Hangin’ with the 1%

Sorry for my recent absence. I’ve no excuse, really. I was simply distracted by dogs and ponies and kettle corn.

The Bluegrass annually hosts a Really Big Show for eventing enthusiasts. (For those of you outside the equine sports community, “eventing” is an equine / equestrian triathlon combining dressage, jumping, and cross-country.) This particular contest—the Rolex Three-Day Event—is fiercely competitive and demands the utmost skill and athleticism from its participants, both equine and human. It is also dangerous and has taken the lives of horses and riders in the past.

At this point, you may well wonder why I’d watch such an event. I didn’t. I watched some world-class, gorgeous horses warm up before competing, but that was it. And that was enough. The rest of the time I served as a volunteer for the local humane society, walking a homeless dog through the crowds and telling everyone I could that she needed a home.

I met some great people from around the globe and heard oodles of rescue stories about both dogs and ponies. I also heard tales from the Dark Side—the cruel and unjustifiable things people do to animals because…

(I don’t know how to finish that last sentence, but I’m working on it because I want to fix it/stop it/prevent it.)

For four hours on Thursday and four hours on Friday, “Peachy” (or Peaches as I more often called her) and I walked the grounds. It was a dog-friendly event, so she met lots of elite dogs and their people. She also met vendors (her faves, of course, were hawking fried fair foods) and police officers (she displayed more respect for the mounted variety), horses and equestrians. She never uttered a sound and she never passed up a potentially edible item without first tasting it (peppers, bananas, tomatoes, broccoli, a frog*—all was fair game). When we rested beneath shady trees together, she always ended up in my lap, nuzzling her snout against my face.

As my shift ended on Friday, I considered it a personal failing that she hadn’t yet been adopted. A couple of other dogs snagged new homes, but not Peaches. There had been plenty of interest in her, but I hadn’t closed the deal with anyone.

Some people would initially try to ward me off by saying they lived far away. “I’m from California (or Colorado or Florida). Otherwise…” But I never waited for them to finish. As soon as they named their state, I shot back with “That’s not an obstacle. I’ll personally drive Peachy to wherever you live.” Yes, I realize now that they were actually attempting to say No to me in a way that 1) Wouldn’t offend me, and 2) Let them off the hook for what they considered good reason. I just wasn’t very reasonable. And frankly, I looked forward to a road trip.

I was hot, my feet hurt, and I couldn’t bear to think of Peachy reduced to living in the shelter again—where she’d been for many months because she’s a neurotic mess while there (bloodies her paws trying to claw her way out of the cage, can’t calm down long enough for any potential adopters to get a good look at her) and nobody wants to adopt a neurotic mess.

Except one woman, who I’m pretty sure had some neuroses of her own. I should have been thrilled over her attraction to Peaches, but I wasn’t. I dreaded she would be the ONLY hope. My concern hinged largely on a single question the woman asked me repeatedly: “Can you guarantee she won’t run away?” She explained she planned to let Peachy roam her large farm with her other rescued dogs. I asked her how she managed to get the other dogs to stay on the farm. She said they simply followed her around. I said I couldn’t guarantee anything. I believed she’d need to work patiently with Peaches to educate the dog about her new home and boundaries.

I went home. Saturday passed. Sunday morning I returned to the park for my shift working Doggie Daycare (basically a boarding service for the dogs of the 1%). Several more dogs had been adopted since Friday. And Peachy?

“Yeah, we think she’ll get a home today,” said one of the humane society employees.

I cringed. “Is it the woman?”

“No. You’ll like these people.”

I couldn’t imagine who would meet the standards I’d suddenly set for my Peaches. There had been one family I wanted to belong to myself, but they clearly had enough animals and children and stuff going on already. I didn’t even try to push Peaches on them, but I enjoyed chatting with them whenever I ran into them.

Halfway through my shift as prison warden to a couple of elite dogs from Hell, I noticed my dream family standing outside the Doggie Daycare tent. I stepped outside to say Hey, but was rendered speechless and motionless when I realized why they were there: They had decided to adopt Peaches.

I couldn’t believe Peachy’s good fortune. I thanked the young father profusely and said I could just hug him. (I am NOT a hugger.) He hugged me. I’m sorry now that I didn’t get a pic of the entire dreamy blended family. When my shift ended, I celebrated by buying a bag of kettle corn and blissfully munching on it as I strolled around the park in a daze.

On Monday morning, I worried about Peachy. I sent her telepathic messages: “PleaseBeGood. PleaseBeGood. Don’t steal anyone’s food, leave the horse pies alone, cuddle with everybody. Do NOT make that family resent your adoption—they are the best home any dog could hope for. PleaseBeGood.”

