One Small Step Toward a Better Dog Shelter

The facility for my local humane society is only five years old. At that youthful age, you’d think it would actually be as “state-of-the-art” as it’s described on the organization’s Web site. Sure, the colorful murals of the lobby warmly welcome visitors and the classical music playing in the dog wing shows consideration for the comfort of the animals; the staff’s upbeat and caring attitude is commendable. But none of these conceals the harsh environs the architect thought appropriate for homeless canines.

The adult dogs reside in a large, open concrete-block room in rows of cages with concrete floors that are separated by concrete block walls. Lots o’ concrete and NO apparent soundproofing, which makes for a VERY noisy habitat. And to a pooch who’s scared or nervous or troubled in any way, the din of the room must be unbearable. Especially when the barking begins, and it takes only one tiny terrier yelp to get 100+ dogs going. The music meant to calm the residents only adds to the cacophony. Between the noise and the concrete greyness/hardness, the place can really do a number on you.

But last month, the shelter held a special fundraising drive for one purpose: to purchase a bed for each dog cage. Donors were asked to contribute $50 per bed. And what do you know? In no time at all, caring folks met the quota.

Now each pooch has one soft place to go to relax or seek solace. Isn’t that wonderful? It’s such a simple effort, but one that makes all the difference for these homeless creatures as they wait for their future to begin.

[Top photo from Sweet Nothings Designs; dog photo from the Lexington Humane Society.]

A Real-Life Velveteen Rabbit

If you clicked on the Animal Rescue Site button on the right of Lull today, you might have read Rusty’s story.

Abandoned in a Florida park, the red bunny was noticed by passersby because he sat calmly in the same place day after day, never moving from his spot. (You might ask, Why didn’t anyone help him?) One day a passerby saw the bunny with some soccer-playing boys—whose ball was none other than the little cottontail. Thankfully, that passerby intervened and changed the cottontail’s life.

The passerby contacted H.A.R.E. (Houserabbit Adoption, Rescue, and Education) and the organization got Rusty the medical attention he needed. Turns out Rusty has congenital hip dysplasia, making his hind legs splay out uselessly. What’s more, he once had a broken femur that had healed crookedly. The bunny had already been through so much that surgery didn’t seem a good option. So he was fitted with braces.

Braces? For a rabbit?

Yup. (Hey! If a goldfish can swim in a harness, a bunny can hop in braces.) And Rusty gained more than mobility: He became an ambassador at H.A.R.E., where he’s befriended and calmed rabbits of all types and personalities. He has friends!

Rusty is no longer seen as an object or a used-up pet. He’s deeply loved by humans and peers—a real bunny.

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become real.”
—from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

[Illustration by William Nicholson.]

BOOKreMARKS: Camels in Cars, Dogs in Zoos

You couldn’t turn to a media outlet this past week without hearing about the anniversary. The tenth anniversary, that is, of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Why did we do it? What did we accomplish? Was it worth it?

To mark this milestone, I have a book recommendation for you.

War is a topic I typically avoid when choosing books and films. But last month, a friend shoved a library book into my hands and said, “Here—I want you to read this. I loved it! Didn’t do anything for two days but read it.”

“Oh-kay…thanks,” was all I could muster. I didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm. Yet I also didn’t a) want to be responsible for her library book; b) read about a war zone; and c) follow animals kept in a zoo. Reasons B and C promised gloom and doom.

I read it anyway, and I’m thankful I did.

Babylon’s Ark is a memoir of one man’s mission in the early days of the Iraq War to save the animals of the Baghdad Zoo. Lawrence Anthony left his home in South Africa, where he ran a wildlife preserve, armed only with knowledge about and compassion for large, wild animals—plus experience in negotiating on the fly.

This is not a sweet animal rescue tale. It’s full of adventure and darkness and provides some insights into the culture of Iraqis and their relationships with animals. Here are a handful of things I learned:
• Until Lawrence Anthony created one, an agency overseeing animal welfare didn’t exist in Iraq. There was no ASPCA equivalent.
• To much of the population, dogs were curiosities, hence their inclusion in zoos.
• Black market trade in exotic animals thrives in Iraq.
• Like royal families of millennia past, the Husseins had numerous private zoos on their palace grounds.
• Improvisation is critical to rescue operations—which is how a camel ended up a passenger in an open-topped vehicle.

