new.
So out the back door we were thrown like the trash, they reacted so quickly - why were they so rash?  We "jump on the children:, "don't come when they call",
we "bark when they leave us", climb over the wall. We should have been neutered, we should have been spayed, now we suffer the consequence of the errors THEY made.
If only they'd trained us, if only we knew... we'd have done what they asked us and worshiped them, too.  We were left in the backyard, or worse -let to roam-
now we're tired and lonely and out of a home.  They dropped us off here and they kissed us good-bye... "Maybe someone else will give you a try."
So now here we are, all confused and alone... in a shelter with others who long for a home.  The kind workers come through with a meal and a pat, with so many to care for, they can't stay to chat,  They move to the next kennel, giving each of us cheer... we know that they wonder how long we'll be here. We lay down to sleep and sweet dreams fill our heads...
of a home filled with love and our own cozy beds. Then we wake to see sad eyes, brimming with tears - our friends filled with emptiness, worry, and fear.
If you can't adopt us and there's no room at the Inn - could you help with the bills and fill our food bin? We count on your kindness each day of the year -
can you give more than hope to everyone here?  Please make a donation to pay for the heat...and help get us something special to eat.
The shelter that cares for us wants us to live, and more of us will, if more people will give.
--Author Unknown

Hero Dog Tries to Help Wounded Dog ---- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofpYRITtLSg

Can you believe that many people just drove by and didn't stop to help?  I can.

 Photobucket

Baggage

Now that I'm home, bathed, settled, and fed,
All nicely tucked into my warm new bed.
I would like to open my baggage Lest I forget,
There is so much to carry - So much to regret.

Hmm... Yes there it is, right on the top -
Let's unpack Loneliness, Heartache and Loss,
And there by my leash hides Fear and Shame.

As I look on these things I tried so hard to leave -
I still have to unpack my baggage called Pain.
I loved them, the others, the ones who left me,
But I wasn't good enough - for they didn't want me.
Will you add to my baggage? Will you help me unpack?
Or will you just look at my things and take me right back?

Do you have the time to help me unpack?
To put away my baggage, To never re-pack?
I pray that you do - I'm so tired you see,
But I do come with baggage - Will you still want me?

By Evelyn Colbath

The importance of being bilingual - Learn another language -- WOOF!  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfH3BtWR-tA

Several years ago I had 3 dogs at one time, a chocolate lab, a golden retriever, and a border collie. For those of you who have never lived with a dog or who have never had multiple dogs, 3 dogs translate into a lot of work, a lot of dog food, a lot of poop scooping, and never-ending trips to the pet store to replace lost tennis balls and broken squeaky toys! Yet, I would not have had it any other way.

The dogs slept in my room each night in their own respective dog beds. I felt like one of the 'Waltons' as I turned off the light and said goodnight to them one at a time. Sleep came easily with my best friends in the room.

But what really put a smile on my face was waking up with the dogs the next morning. The 3 of them would act as if they hadn't seen me or each other in days or weeks! Each morning was an immensely happy reunion. Extreme tail wagging, face licking, pushing, grinning, and whining filled the room. What an exciting moment to wake up and see all your pals again! Life is great!

Then they'd burst through the back door and race outside into the yard as if this was the most exciting place they'd ever seen. Even though it was the same old yard they saw each day, to them there seemed to be something new about it.

Dogs are such wonderful teachers. Their entire life is a gift to those of us blessed by living with them. Dogs know how to live. Everyday is fresh and new, full of all kinds of possibilities for adventure, play, and love. It's no coincidence that 'God' spelled backwards is 'dog.' Learn from the canines in your life. They are true masters in the art of living in the present and loving with your whole heart.

An Angel in Disguise - -  The Old Man and the Dog
 by Catherine Moore
 "Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me.
 "Can't you do anything  right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows... I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.   "I saw the car, Dad.   Please don't yell at me when I'm driving."  My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon . He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often.  The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.   At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders.  Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether.  Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm.. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust.  Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation.. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue.  Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and   explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind.  But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered in vain..  Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article."    I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon.. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs.  Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.  Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?"  The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.  As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"  "Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again.. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust.. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!"
Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.  We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him.. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw... Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne . Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes.  They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne 's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."  "I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article... Cheyenne 's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter . ...his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father. .. and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

LETTERS TO A DOG.......

January 6
Dear Dog,
I saw you today for the first time, just a couple houses from my own. The school bus stopped to let out your kids, and your mom opened the front door to let you run out and greet them. You are a wiggly, bouncy and happy little puppy with a full belly and a shiny coat. Your kids grabbed you up, hugged you, held you and toted you inside. Your tail was wagging the entire time. I thought to my self, how sweet, what a way to end a long hard day.
I spoke to your mom this evening and she said that they got you from the Animal Shelter, and the kids named you Lucky.

March 10
Dear Lucky,
I saw you today as I always do on my way home from work. You were already outside to greet the kids today, which seemed a little odd. The little girl got off the bus and shooed you away; she appeared to not want you jumping on her. The boy got off the bus and gave you a quick playful pat on the head, then smelled his hand and brushed you aside. You looked confused and sad, as you went to lie by the porch. You curled up in a tight ball on the cold ground and let out a huge sigh. My heart felt heavy that day.