On Monday afternoon, I received a follow-up e-mail about the event from the humane society. In addition to raising an impressive amount of money through the Doggie Daycare, the merchandise tent, and donations collected by the shelter dogs (they wore little coats with big pockets in which passersby would slip $10, $5, or $1 bills), eleven pooches shook free from their homeless labels and left the Rolex event with their new families.

I know what some of you are thinking: “Eleven? What’s eleven next to the millions still waiting for homes?”

You’re right, of course. Eleven is nothing.

But for Peachy, and for each of her ten canine pals, it’s everything.

* The frog incident was not on my watch, thank goodness.
[Pics of Peaches snapped in haste by yours truly; photo of Rolex second-place winner Allison Springer and her horse, Arthur (who won the coveted award for Best Conditioned Horse), by Nancy Jaffer.]

The Failed Volunteer Awaits Her Fate

Two days passed after my volunteering debacle at the Humane Society. I knew they still needed help that week, and I knew I was only on the standby list, yet a sinking feeling continued to weigh me down—a feeling that I’d been deleted from the volunteer roster.

Then my phone rang—they needed me!—and I was off to the land of abandoned and lost pets.

I assumed I would be helping the staff catch up on the routine work left undone by fundraiser preparations; I assumed I would be folding letters and stuffing envelopes. But, of course, you’ve already guessed what confronted me upon my arrival: the dreaded paper cutter.

“Ten thousand hours is the magic number of greatness.”
—Malcolm Gladwell

This round of paper cutting was for a different fundraiser and this time I wasn’t The Fixer. This time I would be the first volunteer to muck up the job.

I tried to take a positive approach to my assignment. I thought of Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers, his book about attaining expertise and success. Research shows that it takes about 10,000 hours of doing anything—playing chess, painting, boxing, composing, building, singing, drawing, editing, sculpting—before you can master it. Though I harbored no dreams about becoming a master paper cutter, I had every intention of improving my skill set.

I’ve 10 hours behind me, and I don’t know how many hours ahead…

Rock, Paper, Scissors: A Flustered Volunteer Spends a Day with Her Inadequate Self

For reasons I won’t go into, I’ve not been able to be on my feet. Which means I’ve not been able to walk the dogs at the Humane Society, which has plagued me with guilt lately. So when an opportunity arose this week to perform office tasks for the Humane Society, I jumped at the chance. In fact, I offered to spend the entire day there.


Preparing for Volunteering
My day started badly before it was even time for me to get out of bed. My neighbor was awake before the sun peeped out, already enjoying the company of her visiting relatives. I know this because the building we live in has paper-thin walls and flooring with no insulation. If I couldn’t sleep through the party, I had no choice but to start my day.

As I putzed around the kitchen, trying not to disturb my husband’s slumbers, my husband was suddenly at my side holding out my phone to me. Ah, yes. I’d put my phone in the living room when I got up, but I’d failed to turn off the ALARM feature. As quiet as I’d tried to be, I’d pestered my husband out of sleep anyway. Profuse apologies on my part as my husband padded back to the bedroom.

Plenty of time lay ahead of me before I had to leave, time enough to cook a hearty breakfast. This part of my morning went fine until our newly installed smoke detector sounded off.

“Fire! Fire!” cried the robotic female voice. “Emergency!”

Bloody Hell. Now everyone in the building was surely awake. I opened the windows and fanned the sensitive contraption with a broom.

Again, my poor husband emerged from the bedroom and said, “If you wanted me to eat breakfast with you, you could have just said something.” More apologies on my part.

Finally, it was time to go. Actually, very nearly past time. I was careful to pack a lunch, snacks, and anything else I might need over the course of the day. Made it as far as the car before I realized I’d forgotten the glue sticks. Had to return for them since I’d promised to bring my own. (The Humane Society glues envelopes closed and the kind of glue they had the last time I volunteered was messy. So I thought I’d use my own glue sticks for faster, neater work.)

Now I had to WALK (which I was not supposed to be doing) all the way back to the apartment to find the sticks, which naturally roused my dear husband from his dreams once more. Arrrgh.

I made it to the Humane Society in time. Despite the rain, and despite the driver of the impaired scooter who had traffic crawling the pike.

I settled into my “office space” (i.e., the kitchen) at the Humane Society and tried to ignore the equipment set out on the table. I assured myself, THAT’s not for me. I’m going to be folding and stuffing or sorting and filing. THAT thing is someone else’s project.

Of course, true to the tone already set for the day, the Volunteer Coordinator tells me the “thing” (a paper cutter) is, indeed, my tool for the entire day. I considered leaving right then.


Should I Stay or Should I Go?
I’m serious.