If I were the publisher of Babylon’s Ark, I’d also market it to a secondary audience: business professionals and leaders. It would be a great book to discuss in a corporate book club or leadership seminar because every step forward (and five steps backward) taken during the mission was the result of a negotiation or barter. Diplomacy, communication expertise, and psychological/cultural considerations were always in play. Nearly every obstacle recounted in Babylon’s Ark demanded careful communications and collaboration with someone whose goals and perspective were at odds with the animal rescuers. Even the animal rescuers were at times at odds with one another. Plenty of these scenarios could easily be applied to a business environment. Of course, the additional benefit of marketing to this audience is attracting new animal advocates and more people committed to becoming better stewards of our planet—which would have pleased the author no end.

Had he lived to see this tenth anniversary, I’m sure Lawrence Anthony would have plenty to say about it. I’ll leave you with this excerpt from Babylon’s Ark: The Incredible Wartime Rescue of the Baghdad Zoo.

“This was to be our stand. This was more than just a zoo in a war zone. It was about making an intrinsically ethical and moral statement, saying: Enough is enough. You just can’t say to hell with the consequences to the animal kingdom. It’s all very well getting rid of a monster like Saddam, but that doesn’t mean we can forget what we are doing to the rest of our planet. It doesn’t excuse a zoo getting trashed just because nobody had the foresight to put a basic survival plan in place for hundreds of animals utterly dependent on humans.”

What Makes You Happy?

As you know, if you’ve been reading Lull for any time, much of my reading focuses on animals. Which means that much of my reading also focuses on a subset of the human species that exhibits uncompassionate, psychopathic, or capitalistic behaviors toward animals. It wears me down.

So imagine my delight to see news about a little goldfish whose guardian was determined to help her have a better life. The finned one was buoyancy-challenged—she couldn’t float properly in the water. Instead, Ada spent her days at the bottom of the tank, watching her friends do what she couldn’t. Until her guardian made a floating device for her!

In a world that assesses animals in terms of convenience and cost benefits, it’s refreshing to come across someone who deems the life of an animal companion—even a small, furless, other-abled creature—as inherently valuable.

This makes me happy. How about you?

[Art by Robert Amft.]

Too Many Love-A-Bulls

On a bike errand yesterday (I may not be able to stay on a bicycle, but that doesn’t make me afraid of them), I noticed a man walking across a field with a blue pit bull and a pink box. I slowed to watch them. The dog grew animated as the man put the box on the ground, for out tumbled her puppies of every color. The wee things were mostly waggly tails. I wondered whether the guy’s landlord (the field stood adjacent to a string of apartment complexes) knew he was breeding pit bulls. Or maybe this was a one-time accident and the momma would soon be spayed.

This was on my mind this morning when I learned that today is World Spay Day. Not really a Hallmark kind of holiday, but a perfect moment to share more local news with you.

Nearly 20 percent of homeless dogs in Fayette County, Kentucky, are pit-bull mixes, and those adorable, bouncy pups I saw yesterday will only add to the problem. However, the local humane society received a substantial grant from PetSmart Charities to offer FREE spay/neuter services to pitties here through a program dubbed Love-A-Bull. Included with the spay/neuter service are FREE rabies vaccinations and city licenses.

It doesn’t get better than that! Pit-bull guardians have no excuse for not taking advantage of this generous offer. Bless PetSmart Charities for getting the ball rolling. Now let’s help spread the word.

Pitties everywhere deserve a good home where they’re loved, never exploited.

[The pile o’ pitties (and kitten) pictured are the stars of the blog My Two Pitties. For a good portion of 2012, though, there were three pit bulls: Stray and unspayed “Shaka” appealed to the blended family for help one day and they obliged. Here’s a link to all the posts related to her happy rescue story.]

There’s a Place for Us

My mind’s all mushy thanks to this lousy flu bug. I’m afraid Lull will continue to be Lull Lite for a bit longer.

Thought I’d share a song from West Side Story with you today for no particular reason. It’s actually an award-winning ad from Animals Australia.

[The song runs for about two minutes; what follows is educational and unsettling if you’re not familiar with factory farming. Watch at your own risk past 2:18. Or go to Make It Possible if you’d prefer to read instead of watch and find out how you can change the world.]

Feeding the Blog

Writing is slow right now and I’m way, way behind with all the information I’ve been wanting to share with you. Until I create some proper posts, please enjoy this Irish ditty about Loca, the pug who can’t run:

Loca’s running impairment is caused by a brain disorder. It’s operable yet risky. As a vet counseled, as long as Loca isn’t bothered or being hurt by his differentness, why imperil his life trying to make him “normal”? He has everything he needs—canine pals, exercise, medical care, general good health, love; why risk all that to change his gait?

And with the help of his clever humans, Loca—just as he is—provides the world with a lesson and a giggle.