March 21
Dear Lucky,
I saw you today. I was headed home, and the kids got off the bus, walked to the house, and you ran out as far as you could on your heavy chain to let them know you were there. The little girl ignored you, the little boy told you to be quiet, when you barked for his attention. My neighbor commented
that they needed to do something with your barking because you keep them up at night. You had a bucket of water and a bowl of food, a relatively nice doghouse, but your eyes were sad and empty. I shook my head and let out a huge sigh.

April 30
Dear Lucky,
I worried for you today. You look thin, your chain heavy on your neck, your coat is dirty and falling out, you don't get up to do much anymore. Your bucket is turned over, and I have not seen your food bowl for a few days now. I spoke to the neighbor and asked about you. He said you still bark at night and he saw the man of the house throw something at you the other day as he scolded you. I shook my head in despair as I went back into my house.

June 4
Dear Lucky,
My heart sank today. I was headed home, and you weren't in your yard. A large part of me hoped you got away, another large part of me was frightened at all the other possibilities. I asked my neighbor about you, and he said your family went on vacation and sent you back to the Animal Shelter. I shook my head and cried for you as I went into my house.

June 5
Dear Dog,
I went to the shelter today. I found you huddled in the back of a cage that had a bucket, a bowl of food, and a blanket for you to lie on. You looked up at me as if you knew me, and my heart broke as I read your card. They did not even care enough to give them your name, and the card simply said, "male, neutered retriever mix. Owners did not want." I cried when a gentleman from the kennel said, "That's a sad one there. He came from here, you know, last Christmas. Guess they just got tired of him. He's too frightened, no one will adopt him." I went to the counter and told them I would be back tomorrow and please don't do anything just yet. They all kind of nodded like they heard that one before.

June 6
Dear Dog,
I brought you home today. You were scared and untrusting, but a small part of you somewhere allowed you to wag the tip of your tail when I told you that you were a good boy and that I loved you. I gave you a new name, "Happy", because you aren't and I hope that someday you will be. You had an accident on the floor, and when I came back to clean it up with paper towel you slunk down and whimpered as if the hand was coming for you. I tried to choke back the tears when I thought of what you must have gone through in the past six months. I reached out and patted you and your eyes closed and your body went limp at such a gentle gesture. "We're going to be all right," I told you. I showed you your food, and you ate voraciously, and you marveled at the treats and toys I got for you.

December 25
Dear Happy,
Good morning my best friend! You woke me, as always, popping out from under the covers on your side of the bed, licking my face to tell me it was time for our walk. We went through the living room and you sniffed what Santa left for us. I hugged you and said, "Last year you were a Christmas gift, now this year, these are all yours!" Your coat is shiny, your belly always full, and even though we found out at your first vet visit you had heartworms, you are healthy now. As we went out for our walk, we saw your >old family in the front yard. They look at you each time as if they recognize you in a way, but you don't give them a second glance. --- Then I believe both our hearts stopped as we saw the children emerge from the yard holding a small playful puppy. "Isn't she just precious? We got her from the animal shelter. Hope this one works out, the other dog we got from there was so much trouble." I sighed and refrained from pointing out that you were not the trouble. You looked up at me as if to say, "Thank you, mom." I kneeled down and whispered in your sweet ear, "No, it is I who thank you."

Heaven and Hell - The Waterbowl

A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery,  when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead.  He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years.  He wondered where the road was leading them.
After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble. At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.
When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold. He and the dog
walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side  
When he was close enough, he called out, "Excuse me, where are we?" 
"This is Heaven, sir," the man answered. 
"Wow! Would you happen to have some water?" the man asked. 
"Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up." 
The man gestured, and the gate began to open. 
"Can my friend," gesturing toward his dog, "come in, too?" the traveler asked.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets." 
The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog.
After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence. 
As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book. 
"Excuse me!" he called to the man. "Do you have any water?" 
"Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in."
"How about my friend here?" the traveler gestured to the dog. 
"There should be a bowl by the pump." 
They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it.
The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog. 
When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree. 
"What do you call this place?" the traveler asked 
"This is Heaven," he answered.
"Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "The man down the road said that was Heaven, too." 
"Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell." 
"Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?" 
 "No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind."

Let Me Stay
By Victoria C. Faeo

I was  born in the summer a few years ago.
Quite why I was born, I'll never  know.
Some folks who had my mother decided to breed.
No reason I know of  except for greed.
I know I was hungry, I know I was cold;
They sold me  quite early, at five weeks old.

My number one owners seemed friendly at  first,
And life was quite good till my bubble burst.
They started to  argue, their marriage split up.
And then the ad read: "For Sale. . . young  pup."

Some folks arrived, the next ones in line.
They treated me kind  and life was just fine.
But master dropped dead, and she couldn't cope.
So  she sold me again (I'll soon give up hope).

I now had a new home way up  in the sky.
We went up the lift fourteen floors high!
The new folks were  kind but they left me all day.
I was bursting to wee and had nowhere to  play.
It was boredom, I think, when I chewed up the chair.
They agreed I  should go as it just wasn't fair.

The next home was good and I thought  "this is it!"
They started to show and I won . . a small bit.
But then  somebody said I was thin in the bone.
And in went the ad: "For Sale. . . to  good home."

The next lot were dreadful, they wanted a guard;
But I  didn't know how, although I tried hard.
One night they got robbed and I  didn't bark.
Tied up in that shed, and alone in the dark.

For five  months I lay in the cold and the dark;
With only a bed of rough wooden  bark;
A small dish of water all slimy and green;
The state I was in, well,  it had to be seen!
I longed for warmth, and an end to the pain;
But some  new people came, and I went off again.

