What's up, Big Boy?
My name is Violette, what's yours? I can not wait to meet you in private.
I was going to have a nice talk with you in chat but you had gone offline. May I ask you to write me a few words some day?
Trust me, it's going to be lots of fun.
I�ll be waiting for your letter�
My email ciavilpaddcha1971@rambler.ru
Love and kisses,
Violette
 | My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Viscountess Shasta the Dulcet of Frogging over Womble |
Enok knows what living with abuse and abandonment is all about until rescued by me at 5 months old.
That's why he's fighting for Bill C-373 to be enforced.
No animal should have to endure suffering in any way.
Conners says,
"Of all the positively pitty things Shasta does...fighting isn't one of them.
This makes her positively typical of the Pit bull breeds, with one exception...she is MINE and she is MY one of a kind."
Ontario's Dog Killers
Ontario is fighting back and hired
Clayton Ruby
The right to own whatever breed we choose.
We are also are fighting for responsible ownership and education.
Do your part and be responsible.
Train, maintain and contain your dogs properly.
Teach others!
Don't forget to spay and neuter your pets.
There are already too many dogs in the shelters needing 'forever homes'.
Stand up those that can't speak up for themselves.
It starts with you.
Report animal abuse.
***please cross post***
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.
1. My life is likely to last 10-15 years. Regular separation from you will be painful and can even cause depression. Think before you buy me.
2. Give me time to understand what you want from me - don't be impatient, short-tempered or irritable. Do not break my spirit with your temper. Although I will always forgive you, your patience will teach me more effectively.
3. Place your trust in me and I will always trust you back, respect is earned not given as some sort of inalienable right.
4. Don't be angry with me for long, and don't lock me up as punishment. I am not capable of understanding why I am being locked up. I only know I have been rejected. You have your work, entertainment and friends. I only have you. Treat me kindly, my beloved friend, for no heart in all the world will be more grateful for your kindness than me.
5. Talk to me sometimes. Even if I don't understand your words, I do understand your tone. Your voice is the sweetest sound I hear, as you must understand by my enthusiasm when I hear your footsteps.
6. Take me in when it is cold or wet. I am a domestic animal and am no longer accustomed to bitter elements. I ask for not more than your gentle hands to pet me. Keep my water bowl full and give me food to eat, so that I may stay healthy and strong to be your loving and loyal friend. By your side I stand ready and willing to share my life with you. for that is what I live for.I will never forget how well you have treated me.
7. Please do not hit me. Although I cannot hit back, I can bite and scratch, but I choose not to do that.
8. Before you scold me for being uncooperative, obstinate, or lazy, ask yourself if something might be wrong with me. Perhaps I'm not getting the proper food or I've been out in the sun too long, maybe my heart is getting old and weak, or maybe I'm just very tired.
9. Take care of me when I get old. You too will grow old and will also want care, love, and affection.
10. Go with me on difficult journeys. When I am old or am no longer in good health, please don't make any heroic efforts to keep me going. I am not
having fun. just see to it that my trusting life is taken gently. And be with me on that difficult journey when it is time to say good bye. Never say, "I can't bear to watch" or "Let it happen in my absence". Everything is easier for me if you are there. I will leave this earth always knowing that my life was safe in your hands. Remember, irrespective of what you do I will always love you.
Please press on the 'Crucify Me' link and visit Triumph
Fight me, deny me, and crucify me,
My sins are yours, they're not mine.
You make me what I am, evil at your command.
You send me to meet my challenger, whatever it may be.
I risk my life to line your pockets for nothing but pain and agony.
Three feet of chain with nowhere to go, there's not much here to see.
No time to play, its work, work, work, that's how life is for me.
Run the treadmill. Pull the blocks and hang there from the tree.
If my ribs feel a little thick, then not much food for me.
I'm in tip top shape, a muscle bound freak, with all the attitude I need.
I've got gameness several generations back. You should see my pedigree!
Pump me up! Hype me up! Throw me some bait! How about that young pup?
Watch me rip his eyeballs out; I need the taste of blood.
I've been hit. I've been beat. I've been left to die in the ring.
I've been sewed up! I've been ripped open and I've had several bones broken!
I've scratched when I couldn't stand and I've stood up when I couldn't scratch!
I've killed a few dogs and I've nearly died when I've met my match!
Fight me, deny me, and crucify me,
My sins are yours, they're not mine.
You make me what I am, evil at your command.
You send me to meet my challenger, whatever it may be.
I risk my life to line your pockets for nothing but pain and agony.
Three feet of chain with nowhere to go, there's not much here to see.
No time to play, its work, work, work, that's how life is for me.
Run the treadmill. Pull the blocks and hang there from the tree.
If my ribs feel a little thick, then not much food for me.