How to Turn One Dollar into Two

Now that I have your attention—for who doesn’t want to double their money?—please allow me to make a plug for animals.

If you have any spare greenbacks this month, here are three organizations where your dollar will go further: the National Audubon Society, Catskill Animal Sanctuary (CAS), and the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS). Each organization has a special donor or group of donors who offered to match other donations dollar for dollar up to a certain point ($150,000 for Audubon; $30,000 for CAS; $70,000 for HSUS). Even a $10 contribution on your part will transform into a $20 donation.

BUT you have to donate before the clock turns to 2013. Yes, you have only until midnight tomorrow to cash in on this great deal.

If you give to Audubon, your money could help rebuild habitats destroyed by humans and weather, collaborate with architects to develop bird-safe high-rises, or continue the collection of at-risk bird data for improved conservation and protection. Donate more than $20 and you can be an Audubon member.

If you give to CAS (the farm animal rescue I’ve described in several posts: “A Barnyard Lady Killer Bids Farewell,” “You’re Never Too Old to Start a New Life,” “If You See It, Report It”), you could be paying for hay—a farm staple whose prices continue to soar with extreme weather conditions, for vet care for animals who have been neglected or abused, or for education classes to teach the next generation how to be better stewards than we’ve been.

If you give to HSUS, your money may be used to fight for new legislation to protect animals or to provide rescue workers to natural disaster areas.

Maybe you know of another operation where your dollar will be matched on behalf of animals, but NOW is a good time to contribute a little and give a lot.


Here are direct links to each organization’s secure donation page:

Audubon
CAS
HSUS


[Photo of Buddy, a blind horse at CAS, by Dick Crenson. Buddy is enjoying a new and special friendship with Sioux. Photo of Brown Pelican by Roger Williams—part of Audubon’s photo contest.]

If A Cat Can Do It…

Fridays are one of my favorite days of the week, because Friday is recycling/garbage day in my ’hood. On Friday, I feel cleansed and new for having LESS in my home, and I feel warm and happy knowing that I performed a good deed for the planet. (I fill my big recycling bin every week, whereas it takes two weeks or more to fill a single 13-gallon garbage bag.)

The city makes it so EASY for residents to recycle. So it bothers me to see some of my neighbors dumping plastic milk containers, cardboard boxes, and glass bottles into their garbage bins rather than into their recycling bins. Wouldn’t they feel better if they recycled? Maybe not as giddy as I get, but still…

I’d like to introduce them to Norman:
(If you’re a routine FreeKibbler, you probably saw the video already.)

I realize the video is a weird blend of PSA, advertisement, and public relations, but if a cat can learn to perform a dog-and-pony show like this, surely humans can figure out what belongs in the recycling bin.

Three cheers for Norman and anyone who recycles!

Endnotes: The “Really?” Department

“I have striven not to laugh at human actions, not to weep at them, nor to hate them, but to understand them.”
—Baruch Spinoza

Mr. Spinoza, I’m trying really hard to follow this path but sometimes—well, too many times—I just don’t get people.

Human Thwarts Evil
In Homer’s Odyssey, Gwen Cooper recalls a first date. When he picked her up, she invited him into her apartment for drinks. She left him in the living room while she made cocktails in the kitchen. Upon her return, she found the date towering over her tiny, terrified, BLIND cat (Homer)—whom he’d trapped in a corner and was hissing at.

Yes, you read that right. The MAN, not the cat, was hissing. The man’s explanation? The animal was headed for him and everyone knows black cats are bad luck.

Thankfully, the author ended the date right there—no cocktail, no second chance.

Human Bags Dinner
In my efforts to understand both sides of some issues, I’ve been reading Stephen Bodio’s Querencia, where I found this photo of deer in a backyard. Beneath the pic, Bodio writes:

“Part of the neighborhood deer herd, a healthy population that lives well on our landscaping. My friend Tyler took a doe from this group last week by bow, shooting from a blind he set up near the swing set.”

Slaughter near the swing set. Really?

Old Dog, New View

Since enjoying Tom Ryan’s Following Atticus—a memoir about identity and leading a meaningful life set against a background of Ryan hiking the White Mountains with his unique Schnauzer, Atticus—I’ve been following his blog. This May, Ryan got wind of a 15-year-old Schnauzer on Death Row.

The dog was left at a kill shelter by the very family who had cared for him all his life. The facts are a tad murky, but it seems that for some time they had been keeping the pooch in a crate all day for the sake of convenience, for the Schnauzer had become deaf and mostly blind. He was also extremely arthritic, making mobility a challenge, and the family had given up on him.