Well now I'm with Rescue and this  home is good.
There are walks in the country and lots of good food.
There  are kisses and cuddles to greet me each day.
But I dread the time when they  will send me away.

I will try to be good, I won't chew on the chest.
I  will try to be quiet, I'll do my very best.
I want to stay with you, a heart  on all fours.
Please. . . let me stay, I want to be yours. 

Thought for the Day:  Handle every situation like a dog.  If you can't eat it or chew on it... pee on it and walk away.

Dogs Speak:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1VvH816ZPw

Spay & Neuter.  Period.

It is early morning at the Stanislaus County Animal Shelter. And for you, the animal care specialist, the day opens in minor chords.

You walk to the computer and print out the list of dogs that fill dozens of the agency's kennels. You sit there with your coffee, highlighting in yellow marker the ones that have been here for five days. They've all got a story.

Someone stopped loving him. No one ever loved her. He got too big. She started chewing on sprinklers. He bit a child. Her owner is out of town, and the house sitter noticed the dog got out but didn't bother to call the shelter. Whatever happened, it doesn't matter now: Their time is up.

You move to the first noisy cage. As you open the door, a few dogs try to escape, while others cram themselves into the far corners to avoid you.  Everyone on the outside says the animals have no idea what's coming, but you've seen too much proof to the contrary. Yes, on some sad level, they know.

You squeeze into the cage and slip your leash, your noose, around the neck of one. You lead him back to the gate and open it just enough for you to squeeze through. You pull his head closer to the gate, and get ready. Then you jerk him out quickly and slam the door so the others don't get out. He's scared and whimpering, looking around frantically, but he does what he's told and follows you, faithfully, to the end of the line.
The killing room is a large, cold place with a small row of metal cages along one of the concrete walls. There's a large, stainless-steel table in one corner, holding syringes, needles and bottles of tranquilizer and Fatal Plus, a solution of sodium pentobarbital that usually kills within seconds.

As a co-worker readies the syringe, you're kneeling, holding the dog still, cuffing one leg with your hand. Sometimes you have to fight them. Sometimes the battle is so fierce, you resort to forcing them between a gate hinged�on a wall, immobilizing them long enough so you can get the needle in.
 
But not this time. This one's calm. He trusts you. He even gives you his paw: He's obviously someone's pet. So you stroke his head softly as the co-worker finds a vein. Then, just like that, he melts in your arms. You grab his paw again and drag his limp body to a corner.

One by one, you lay them out on the cement floor. One by one. Though county records show roughly 15,000 animals are killed each year at the shelter, it's a number, like eternity, that defies comprehension. But when one considers the solitary act of each animal death, and the people who do the dirty work, the number 15,000 comes into better focus. One death is a tragedy; anything more than that is just a statistic.  On this morning, and every morning, there will be about 15 to 20 of these canine executions, not counting the ones that come in throughout the day that are injured or unadoptable. As you walk to the cages to retrieve another, the anger swells inside you. Because you know most of this daily ritual easily could be avoided. Spay and neuter, people, you say to yourself.

Spay and neuter!
Time runs out on a mother pit bull and her puppies. When she showed up here last week, your only hope was that she wouldn't give birth before her five days were up. But she did.

You hardly could stand to watch her care for her pups, licking them, dragging them around to protect them. Finally, you gave in and fed her treats, telling her, "That's a good girl."

Because, sadly, you knew all her efforts were in vain. This day always comes. Once you've got them all gathered in the room, you put her down first. Because you've learned the babies cry when they're injected, and that only adds stress to the mother.
 
One by one. One after another. You stack the singles into piles. You load the piles into 55-gallon barrels. You push the barrels into the walk-in freezer, where rows and rows of barrels fill completely about twice a week. The barrels are emptied into trucks. It's like a factory here. And they call this a shelter?
The stench of death permanently haunts the air: It's a dull fragrance you won't forget the rest of your life. Someday years from now, you'll be served food at a restaurant, and something will trigger the memory of that awful smell. Just like that, the meal will be over. You wash your hands incessantly; trouble is, what you're trying to clean doesn't go away with soap and water. That would take a psychologist, better than the one you have.
An hour into it, you're nearing the last of the morning's kill. Next up is an adorable pop-eyed Chihuahua you had thought someone might claim. Or adopt. You start for her, but then you make a grave mistake: You look into her eyes. In a flash, your mind acknowledges that this is a living, breathing thing. Damn dog, now she's under your skin.
Suddenly, you can't bring yourself to do it. Not this one. Your back yard already brims with the dogs and cats you've personally spared over the years, and there's simply no more room. So, you sneak her off the list and move her to another kennel. Your day off is tomorrow, and you just put it out of your mind. That's all you can do.

Now, through the bars, you spot the big mongrel. You squeeze into the cage, and he moves away. He's scared and hungry; he's not the alpha male in this lot, so he hasn't eaten in five days. And who knows what he went through before he ended up here? So you kneel and call to him in a pleasant voice. Now he's wagging his tail because he thinks you're going to rescue him from this awful place.
You get him outside and pet him to try to keep him calm. But he's excited, jumping up and down, because you helped him out of the chaos. You're his friend now; he'll follow you anywhere. So you lead him toward the room and he trots along happily.
 