I'm in tip top shape, a muscle bound freak, with all the attitude I need.
I've got gameness several generations back. You should see my pedigree!
Pump me up! Hype me up! Throw me some bait! How about that young pup?
Watch me rip his eyeballs out; I need the taste of blood.
I've been hit. I've been beat. I've been left to die in the ring.
I've been sewed up! I've been ripped open and I've had several bones broken!
I've scratched when I couldn't stand and I've stood up when I couldn't scratch!
I've killed a few dogs and I've nearly died when I've met my match!
Fight me, deny me, and crucify me,
My sins are yours, they're not mine.
You make me what I am, evil at your command.
You send me to meet my challenger, whatever it may be.
I risk my life to line your pockets for nothing but pain and agony.
You find amusement at my torn, hanging skin
and just when my body heals, you make me do it again.
Why couldn't I have been a happy dog with a master who shared some love?
Not some twisted psychopath, who owes his life to drugs.
I do this evil to earn my keep. Somehow, I must be fed.
The men in suits, they point at me and say they want me dead.
Even the lucky ones in happy homes who have never felt my pain,
must face the executioners because they bear my name.
Fight me, deny me, and crucify me, My sins are yours, they're not mine.
You make me what I am, evil at your command.
You send me to meet my challenger, whatever it may be.
I risk my life to line your pockets for nothing but pain and agony.
I've grown too old now to fight in your ring.
You've left me no chance, to ever be free
I lay in the darkness, no one at my side
my last fight I lost, my eyes no longer can see
this is what you have done, do you not feel shame?
I can no longer walk, run or play
you have a new puppy now, the one to take my place
the cold and darkness closing now, you have nothing to say?
I lay here in pain and my own blood
I still believe that you love me and I try to stay awake
But you kick me and wish me dead then tell them to tie the bag
The darkness is here now; I hope they catch you, for the new puppy's sake
Fight me, deny me, and crucify me,
My sins are yours, they're not mine.
You make me what I am, evil at your command.
You send me to meet my challenger, whatever it may be.
I risk my life to line your pockets for nothing but pain and agony.
By Alan W Joslin
What is man without the beasts?
If all the beasts were gone, man would die from great loneliness of the spirit.
For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man.
All are connected.
-Chief Seattle
(Duwamish tribe
The Meaning of Rescue
Now that I'm home, bathed, settled and fed,
All nicely tucked in my new warm bed.
I'd 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 repack?
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
"They, oh, so want to make new friends, and run and jump and play. Yet when they happily approach most people shy away."
"They love to snuggle up real close to give lots of love and kisses. Yet they suffer more than any, from unfair prejudices."
"Their tails wag hard and hips twist too, more so than other mutts; and thus I feel they've earned this name, we call them "wiggle butts."
"What animal do I speak of, whose love is so unique? If you've truly known one, you know of whom I speak."
"There is no creature on this earth who will ever make you merrier. The animal I do speak of, it's the American Pit Bull Terrier."
By: Patty Letawsky
Bless the Bullys
A righteous man regardeth the life of his animals.
A Pit Bull Prayer
Spirit in the sky, who watches over all animals: It is my prayer and my request that you grant greater understanding, and acceptance to humans; those who love us, and those who hate us.
That they will know how loyal we are, how brave we are, and how loving we are. Help them to accept us as a breed in whole, and not let the few tragedies shine brighter than the many great traits that we have.
And those who would kill me, let them know, I forgive them even though I don't understand their hatred. And those who would beat me, let them know I still love them, even though it is not the honourable way.
Thank you for all the strong traits that you have given to me and my breed. Help those to know that I stand for courage, strength, loyalty, and bravery. And as my master already knows, let those who would come against my family know that I would surely die defending them.
And just one thing that I would ask: Let my master know, that if you should call me away, that I will wait patiently at those pearly gates until the one who chose me comes home.
Amen
They are your defenders, partners, friends,
You are their lives, their loves, their leaders.
They will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of their hearts.
You owe it to them to be worthy of such devotion.
Unknown
Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.
- Roger Caras
To My Mommy
Looking in the eyes of my mommy's face,
I know there is something wrong but I just can't place.
The sadness is terrible that she feels in her heart,
because of the fear we may have to part.
She did all she could to make me kind,
the love she shows makes me mind.
If only others could understand,
the bond we share will last to no end.
We use to walk and play in the park,
til some people branded us with a mark.
Vicious dogs, dangerous breeds,
are usually what we hear.
Never about the work we do to help those so dear.
Security, therapy, bomb sniffing too,
we do it all just to protect you.
All we wanted was to do your will,
but all some say is that they kill.
They don't know us only the bad,
but treated mean is all we ever had.
Now because of bad owners of us,
there is always such a fuss.