The Schnauzer’s health, not surprisingly, quickly declined at the shelter and euthanasia was looking like his only future. That is, until a Schnauzer rescue and Tom Ryan stepped into the picture.

Ryan believed the pooch deserved to be loved and to live in comfort. Judging from the dog’s health and age, he had only a couple of months left before reaching a natural end. Ryan wanted to give him dignity for those two months. So he adopted Will.

Will wasn’t an easy customer. He’d grown to distrust humans and bit Ryan repeatedly. But Ryan knew all about betrayal and distrust, knew relationships take time to develop; he didn’t hold it against Will.

Ryan did whatever he could to give comfort to Will: “Will likes to be tucked in and feel secure against the night. He likes flowers. He likes music playing near his head where he appears to get more out of the vibration than the actual sound. So we get him flowers, cover him at night, and play music for him. If all it takes to make someone feel loved is to give them a few simple pleasures in life, why not do it?”

What surprised Ryan was how much Will began to change, physically as well as emotionally. With proper medical treatment, his pain was managed, his mobility stabilized, and his personality started to emerge. Will wanted to live.

It’s now well past that two-month mark Ryan originally thought he was dealing with, and Will is a new dog. He nuzzles rather than bites, hangs out with Atticus, attends book signings with Ryan, and has even taken up mountain hiking (albeit in a stroller) with his new tribe. This month for the first time, he showed interest in sleeping with the humans in their bed. He’s proof positive that old doesn’t mean done, that a meaningful life may be achieved even at the geriatric stage of life, that love is always worthwhile.

November is Adopt-A-Senior-Pet Month. If you’re in the market for another critter or in a position to foster one, please consider an elder animal. They have so much left to give to those willing to recognize it.

Watch a video (second from the top left) of Will romping in the yard. If you want a “pawtographed” edition of Ryan’s book, here’s the info.

[Top photo of Tom and Atticus by Ken Stampfer; middle photo of Will and bottom photo of Will and Atticus by Tom Ryan.]

It’s Coming!

The countdown to the big feast of gratitude means turkeys everywhere are looking for a way out of Dodge. Do ’em a favor and serve a vegetarian menu this year.

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 4

Note: As I wrote earlier, Djuna wasn’t crazy about having her photo taken. What’s more, her true color never showed in the pics. So instead of reusing the few photographs of her I have, I’m relying on famed (and unknown) artists to illustrate my tale. In case you missed a previous installment of this series, here they are:

Part 1            Part 2            Part 3

The next morning I searched the Lost/Found category on Craigslist. It doesn’t make for cheerful reading. I wanted to run out and search for every dog and cat listed—especially Abby, the old Great Dane whose family placed a new ad every few days, begging for sightings of her. How does anyone see a Great Dane on the loose and NOT do something? Or not even think it odd?

As for Djuna, one ad was hopeful—the photo looked like her—and I wrote to the family. If they weren’t the right match, I’d post an ad of my own.

But it was time to return to the vet—with the cat in case we had to start the whole scanning process over again. Once more, Djuna took it in stride—no wiggling, no whimpering, no howling. I held her in my arms, swaddled in a bath towel, and she watched out the window, taking everything in and enjoying the ride.

Indeed, Djuna had to be scanned again, but we left the vet’s office with the name of the last known guardian (a phrase I will be using repeatedly, so going forward, I will refer to the last known guardian as “LKG”). We were on our way, I thought. I’d just search out all the people in Lexington with that name, then contact those who lived within a couple of miles from us. Surely we’d be able to find out whom Djuna belonged to.

Of course, things are never as simple as we want them to be. Though the guardian’s name wasn’t exotic or even unusual, it wasn’t common either. At least not to me. In Lexington, however, it’s a popular name and can be spelled a variety of ways. I tried them all and came up with a short list of addresses to visit.

We left Djuna at home for this mission. Instead, I took a flyer that had her picture and description on it and the name of the LKG. I explained the situation and asked residents to call or e-mail me if they even recognized the name of the person I was looking for. Oddly enough, I didn’t have to leave the flyer on any doors because everyone was home! But no one got me closer to Djuna’s family.

When we returned to our apartment, there was a message from the family I’d e-mailed earlier. I was so excited I could hardly comprehend what was written. I had to read it again: Their cat wasn’t microchipped and hadn’t come from a shelter. Djuna wasn’t theirs, for both were true of her, and now I had to write back saying as much. I felt awful for them.