But halfway there, something shifts in him. You figure he's starting to smell that stench coming from the freezer. Yes, on some level, they know. He starts jerking his neck back, using his front legs to try to pull you back.  The more you fight him, the more he realizes he should fight. So you drag him the rest of the way.

Once you get him into the room, he's still fighting pretty hard. Your arms are getting tired. To get him to the table, you both trip over piles of dead dogs that now cover the floor. Finally, you get him stopped. The soft talk helps a little, and you're able to hold him still enough for the co-worker to find a vein. Once it's in, you let go. He moves away, woozy. They don't always die immediately. He wanders over to the corpse of another dog, and sniffs it a little before collapsing onto the floor.

Spay and neuter, people!

Leaving the room, you remember something you wanted to tell a co-worker. She's working alone in the cat room, putting down several dozen to start her day. You open the door, but the scene makes you forget what you wanted to say. There she is, sitting in a corner, crying, surrounded by dozens of dead cats that litter the floor. You make eye contact and get ready to say something, but she waves you off. It's a quick shake of the head that says, "I'm fine; just leave me alone." So you do. For those who do this for a living, it's mostly business as usual, life goes on. But there are occasional meltdowns. Not to mention divorce, denial, alcoholism, nightmares, antidepressants and all sorts of other ugly side effects.
 
Walking away from the cat room, a simple question forms in your head, one that plagues you often throughout your days here: Does anybody care about animals? Anyone at all?
Inside, you know there are thousands of people, just like you, who cherish their pets and treat them like family. Or even royalty. Working here, you rarely see those folks. They take care of their animals.

Instead, you get the people who before business hours drop off a cardboard box of mangled kittens that were used to train pit bulls to fight dirty. Usually, they just toss the dead alongside the road somewhere, but for some reason, someone brought these in. You open the box to discover all but one are dead, and the only one alive is using its front legs to crawl toward you because its back legs are crushed.

Or you get the people whose hobby is trapping feral cats and bringing them to the shelter. Once you asked about strange lines etched into the stick they use to hold the trap shut, hoping you were wrong. But, yes, like notches in a gun, that's how they track how many cats they've captured. It's a game to them.
 
Or you get the man who brings in three kittens in an ice chest he placed in his trunk. In the middle of summer. When you open the lid, most of the horror has played out. You look up and scold him, asking him what he was thinking. And he shrugs. Not like it matters, he says, they didn't belong to anyone.
 
Or you get the people who pull up in a moving van to drop off their family pet, saying that they can't take the dog with them and that they were unable to find the animal a home. They drive away, conscious clear, leaving the dirty work for you. Like you're some kind of sin-eater.
 
And to think, you took this job because you wanted to save animals. Standing there at the kennels, lost in the flashbacks, you ask yourself again: Does anybody care?
Anyone at all?
 
A friendly face pops into your mind. Yes, there is one, you finally remember, trying to cheer yourself up. That poor young woman from the west side, the one who's been coming by twice a week for the last six months, looking for her beloved red Doberman pinscher. She keeps asking you, "How long should I keep looking?" And you keep telling her, "As long as your heart needs to." Who are you to take away hope?
 
And now, come to think of it, you did notice a nice-looking Doberman in the back kennels this morning. Nah, couldn't be, you think. He disappeared six months ago. But, needing a miracle, you go and check anyway. You look him over for a while. There is some red in his coat, but you're not certain.

Cautiously, you have someone call the woman. Be sure to tell her we're not sure, you say, but let her know we might have her dog. An hour later, the woman is scurrying through the hall toward the back kennels. You can barely keep up with her.
 
I think I hear him, she keeps saying excitedly. She keeps calling out his name. All you hear is what you always hear: the deafening din of scores of barking dogs. When you get to the back kennels, a lowered metal guillotine door is keeping everything outside. So you raise the door, and 80 pounds of frenetic dog come bounding inside, wildly running around the cage. You think to yourself, how would he even know she was coming? Yes, on some level, they always know.
Just like that, this huge dog plasters itself against the chain-link fence, licking the fingers of a woman who's pressing herself against the fence, too. The scene is reminiscent of lovers on a beach. It's him, it's him, she keeps saying. All the while, this enormous dog is emitting the strangest high-pitched yipping you've ever heard, almost like a puppy.
Overcome with emotion, the woman sinks to the cement gutter and starts sobbing into her hands. You sit next to her to offer some comfort. Then, before you know it, you're right beside her, bawling uncontrollably. She's crying because her life is complete again. And you're crying because, after working this job, your life never will be the same. Because for every animal that leaves with its owner, half a dozen are hauled off in garbage trucks.
 
No, you think, wiping away the tears, this is no place for an animal lover.
The Whale
If you read the front page story of the SF Chronicle, you would have read about a female humpback whale who had become entangled in a spider web of crab traps and lines.
 She was weighted down by hundreds of pounds of traps that caused her to struggle to stay afloat. She also had hundreds of yards of line rope wrapped around her body, her tail, her torso, a line
tugging in her mouth.
 A fisherman spotted her just east of the Farralone Islands (outside the Golden Gate) and radioed an environmental group for help.  Within a few hours, the rescue team arrived and determined that she was  so bad off, the only way to save her was to dive in and untangle her ... a very dangerous proposition.  One slap of the tail could kill a rescuer.
They worked for hours with curved knives and eventually freed her.
When she was free, the divers say she swam in what seemed like joyous circles.  She then came back to each and every diver, one at a time, and nudged them, pushed gently around-she thanked them. Some said it was the most incredibly beautiful experience of their lives.
The guy who cut the rope out of her mouth says her eye was following him the whole time, and he will never be the same.
 May you, and all those you love, be so blessed and fortunate ..  to be surrounded by people who will help you get untangled from the things that are binding you.  And, may you always know the joy
of giving and receiving gratitude.
 I pass this on to you, my friend, in the same spirit

This is one of the kindest things you may ever see. It is not known who replied, but there is a beautiful soul working in the dead letter office of the US postal service.