I felt stuck in that proverbial spot between the rock and the hard place. If I left, I would be letting down the organization. If I stayed, I would likely let down the organization. Memories of past battles with similar tools flooded my consciousness while I dithered about what to do.

For the record, I have a range of skills. Some I excel at and wish someone valued them enough to pay me handsomely for: reading, editing, proofreading, public speaking, creating and streamlining processes and procedures, trouble-shooting and problem-solving. Some of my skills I use only at home—they’re serviceable but not good enough to share: playing the piano, flute, and djembe, cooking, gardening. Then, there’s the list—by far the longest—of UNskills: the things I cannot, and should not, do. Among the infinite items on this list are using a paper cutter, using an X-ACTO knife, using scissors, drawing anything.


Displaying Team Colors and Humiliation
Eons ago I toiled as a proofreader and copy editor for a marketing agency. Sometimes, at the end of the day, one department or another was frantically putting the finishing touches on some project that FedEx was scheduled to pick up at any moment. To this cluster of activity I usually offered my assistance, which usually entailed copying, collating, sorting, or packaging. However, one evening, I offered assistance to the design department.

A graphic designer set me up with a cutting mat, a straightedge, and a knife—tools of his trade at the time. He instructed me to cut out the ads from the galleys. It was easy—no measuring necessary. I simply had to line up a ruler with the crop marks and then knife out the excess paper. I knew the routine. I’d watched my precise, architect father do such a thing thousands of times. But I also knew my limitations and asked the designer if there wasn’t some other way I could help.

I got that “look” from him—as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, as if I was insincere about wanting to help.

I caved. I said of course I would cut the ads. You see, I had garnered a certain amount of respect and admiration from my colleagues at the agency for my editing skills and my design savvy. I was held in esteem and I didn’t want to jeopardize my reputation.

With laser focus and a determination to excel, I began cutting. Cautiously. Too cautiously, probably. From the top crop mark to the bottom one, I removed the excess paper and turned the ad to make the next cut. At this point, I apparently lost all track of time. The graphic designer returned to my side, expecting to collect five finished ads from me yet seeing that I’d accomplished next to nothing.

He inspected my efforts. And he was kind. “Hmmm. Let me show you an easy way to do this.” He fixed my jagged edges and talked me through the next cut. I thanked him for the step-by-step instructions, and he stepped away.

He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know. But knowing and doing are two entirely different things, aren’t they? I could get from Point A to Point B easily enough, but the route was never the most direct. And the results were less than satisfactory, which I could easily discern. The curious part of this clumsiness is that I’m agile in other arenas: music, dance, theatre. Why, oh why did straight lines elude me?

When the graphic designer checked my progress the next time, his face lit with alarm and pity. “You really can’t cut straight, can you?” I shook my head in shame. No, I really can’t.


Doomed to Disappoint
Fast-forward to my day at the Humane Society. Not only was I expected to cut out HUNDREDS of small rectangles of paper (with NO crop marks as guides), but half of the rectangles had already been cut and mucked up by other volunteers. I was brought in as THE FIXER!

Oh My Dog! Could this be worse? I tried to explain my cutting track record, but was told to just do what I could. Which I did. But it was a miserable way to spend 7 hours.

The staff at the Humane Society is warm and friendly and appreciative of all volunteers. Each one thanked me for the tremendous work I was doing. Many of them remarked on the monotony of the job and what a trooper I was to put up with it.

Ha! Little did they know. Work can’t be monotonous when every moment of it challenges your skill sets and composure.

A couple of things kept my spirits up, though. First, two of the resident cats kept me company throughout the ordeal. And second, and more important, the paper rectangles I was cutting were slated for use at an upcoming fundraiser—the black-tie Beastie Ball—the Humane Society was throwing. My ego could withstand a hit or two on behalf of homeless pets.

I’ll recover my dignity soon enough. The question is: Will I ever again be asked to volunteer?

[All vintage art from The Graphics Fairy.]

They'll Get By With A Little Help From Their Friends

The Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES) is about to begin. Why should we care?

Because these are the folks who decide just how endangered a species is in relation to international trade laws. And I suspect some of their decisions are tied to local economies and power bases. So they can be nudged. The more of us who nudge, the better off bobcats and tigers will be over the next few years.

"Think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight."
—Albert Schweitzer

The Humane Society has made it easy for us to get involved. Just click on "nudge" to get more information and sign one or all of the petitions on the HS Web site.

But you have to act today. (No, that's not a lame marketing tactic. That's me telling you about this at the very last minute. The petitions have to be signed by March 1.)

I know, I know. There are a gazillion causes we could/should get behind. But saving a few wild felines via petition shouldn't be too straining for us. It's a small act of kindness we can't justify ignoring.