At this point, another day had passed and we were no closer to getting Djuna home. I’d created some flyers on her behalf, which we got out before being stymied by the weather, but they were by no means enough to get the job done. The shelter was closed on Sundays, so Djuna would stay with us through the weekend. (Yay!)

When I finally accepted that the microchip was getting us nowhere, I changed course. I made a list of a handful of Web sites on which to advertise Djuna’s story and, after searching on each of them for a report of her disappearance and finding nothing (Why? Didn’t anyone miss this little jewel?), I posted a FOUND CAT report on each.

Then I reworked my flyers to include the name of the LKG. I hoped someone might recognize her name and let her know that Djuna, whether still the woman’s or not, was homeless once again. If nothing else, I hoped that I would get a lead on the person who last had Djuna.

Djuna enchanted me every time she sat up on her back legs like the
cat in this photo. And like this cat, she wanted to be part of everything.
Whenever food or drink was involved, she insisted on “deep sniffing.”
Never tasting, just breathing in the aroma with her nose a hair’s breadth
away from the fare.

Meanwhile, little Djuna was swiftly taking charge of our home.

She still didn’t talk. Except during that moment when I first introduced her to the windowsill. No sooner had her paws touched wood than she raised her back and hissed. And growled—tiny, nearly inaudible growls. I assumed she was intimidated by the pumpkin outside. “It’s okay, Little One,” I assured her. “It’s just a pumpkin—it won’t hurt you” and WHAM! The pumpkin flew off the ledge and in its place, after slamming into the window, stood the very tomcat I’d rescued her from the night before. Djuna had not been afraid of a silly little pumpkin; she was upset about the lurker outside! I promptly closed the blinds and scooped her up. The neighborhood cat didn’t bother her again and she didn’t utter another word.

We did whatever her stare demanded. If she wanted the blinds open for bird-watching, open they were. If she preferred tuna to the new kibble I’d bought her, so be it. If she wasn’t following us around, she was luxuriating on the shearling (it had belonged to our pooch once upon a time) we’d placed under the coffee table for her—which became her “fort.” If we were on the couch, she was between us for belly rubs. If we were in bed, she cuddled up beside us (but NOT—no no no!—under the covers; her choice, not ours). And if someone dared to shut the bathroom door, she made quick work of getting it back open.

As she relaxed in her surroundings, we caught her playing with an acorn a few times; otherwise, she wasn’t interested in interacting with toys. Who needed toys when you had an overactive imagination? Djuna held sudden bouts of play with imaginary friends—chasing, stalking, pouncing, twirling, and flying across the room. These bursts ended as suddenly as they began and they cracked me up every time. I’d forgotten what great entertainment furballs are.

Oh dear. The very thought of precious Djuna ending up in a cage disturbed me. I didn’t have the heart to turn her over to the shelter, and I couldn’t keep her. I HAD to find her family. I couldn’t let her distract me from that goal.

On Monday, with a list of stores and intersections in hand, we posted our new-and-improved flyers around.

On Tuesday afternoon, as I headed to a friend’s house for a previously scheduled get-together, I stopped at another neighborhood clutch of stores to post more flyers. When I returned home later, I found a voicemail waiting for me.

to be continued…

Athena Adds Insult to Injury

As if there hasn’t been enough devastation and heartache in the east, a winter storm is moving in to areas already hit by Sandy. That old saying “You’re given only as much as you can handle” is bunk.

I know there are probably more people in need right now than there is help for them. Even so, I’m going to make a plug for the voiceless at risk: the animals.

A number of animal welfare organizations have been on the ground rescuing pets and wild animals from the debris. As residents continue getting evacuated, many face the wrenching inevitability of parting with their animal companions—dogs, cats, rabbits, lizards, horses. Some of the rescue organizations are taking in these cherished pets—offering housing, food, and care—for however long it takes for the families to return to a normal living environment (see video below).

Let’s do what we can to help these fine organizations help the animals and their people. Here are a few of the groups that have mobile teams in the area. The links provided take you to a secure donation page.

ASPCA
Make a donation.
Also, read about Hazel and her new friends.

Best Friends Animal Society
Make a donation.
Read how Best Friends is helping local shelters.

The Humane Society of the United States
Make a donation.
As is typical in these rescue efforts, natural disasters reveal animals who have been living for some time in neglectful or abusive situations, and those left to brave severe weather in the backyard. The Humane Society of the United States (HSUS) followed up on a tip about a house from which an elderly couple had been removed and taken to a hospital and where it was believed their animals remained. HSUS found a scared, malnourished elderly dog short-tied to a fence outside. And inside? Cats living in filth and disorder—the same filth and disorder the elderly couple had presumably contended with prior to Sandy’s arrival. Without the weather emergency, I wonder how long it would have taken for these folks and their animals to get help.