Our 14 year old dog, Abbey, died last month. The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey. She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her. I told her that I thought we could. So she dictated these words:

Dear God,

Will you please take care of my dog? She died yesterday and is with you in heaven. I miss her very much. I am happy that you let me have her as my dog even though she got sick.

I hope you will play with her. She likes to play with balls and to swim. I am sending a picture of her so when you see her You will know that she is my dog. I really miss her.

Love, Meredith

We put the letter in an envelope with a picture of Abbey and Meredith and addressed it to God/Heaven. We put our return address on it. Then Meredith pasted several stamps on the front of the envelope because she said it would take lots of stamps to get the letter all the way to heaven. That afternoon she dropped it into the letter box at the post office. A few days later, she asked if God had gotten the letter yet. I told her that I thought He had.

Yesterday, there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch addressed, ‘To Meredith’ in an unfamiliar hand. Meredith opened it. Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers called, ‘When a Pet Dies.’ Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God in its opened envelope. On the opposite page was the picture of Abbey & Meredith and this note:

Dear Meredith,

Abbey arrived safely in heaven.

Having the picture was a big help. I recognized Abbey right away.

Abbey isn’t sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me just like it stays in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. Since we don’t need our bodies in heaven, I don’t have any pockets to keep your picture in , so I am sending it back to you in this little book for you to keep and have something to remember Abbey by..

Thank you for the beautiful letter and thank your mother for helping you write it and sending it to me. What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you.

I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much.

By the way, I’m easy to find, I am wherever there is love.

Love,
God

Mary and her husband Jim had a dog, Lucky. Lucky was a real character.

Whenever Mary and Jim had company come for a weekend visit they would warn their friends to not leave their luggage open because  Lucky would help himself to whatever struck his fancy.  Inevitably, someone would forget and something would come up missing.

Mary or Jim would go to Lucky's toy box in the basement and there the treasure would be, amid all of Lucky's favorite toys. Lucky always stashed his finds in his toy box and he was very particular that his toys stay in the box.


It happened that Mary found out she had breast cancer. Something told her she was going to die of this disease; she was just sure it was fatal She scheduled the double mastectomy, fear riding her shoulders.


The night before she was to go to the hospital she cuddled with Lucky.  A thought struck her...what would happen to Lucky? Although the three-year-old dog liked Jim, he was Mary's dog through and through. If I die, Lucky will be abandoned, Mary thought.  He won't understand that I didn't want to leave him.

The thought made her sadder than thinking of her own death. The double mastectomy was harder on Mary than her doctors had anticipated and Mary was hospitalized for over two weeks. Jim took Lucky for his evening walk faithfully, but the little dog just drooped, whining and miserable.

Finally the day came for Mary to leave the hospital. When she arrived home, Mary was so exhausted she couldn't even make it up the steps to her bedroom. Jim made his wife comfortable on the couch and left her to nap.

Lucky stood watching Mary but he didn't come to her when she called. It made Mary sad but sleep soon overcame her and she dozed. When Mary woke for a second she couldn't understand what was wrong. She couldn't move her head and her body felt heavy and hot. But panic soon gave way to laughter when Mary realized the problem. She was covered, literally blanketed, with every treasure Lucky owned! While she had slept, the sorrowing dog had made trip after trip to the basement bringing his beloved mistress all his favorite things in life. He had covered her with his love.

Mary forgot about dying. Instead she and Lucky began living again, walking further and further together every night.

It's been 12 years now and Mary is still cancer-free.

Lucky? He still steals treasures and stashes them in his toy box but Mary remains his greatest treasure.

Live everyday to the fullest. Remember it is a blessing from God.

The people who make a difference in your life are not the ones with the most credentials, the most money, or the most awards.  They are the ones that bring toys.

I am an Animal Rescuer
My job is to assist God's creatures
I was born with the drive to fulfill their needs
I take in helpless, unwanted, homeless creatures
without planning or selection
I have bought dog food with my last dime
I have patted a mangy head with a bare hand
I have hugged someone vicious and afraid
I have fallen in love a thousand times
And I have cried into the fur of a lifeless body too many times to count

I have Animal Friends and friends who have animal friends
I don't often use the word "pet"
I notice those lost at the road side
And my heart aches
I will hand raise a field mouse
And make friends with a vulture
I know of no creature unworthy of my time
I want to live forever if there aren't animals in Heaven
But I believe there are
Why would God make something so perfect and leave it behind
Some may think we are master of the animals
But the animals have mastered themselves
Something people still haven't learned
War and Abuse make me hurt for the world
But a rescue that makes the news gives me hope for mankind
We are a quiet but determined army
And we are making a difference every day
There is nothing more necessary than warming an orphan
nothing more rewarding than saving a life
No higher recognition than watching them thrive
There is no greater joy than seeing a baby play
who only days ago, was too weak to eat
By the love of those who I've been privileged to rescue
I have been rescued
I know what true unconditional love really is
for I've seen it shining in the eyes of so many
Grateful for so little
I am an Animal Rescuer
My work is never done
My home is never quiet
My wallet is always empty
But my heart is always full

Author Unknown

I AM YOUR DOG
Author Unknown

             I am your dog, and I have a little something I'd like to
Keepers of sheep... and of secrets.
Protectors of castles... and of children.
Teachers of trust... and of truth.
Models of sanity... and of soul.