We can't go play and meet other dogs,
to romp and jump and play leap frog.
We have to wear muzzles and be chained up,
even when we are just a little pup.
One day my mommy says we will win,
I can't wait to be a dog again.
Until then I will wait for the day,
when I can just be normal and play.
I will lick my mom and be the best,
and think to myself to heck with the rest.
With love from your faithful dog.
By Gail Gallant
Interview at the Dog Pound
As a journalist, I decided to go to the dog pound, and interview some of the "inmates". I wanted to know what it was like in there from their perspective. What follows is not for the faint of heart.
I entered the building, and one of the workers accompanied me to the holding area. This is where dogs are kept before they are allowed up for adoption. IF, they are allowed up for adoption. If the dogs are found to be aggressive in any way, euthanasia is employed.
Fortunately, if "fortunately" is the word to be used here. This is a Canadian establishment, and they use lethal injection, not a gas chamber.
The pound worker led me past a big steel door that says "Employees Only"."What is in there?" I asked.From the look he gave me, I knew that this is where dogs go in, and never return.
We moved on to a row of kennels. The dogs were barking loudly, there was the acrid smell of urine and feces, and a feeling of despair seemed to permeate the room.Â
"Go ahead," the worker said. "They're all yours."
Petey
I looked into the first kennel, and saw only the back of a medium sized dog who was curled up in the corner of his kennel, shivering. He was mostly white, with some black spots."Hello?" I said. "May I come in?"He lifted his head, as though it weighed more than he could bear. When he looked at me, I could see he was a Pit bull. His eyes were gentle, but filled with grief. "Enter," was all he said.
I stepped in, closing the gate behind me. He put his head back down, facing away from me. I crouched down a few feet away. "My name is Pete. Petey, my Master called me," he said, still not looking at me.
"Why are you here Pete?" I asked.
"I am here because Master cannot afford to move to another province. I am here because someone with power said I am vicious, and a killer. Someone who never met me.
Master took me for a walk one day, and some lady started to scream when she saw me. I got frightened, and barked at her. The dog police came, and they took me away. I have been with Master for 10 years. The last time I saw him, he just held me and cried. He kept telling me he was sorry. I worry for him. Whatever will he do without me?"Pete shivered even more.
A tear slid down my face. I am supposed to remain objective, but this was wrong. So wrong.
"Thank you Pete." I said. He said nothing as I got up and left his kennel.
Popper
The kennel next to Pete's held a very young looking dog. Pure Border Collie by my guess. He stood on his hind legs, looking at me through the gate.
"Hello. My name's Popper." He tilted his head. "Are you here to take me home?"
"No, I'm sorry," I replied. "But I would like to talk with you."
"Sure. What would you like to talk about?"
"Popper, how did you come to be in this place?" I asked. p> p>Popper dropped down from the gate, with a perplexed look on his face. He walked to the back of the kennel, then back to the front. I noticed he had one blue eye, and one brown. He was quite beautiful. His black and white coat was shiny and thick.
"I am not certain WHY I am here. I think maybe my family will come back for me. They bought me when I was only 6 weeks old. I remember they said how smart Border Collies are, and how it would be so easy to train me. They were very excited at first. The little ones played with me all the time. But the trouble with little Masters is, they refuse to stay in a group. I constantly had to nip their heels to keep them together."
He looked confused."Why won't they stay in a group?" he sighed. "So I did what I thought I should do. I am not quite sure why the little ones screamed when I did my job, but they did, and the Masters got very angry at me. They also got angry when I had to relieve myself, and did so in the house. I am not sure where they expected me to go. All they said was that I was the smartest breed in the world, and I should just KNOW better.
Then they left me in the yard for a month or so. I got bored a lot, and I dug holes in the grass.
The next thing I knew, the Masters brought me here."
Popper jumped back up on the gate, his white paws protruding through the links. He looked at me with his lovely eyes, and asked, "Will you please let them know I want to come home? Please tell them I promise I will be good?"
"I will Popper," I said.
Spartan
My heart was breaking. I was beginning to regret coming here, but their stories had to be told. I moved along. The next dog I saw looked to be easily 100 lbs., a Rottweiler. He was handsome indeed, except for the scars on his face and back. He tilted his head, and looked me right in the eyes.
"Hello. Who are you?" he asked.
"I am a reporter," I replied. "May I speak with you for a little while?"
"Most certainly. My name is Spartan. You can come in, I won't bite," he said.
"Thank you Spartan. I will."
I entered his kennel, reached out and stroked his giant head. He made a loud grumbling noise, and closed his eyes.
"Spartan, why are you here?"
Before he could answer my question, he was suddenly in the grip of a nasty coughing spasm. It sounded painful.