DIY Rescue and Foster
If you’re in the area, check out the Hurricane Sandy Lost & Found Pets page on Facebook set up to reunite pets with their people. Look for the pets posted. They’re probably scared and hiding, or scared and difficult to approach. Some local shelters are asking for folks to foster animals in need until the owners’ living situations have stabilized.

[AP photo by Craig Ruttle.]

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 3

“Hello?” asked a female voice through the phone. “You left a note on my door about a cat?”

Well, I’d left a note on the only front door of the duplex, which opened into a foyer between two apartments. “Yes—”

“I don’t have a cat. You’ve got the wrong address. I’ve lived here for a long time and I’ve never had a cat.”

Hmm. The cat isn’t very old; her lodging at this address couldn’t have predated the woman’s residence there. Was the microchip info a sham? Who adopts an animal and lies about their identity?

Oh, right. Students do. This is a university town and, as in many other university towns across the U.S., students miss their pets at home, pick out new pets at local shelters, then bend the truth a bit in order to get around restrictions for adopters. Later, each spring when students return to their parents’ homes for the summer break, they leave behind (read: abandon) their adopted pets. But that’s another story.

“—moved in two months ago and her cat is always getting into my side of the basement…” The woman on the phone was talking again and I was trying to make sense of it. Next I heard, “She let the cat out and told me she hoped it would find a new home.”

Excuse me? Did I hear that right? She didn’t WANT the cat anymore so she simply opened a door and nudged the cat OUTSIDE?

The woman on the phone warned that if I returned the cat to her neighbor, the “rehoming” process would just start again. She needn’t have worried. As far as I was concerned, her neighbor shouldn’t, and wouldn’t, get the cat back.

Now what? As I wrote earlier, the shelter the cat came from would take her in again. But my new focus was the woman who put her outside. Should I report her to animal control for endangering an animal? Should I report her to the animal shelter for reneging on her commitment to care for the feline?

Furious, I stewed over this for the better part of the evening. I wanted to scream at that woman just as I’d screamed at the fellow who slammed his pooch onto the ground, back first.

On the other hand, the cat in my arms was healthy and sweet and clean. She may not have known how to play with toys, or didn’t care to, but that’s hardly a sign of neglect. She couldn’t get enough of our affections, yet that doesn’t mean she’d been deprived of attention before. It appeared the only wrong move her guardian had made was sending her outdoors.

As I puzzled through the possibilities, the phone rang. It was the cat’s neighbor. Again.

“You’re not going to believe this—”

Try me, I thought.

“But my neighbor’s cat came back.”

Hunh? “Excuse me?”

“Her cat—his name is Piper—just came home, so the cat you have isn’t hers.”

“Oh.” Geez. Now what? I still had to find the guardian of the cat in my house AND I felt compelled to help poor Piper. “Please tell your neighbor to take Piper to a shelter. If she can’t or won’t do it, please tell her I’ll do it for her. But she should NOT put Piper outside again.”

“Yes, I’m going to have a talk with her after she gets her kids in bed.”

“Okay. Call if you need me. And thank you so much for letting me know about Piper.”

I was still angry. I know I’m bucking an age-old mythology* that cats want to be outside, that they can survive fine on their own. They do, and they can. But unless we—as the guardians responsible for keeping our cats safe and healthy—can protect our cats while they’re outside, we owe it to our cats to keep them inside.

So how did Djuna get outside? Was she put there or had she escaped? I wouldn’t know until I found her guardian, and that meant getting a name. We would have to return to the vet and beg for more information.

Until then, more lollygagging was in order.

to be continued…

* I’ve since learned from a retired animal cruelty investigator that letting a cat fend for itself outside is legal in the Bluegrass. (Not so for a dog, but that doesn’t stop people from doing it.) So apparently anyone can adopt a cat and then turn it outside to make its own way. No food, no water, no interaction, no medical care. We have responsibilities toward dogs but not cats? It may be legal, but it makes absolutely no sense to me.

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 2

After much discussion, my husband and I agreed to keep the cat overnight and take her to a vet the next morning to be scanned. We gave her water, which she eagerly lapped up. Our food options were less successful.