Believe in dog.
IF I DIDN'T HAVE ANIMALS
I could walk around the yard barefoot in safety.
My house could be carpeted instead of tiled and laminated.
All flat surfaces, clothing, furniture, and cars would be free of hair.
When the doorbell rings, it wouldn't sound like the kennels.
When the doorbell rings, I could get to the door without wading through fuzzy bodies who beat me there.
I could sit on the couch the way I wanted, without taking into consideration how much space several fur bodies would need to get comfortable.
I would not have strange presents under my Christmas tree -- dog bones, stuffed animals, nor would I have to answer to people why I wrap them.
I would not be on a first-name basis with three veterinarians.
The most used words in my vocabulary would not be: out, sit, down, come, no, stay, and leave him/her/it ALONE.
My house would not be cordoned off into zones with baby gates or barriers.
My pockets would not contain things like poop bags, treats and an extra leash.
I would no longer have to spell the words B-A-L-L-, F-R-I-S-B-E-E, or W-A-L-K.
I would not have as many leaves INSIDE my house as outside.
I would not look strangely at people who think having ONE dog ties them down too much.
I'd look forward to spring and the melting of snow instead of dreading mud season.
I would not have to answer the question Why do you have so many dogs/animals from people who will never have the joy in their lives of knowing they are loved unconditionally by something as close to an angel as they will ever get.
How empty my life would be.
A DOG SITS WAITING
By Kathy Flood


A dog sits waiting in the cold autumn sun, too faithful to leave, too frightened to run.

He's been here for days now, with nothing to do, but sit by the road, waiting for you.

He can't understand why you left him that day.  He thought you and he were stopping to play.

He's sure you'll come back, and that's why he stays.  How long will he suffer? How many more days?

His legs have grown weak now; his throats is parched dry.  He's sick from the hunger, and falls with a sigh.

He lays down his head and closes his eyes. I wish you could see how a waiting dog dies.
Here in this house...........

I will never know the loneliness I hear in the barks of the other dogs 'out there'.
I can sleep soundly, assured that when I wake my world will not have changed.
I will never know hunger, or the fear of not knowing if I'll eat.
I will not shiver in the cold, or grow weary from the heat.
I will feel the sun's heat, and the rain's coolness,
and be allowed to smell all that can reach my nose.
My fur will shine, and never be dirty or matted.
Here in this house...

There will be an effort to communicate with me on my level.
I will be talked to and, even if I don't understand,
I can enjoy the warmth of the words.
I will be given a name so that I may know who I am among many.
My name will be used in joy, and I will love the sound of it!
Here in this house...

I will never be a substitute for anything I am not.
I will never be used to improve peoples' images of themselves.
I will be loved because I am who I am, not someone's idea of who I should be.
I will never suffer for someone's anger, impatience, or stupidity.
I will be taught all the things I need to know to be loved by all.
If I do not learn my lessons well, they will look to my teacher for blame.
Here in this house...

I can trust arms that hold, hands that touch...
knowing that, no matter what they do, they do it for the good of me.
If I am ill, I will be doctored.
If scared, I will be calmed.
If sad, I will be cheered.
No matter what I look like, I will be considered beautiful and thought to be of value.
I will never be cast out because I am too old, too ill, too unruly, or not cute enough.
My life is a responsibility, and not an afterthought.
I will learn that humans can almost, sometimes, be as kind and as fair as dogs.

Here in this house...
I will belong.
I will be home.

~Author Unknown
Martha’s Christmas Miracle

Martha was sitting in her living room watching television this Christmas Eve, alone as she had been for the last five years. All of her children had married and moved to the four corners of the nation, her youngest, a surgery resident at the Vet School across the state had planned on coming home, but had been assigned to work the emergency clinic and couldn't find a replacement. Martha told herself that having Sally working to help the sick and injured animals this Christmas Eve was worth being alone, besides, Sally would be driving over for Christmas dinner the next afternoon.

All the animals had been fed and now were safely in either the kennel building or lazily laying around the house. Martha had to stop to think how many dogs she had at her house this Christmas, she sighed when she realized there were 16 She did rescue and the number of dogs was always changing with some dogs being adopted, and new abandoned dogs coming in. Feeling overwhelmed by the number of dogs she had and all the dogs still left in shelters to die because there was no room for them in rescue, Martha seriously wondered if she should stop working rescue. If she didn't have all these dogs, she could have flown to any of her other children's homes for the holidays to be with family. Besides, the heartbreak of seeing each dog in such need was beginning to really weigh on her.

Tonight she had a new dog, brought home that day. Martha didn't really plan on adding another dog but on her way home from the store she saw a dog lying on the side of the road. Certain the dog was dead, Martha stopped, to pick up the body and take it home for a burial. As she got closer, she recognized the shell of an Alaskan Malamute, the breed she rescued. Covered by cuts and festering wounds, what fur was left was matted and filthy, it was so skinny that laying there you could see each rib and it's hipbones were the
widest part of his body.