"Please excuse me," he said when it passed. "Kennel cough. It seems all of us who come in here get it."
"Why am I here? Well, about two years ago, I was born in the backyard of some person I can't even recall. I had 11 brothers and sisters.
I recall a day when a big man came and gave that person some money, and took me away from my mother. They had to chain her up, as she was very angry that he took me. They chained her and beat her. I came to know the man by the name of Jim.
I overheard him telling his friends that I would grow up to be big and mean like my mother. But as I grew older, all I wanted to do was play and be friends with everyone.Jim said I needed to be taught how to be mean, so he chained me up in the yard. No more house for me, he said, I was too spoiled. When people came by to visit, I was so happy to see them. I wanted them to come and play. But that made Jim angry, so he beat me with sticks and chains. When he came near, I would roll onto my back so he would know I wasn't a bad dog. That made him beat me more." Spartan's eyes clouded with grief.
"Then he brought me here."I reached out and stroked Spartan's massive gentle head once more.
"I am so sorry Spartan. Some people are just plain evil." I gave him a kiss and left his kennel. As I walked away, Spartan called out, "What will happen to me, nice lady?" I shook my head. "I can't say Spartan. Maybe someone kind will come and get you. We can only hope."
Patsy
I walked a little further down. I could see a shape moving at the back of the next kennel."Hello?" I called out.
Suddenly the shape lunged at the gate in a fury, barking and gnashing its teeth. I stumbled backwards, and crashed into an adjacent kennel. The other dogs began barking loudly and jumping at their gates. "Don't go near her," a small female voice came from behind me. "She's mad."I gathered myself back together, and saw a little Jack Russell Terrier behind me.
"Thanks for the warning," I was still trembling.
Across the way, the other dog, apparently a Husky and German Shepherd cross, was glaring at me, lips curled back revealing brown stained teeth. Her ribs and hips showed through her dull, matted grey coat.
The little dog invited me into her kennel, and I gladly went in.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Patsy." The little brown and white dog held a paw up to the gate in greeting.
"My owner surrendered me. She said she wanted a cute little dog like the one on the TV show, Frasier. She didn't bother to look into the type of dog I am." Patsy heaved a sigh.
"I suppose she expected me to just lie about and only need a short walk each day, just like Eddie, but my energy was so high that I needed to run and play." She glanced at her surroundings. "Now I am here. I suppose it could be worse. I could be like, Her." Patsy looked towards the still growling dog across the way.
"What happened to make her so vicious?" I asked.
"From what we could gather," she replied. "She was found tied in a back yard. She only had a three-foot chain. Some days there was no water. Rarely was there any food.
One day a nice neighbour came by and brought her some meat. By then it was too late. She was already mad. She broke off her chain, and bit the poor man badly. We know she will be going behind the steel door. I am sad to say; I think it will be best. Perhaps then she will know some peace."
Just then, the door at the end of the building opened, and a woman stepped inside. All the dogs began to bark wildly, and then one by one, they went quiet.
I whispered to Patsy, "Who is that? Why have all the dogs gone quiet?"
Patsy breathed deeply through her little nose, and closed her eyes.
"SHE is a Rescuer. Can't you smell it?" she asked.
"Smell what?" I was confused.
"Compassion. Love. Sorrow. It emanates from her pores. She is here for one of us, but nobody knows who just yet." Patsy looked hopeful.
The Rescuer moved from kennel to kennel, looking at each dog. I sat quietly watching. I could see tears in her eyes as she made eye contact with each one. She stopped at Spartan's cage and spoke quietly to him.
"No more beatings my man. No more. You are coming with me. From here on in, it's all going to get better."
The Rescuer produced a leash, opened the kennel door, and took Spartan away. As he walked beside her, his little stubby tail wagged with delight.
Patsy sighed again. I could see the disappointment in her eyes, and it grieved me. They all had the same look, as they watched The Rescuer depart.
"I am so sorry Patsy," I said in a whisper. "But you are a little dog, and everyone loves little dogs. I am convinced you will be rescued soon." Patsy's brown eyes twinkled at me, a little bit of hope returning.
I had heard and seen enough. I needed to tell people how it was for these unfortunate creatures. They were all here through no fault of their own. I stood to leave. I passed by many other dogs I did not interview, looking at each one, wishing I could take them all home with me and give them the love they deserved.I stood by the door taking one last glance back, when it opened, and one of the pound workers came in. His face was drawn and sad. He walked by without a word, and stopped at Pete's kennel. I heard him take a deep breath, then he paused, and opened the kennel door. The words were muffled, but I am sure I heard him say, "I'm sorry old boy."
He came out, with Petey in tow. The old dog's head hung down in resignation, and they both disappeared behind the big steel door.
Once you're done here, please come visit me at my web site..
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