We tried treats (i.e., food we had on hand) that our own cats had loved—yogurt, cheese, eggs, halibut. Finally, the obvious came to my husband: tuna. The cat tried it and gave me a look that could only be interpreted as “You figured it out! I’m so very grateful.” In contrast, had our old Burmese been in the same situation, she would have shot me a look that meant “Now how bloody hard was that, hmm? Pathetic human…”

My husband set up a litterbox with sand, which we had in preparation for making luminaria for the holidays. The cat used it and we were grateful. It looked as if we’d all make it through the one night together.

I’m not sure how to describe the little lost cat (whom we shall call Djuna from now on for the sake of practicality). She’s unlike any other cats I’ve known. She immediately acted comfortable in our home. Or perhaps she is simply self-assured regardless of location and situation. She is exceedingly polite; that is, she seems to wait for permission to do anything she wants—whether it’s sitting in my lap or wandering into another room. She doesn’t meow. Her communication style is completely nonverbal. Djuna either stares at us until we comprehend her wishes or she touches us with a paw. She’s a startling amalgamation of our previous animal companions: tiny with a plush coat like our Tortie, intelligent like our Burmese (sans the ’tude), calm like our special-needs cat and, like our pooch, not interested in having her photograph taken. She follows us everywhere, cleans herself every few moments, and delights in bellyrubs and cuddling. We started wondering who sent her to us, what she was trying to tell us, whether the souls of our other animals were, indeed, all crammed together inside her… But then she took the trip to the vet in stride and we knew she was her own, singular self since none of our other creatures enjoyed traveling.

 A vet tech scanned Djuna and found—EUREKA!—a microchip. We waited in a small room of the Victorian-house-turned-animal-clinic for news of the cat’s guardian. As much as we loved having a cat in our lives again, we were relieved that soon she would be in the arms of the person who no doubt missed her terribly.

The vet tech returned to our room with mixed news. The phone number listed with the microchip was defunct, but we could try the address listed. The cat had been adopted from the Paris Animal Welfare Society (P.A.W.S.), which said it would take Djuna back and re-adopt her.

Our hopes weren’t dashed. It was too early to surrender Djuna to P.A.W.S. First, we would visit the address listed on the microchip.

It was a duplex not far from our neighborhood—IF you were travelling by car. But a tiny cat? We shuddered to imagine how many busy streets she had crossed to find her way to our bushes. We wondered how direct her path had been and who had noticed her along the way.

No one was home at the duplex. So I left a note, explaining that 1913 __________ Road was the address given to P.A.W.S., that we had no current phone number or name, yada yada yada.

Late that afternoon, I received a call I wasn’t prepared for.

to be continued…

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 1

A cat fight erupted in our bushes Thursday night and I dashed outside to break it up. A bit of loud clapping did the trick.

I looked around to see the perpetrators and in the quiet came high-pitched, muffled mewing. Turned out to be the young pit-bull mix across the street, who was showing his concern for the action in my yard.

As I walked down the sidewalk and continued looking for the cats, one of them came running toward me and threw herself down on her back in my path—hinting at a bellyrub. She was certainly friendly, but I’d never seen her around the neighborhood. I obliged her wish for contact, yet I felt like someone was watching us. Sure enough, a neighbor’s cat was staring at me with dagger eyes. Ah, now I knew both parties behind the altercation.

The neighbor’s cat typically follows me around and comes running to me whenever I call his name. Now I’d betrayed him with a tiny, inconsequential female who had trespassed his turf. Or whom he was romancing. He stalked toward us and I scooped up the female, telling the male to go home.

I felt terrible. Whether he wanted to fight her or woo her made no difference to me. As far as I was concerned, they sounded the same and both sound terrible.

I walked up the street to check with a neighbor whose indoor cats sometimes escape for an outdoor spree. Unfortunately for the sprite in my arms, the neighbor’s cats were all present and accounted for. Now what?

I returned toward my home and a concerned party guest from across the street stopped me to see the cat. She’d heard the commotion and wanted to make sure the cats were okay (she has four of her own). Since neither cat was hurt, she suggested I simply put the cat down so she could find her way back home. I would hear this same suggestion from someone else later.

Without a plan of my own, I tried it their way. I didn’t feel good about it. My husband distracted the male cat in the front yard while I released the female in the back. But when she started to follow me, I knew I couldn’t abandon her to the night and the multitude of dangers that lurked there.

She would stay with us until the morning, when we’d get her scanned for a microchip.

to be continued…

When Abandonment Is Just the Beginning

Some animal shelters have drop-off areas where people may leave/“surrender” their pets anonymously, thereby transferring responsibility of the animals’ care to the shelter. This practice is not unlike the city ordinances allowing people to drop off babies at fire stations and hospitals. As much as we hate providing for such circumstances, it’s loads better than the alternative: abandonment.