With tears in her eyes, mourning for what once had been a majestic animal now reduced to almost a skeleton she reached down to give the poor dog one last pat on the head. "Oh, you poor boy, what a way to end your life. Well, at least I can name you and give you a decent farewell." As her tears fell on the dog's head, one eye slowly opened and the tail gave a single wag.

"You're alive! Everything will be OK now, I'll take you home and you will have a soft bed and food tonight." She said, tears streaming down her face, this time from happiness.

The rest of the afternoon was spent cleaning the dog's wounds and making sure he was able to eat and drink water. Martha set up the large run in the kennel building for him. A soft blanket and a thick foam pad was to be his bed, fresh water and food beside him. Papers for his 'necessary functions' were placed at the far end of the run. He lay there watching every move she made.

Martha left the dog resting on his bed, somewhat surprised at the reaction of the rest of the dogs in the kennel. Pandemonium usually broke out with all the other dogs wooing and barking when a new dog was brought in, tonight all the other dogs just stood and silently watched as Martha cared for the new dog. Thankful the other dogs were not disturbing the new boy, Martha went to the house to finish preparations for tomorrow's dinner.

Later that evening Martha went down to the kennel to check on the new boy and feed the other dogs. As she walked in the door the new boy shakily stood to greet her. As she was straightening up the kennel after feeding and exercising the dogs, she saw her microchip reader. "Well, this will be a waste of time" she thought as she ran the reader over the dog's body.

BEEP! The reader had located a chip! Writing the number down, she hurried to the house to call the chip registry and report the found dog. As she suspected on Christmas Eve, all she got was a machine.

Very late that night, the phone rang. Martha answered and a strange voice was on the other end. "Did you find a dog with a microchip?" "Yes, are you the registry needing more information?" Martha asked. "No, the registry called us and told us you found our dog!" and then the man broke down crying. After composing himself, he continued.

"The dog you found is BISS AM/CAN/INT CH Wasilla's Ice Sculpture, WPD, WTD, WLD, TT, CGC but to us he is our heart, the love of our life, Icy. Three years ago Icy was stolen from his exercise area in our back yard. We did everything we could think of to find him, but lately we had almost given up hope of ever seeing him again. This is a miracle. We are leaving now to come pick him up. We are about 14 hours from you so we will see you and Icy in the morning."

Martha was crying, indeed it was a miracle! And the new dog now had a name, his own name and his people were coming for him. What a wonderful Christmas gift.

Martha hurried down to the kennel to let Icy know that his humans had been found and they were on their way to take him home. As Martha walked up to Icy's kennel he stood to greet her, "Icy, yes, I know your name and I have spoken to your people. They’re coming to take you home." As she was talking to Icy, she heard the old clock in the building strike midnight.

Much to her amazement, Icy said "Thank you."

Martha thought, now I am sure I have been around dogs too long, I could swear I heard Icy speak.

Icy continued "Martha, yes I am talking to you in human language, you see, at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Day, all animals can speak. Let me tell you what happened to me today."

"I have been kept in a dark barn for a long time by some very mean people who beat me and often forgot to feed me. Two days ago I found a loose board on the barn and was able to escape. I walked as fast as I could, looking for my people, or at least for some kind person to feed me and give me a warm place to sleep before I died. I was in the middle of a big field when I couldn't walk or even crawl any more, I laid down, knowing I was about to cross to the Rainbow Bridge. As I stepped onto the Bridge, an Angel came towards me."

"Icy," the Angel said "If you agree, He has a job for you before cross the Bridge. There is a very kind human who needs you today to restore her sprit."

"Of course I agreed to help a human -- that is what Malamutes do. The Angel picked up my body and carried it to the side of a road and laid it down. The next thing I remember is you were scratching my ear and talking to me and your tears were falling on my face. You have cared for me this day."

Martha heard a chorus of voices all about her. To her amazement she was surrounded not only by her dogs, but dogs she had rescued and sent on to forever homes, all voicing stories how Martha had cared for them and restored them to health and loved them, thanking her for her love.

The first Malamute Martha had rescued many years ago stepped to the front of the gathering and said, "Martha, you took us in to your home, cared for us, healed us both in body and spirit then, even though it broke your heart, sent us on to our new forever families. This gave us a life we would never have had without you. Others of us here, never were adopted and lived out our lives with you, loved and cared for as if we were your own dogs. In our hearts we are your dogs. Thank you."

Then one small mixed breed puppy stepped forward from the back and said, "Miss Martha, you never held me nor fed me, you see I am speaking for all the shelter dogs and cats gathered here for which you did all you could. We understand that you can't save us all, but you read our shelter stories, knowing we would cross the Bridge without knowing a home of our own, and you cried for us. We thank you for that. You see, we knew you cared and loved us, too And that love helped us as we crossed. We thank you and all the
other Rescuers for that small act of love."

Icy looked at Martha and told her, "It is getting late and you will have many people here tomorrow to celebrate Christmas. And you have your rescue work to continue. Our time to be able to talk to you is growing short, but always remember what happened tonight. What you do for the animals is a gift to us and to Him, the Father of us all. Each of us, animals of every species, needs people like you. Please keep on helping. You are doing the work of Angels."

At that point all of the dogs in unison said "Thank You," and their voices blended into a joyous howl which echoed from the heavens to the ends of the earth.

Humbly offered as a Christmas Gift to all who love animals.

Christmas 2007
(c)Bilinda Marshall 2007
MASTIFF PROPERTY LAWS
 
1.  If I like it, it's mine.
2.  If it's in my mouth, it's mine.
3.  If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
4.  If I can take it from you, it's mine.
5.  If it looks like mine, it's mine.
6.  If it's mine, it must never be yours.
7.  If I saw it first, it's mine.
8.  If you have something and put it down, it's mine.
9.  If I chew something up, all of the pieces are mine.
10.  If it used to be yours, get over it.
11.  If it's broken, it's yours. 
My Foster Dog
by Unknown Author

My foster dog stinks to high heaven.  I don't know for sure what breed he is.  His eyes are blank and hard.  He won't let me pet him and growls when I reach for him.

He has ragged scars and crusty sores on his skin.  His nails are long and his teeth, which he showed me, are stained. I sigh.  I drove two hours for this.

I carefully maneuver him so that I can stuff him in the crate. Then I heft the crate and put it in the car. I am going home with my new foster dog.

At home I leave him in the crate till all the other dogs are in the yard. I get him out of the crate and ask him if he wants "outside." As I lead him to the door he hikes his leg on the wall and shows me his stained teeth again.

When we come in, he goes to the crate because that's the only safe place he sees. I offer him food but he won't eat it if I look at him, so I turn my back. When I come back, the food is gone.

I ask again about "outside." When we come back, I pat him before I let him in the crate; he jerks away and runs into the crate to show me his teeth.

The next day I decide I can't stand the stink any longer.  I lead him into the bath with cheese in my hands. His fear of me is not quite overcome by his longing for the cheese.
And well he should fear me, for I will give him a bath.

After an attempt or two to bail out he is defeated and stands there. I have bathed four legged bath squirters for more years than he has been alive. His only defense was a show of his stained teeth, that did not hold up to a face full of water.

As I wash him, it is almost as if I wash not only the stink and dirt away but also some of the hardness. His eyes look full of sadness now. And he looks completely pitiful as only a soap covered dog can.

I tell him that he will! feel better when he is cleaned. After the soap, the towels are not too bad, so he lets me rub him dry.  I take him outside. He runs for joy . . . the joy of not being in the tub and the joy of being clean.

I, the bath giver, am allowed to share the joy. He comes to me and lets me pet him.

One week later I have a vet bill. His skin is healing. He likes for me to pet him ( I think). I know what color he will be when his hair grows in.

I have found out he is terrified of other dogs, so I carefully introduce him to my mildest four legged brat. It doesn't go well.

Two weeks later a new vet bill for an infection, that was missed on the first visit. He plays with the other dogs.

Three weeks later his coat shines, he has gained weight.  He shows his clean teeth when his tongue lolls out after he plays chase in the yard with the gang.

His eyes are soft and filled with life. He loves hugs and likes to show off his tricks, if you have the cheese.

Someone called today and asked about him. They saw the picture I took the first week. They asked about his personality, his history, his breed. They asked if he was pretty. I asked them lots of questions.

I checked up on them. I prayed. I said yes.

When they saw him the first time they said he was the most beautiful dog they had ever seen.

Six months later, I got a call from his new family.  He is wonderful, smart, well behaved, and very loving.

How could someone not want him?  I told them I didn't know.  He is beautiful.  They all are.

Dear God,

What is "Time"? I hear the sadness in the voices of workers here.  They say my "Time is up", that they have to make room for yet another dog.

My "Time" is up. I don't know what that means, God. I only know that my new friends are so sad, and the more I wag my tail--- the harder I try to make them feel better--- the sadder they become.

I know I have heard that word "Time" before, but I don't understand.  When I was younger, my people would say "Time to play!"  They would throw the ball, and I would run fast. Sometimes I brought it back to them, but other times we'd end up chasing each other having fun.

I remember "Time to eat". My people would put down a bowl of food, and I would enjoy dinner, wagging my tail in joy. There was also "Time for your walk". My boy would put my leash on, and we would go walking together, visiting the neighborhood and enjoying each other's company.

When I was younger I thought "Time" meant fun. Or maybe Love?

I don't understand. "Time" must mean something else, but how can it change, God? Before I came here, I heard my people say, "No time to feed you now, boy. Later, when I get home." Sometimes my family would forget, and there was no food in my bowl. Does "Time" mean when my belly hurts?

My people said there was no time for walks. I tried to hold it all day long-- but God, I just couldn't anymore. When I finally had to go, it made my family very angry. Does "Time" means anger? Or maybe Loneliness?

My family said they didn't have "Time". They didn't have time to play, or time to take me to the vet, or time to go for walks. They didn't have "Time", so they brought me here.

Maybe I was right... They said they didn't have time, and if "Time" means Love, how did they lose it? Did I do something wrong?

God, I think my new friends are sending me to you.  Do you have "Time"? May I sit on the couch?

Am I a good Dog, God? Is it "Time"?

Author: Joan C. Fremo
Published on: July 29, 2001

Why Dogs Don't Live Longer Than People......
Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife, Lisa, and their little boy, Shane, were all very attached to Belker and they were hoping for a miracle.

I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family there were no miracles left for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home.

As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for their four-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away. The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion.

We sat together for a while after Belker's death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, "I know why."

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation. He said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a
good life -- like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?" The four-year-old continued, "Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."

 

 






 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                

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