I’ve heard one report after another of animals abandoned here in the Bluegrass: the dogs thrown out of cars, the puppies hidden in a dog-food bag along a road, the pregnant ponies dumped in a field, the animals left in foreclosed homes. You get the picture. Earlier this year, two hikers discovered just how far some people will go to get rid of a pet.

In the White Mountains of New England, on a stretch of wilderness travelled only by experienced purists, the hikers noticed a large box. Before they had enough time to puzzle through how and why it was there, it moved! Cautiously, they peeked inside. Staring back at them was a small, unkempt, sickly, senior dog.

Whoever left him there had taken great pains to position him where he wouldn’t be found, in an area from which he wouldn’t likely escape. But in all the person’s strategizing, s/he apparently didn’t consider how the kindness of a couple of strangers can snowball.

The hikers believed the dog would be bear bait if left on the mountainside. So they agreed to carry him to the nearest town and find a shelter that could help him.

“A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees.”
—Amelia Earhart

The shelter staff dubbed the little fellow “Scruffy” and told his story on their Facebook page, where author Tom Ryan saw it. Scruffy needed expensive medical treatment that Ryan knew the shelter could hardly afford. Since he had once benefitted from the kindness of strangers himself—or, rather, his dog had—Ryan spread the word about Scruffy’s predicament on his own Facebook page. From across the country, fans of his book, Following Atticus, quickly covered the costs for the patient. Better yet, a local couple adopted Scruffy.

Then, when a happy ending seemed on the horizon, Scruffy’s health took a dive. Once more, Ryan rallied his readers to the cause and again they came through. What’s more, the vet staff was so impressed by the number of people pulling for Scruffy that they kept their fees to a minimum—a blessing for the young couple who had adopted the forsaken pooch, never expecting the roller-coaster of worry and fear and hope he would also cost them.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because today, Scruffy is healthy and home. His journey from mountaintop abandonment to a loving family is a reminder that sometimes it really does take a village. Sometimes, it takes the kindness of many strangers to change the direction of one small life.

Was it worth it? Heck, yeah! Whenever we act together in kindness, we improve our world—if only by a tiny, furry bit.

[Photo of Davis Path by Tom Pirro; photo of Scruffy by one of his adoptive guardians, Corey Engfer.]

BOOKreMARKS: Get Rabid for Halloween

Looking for something spooky to read this month? Try Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus.

If you’d told me last year that I’d enjoy reading 200+ pages about rabies, I would have politely corrected you. Yet that’s exactly what happened a few months ago when I devoured the collaboration between Bill Wasik, a writer for Wired.com, and Monica Murphy, a veterinarian (and married to Mr. Wasik). It’s a romp through history, ever focusing on the disease and its victims, its symptoms, and its treatments—all the while weaving cultural and historical perspectives into the story. Werewolves, vampires, and zombies figure into the picture, too.

After speaking with an animal control officer earlier this year about rabies, I suspected her department acted more on myths and assumptions than on facts (long story involving a sweet fox). I promised myself I’d research the topic, but procrastinated. Then Rabid caught my attention at the library and I thought it might shed some light on the issue.

It didn’t answer my specific questions, yet the book offered so much more. It made me realize how much Louis Pasteur contributed to the world, how important rabies vaccinations are for pets, how rabies research helped scientists understand how to breach the blood-brain barrier, how and why dogs are perceived so differently in countries beyond U.S. borders, how rabies figured into literature and laws. With so much context, even zombies started making sense.

If you’re craving a little gore and horror to get you in the holiday spirit, read Rabid. It won’t disappoint.

Caring for Dogs: Another Trailer Story

Remember the woman who insisted on riding for 26 hours in a trailer with her menagerie of hooved critters and a parrot? Here’s a different take on travelling with animals:

I saw this spare, metal trailer hooked to a spacious RV at this year’s Bluegrass Stockdog Trial (a competitive event where dogs herd sheep according to whistles and commands from their human). Yes, while the humans travelled in comfort, the Border Collies were confined to a small space that was open to the elements (which at that time was a deadly, hot sun) and hugged every bump and hole of the road. You can probably guess how I felt about those humans.

I started planning how to open a civil discussion with these people about their dogs’ needs—perhaps suggest that they trade up for a trailer equipped with suspension and climate control. Then I noticed a sticker on the front passenger door that read:

OBAMA
A Good Reason Why Stupid People
Shouldn’t Vote

Hmm. A civil discussion suddenly seemed unlikely. I resorted to telepathically sending my sympathy to the pooches.