Tiny Dogs, Big Cruelty

Don't you love tiny dogs? Seems everywhere we look, there's a delicate, not-bigger-than-a-minute Tinkerbelle of a pup on the end of leash. Sporting adorable coats against the winter cold or bows and jeweled collars, these pets are their keepers' darlings. I've never seen so many Chihuahuas, Poodles, and Yorkies as I have of late. And then there's the Puggles (like in this photo), the Peek-a-Poos, Chugs and other so-called designer mixtures. So precious. So cute. So overbred. So abused.

This just in:

Nearly 250 dogs were confiscated from two separate kennels south of Mount Vernon for animal cruelty, said Chief Criminal Deputy Will Reichardt of the Skagit County Sheriff's Office.

More than 400 dogs were being held in a Mountain View Road puppy mill where they had been kept in small kennels, not bathed and many were left in their own feces, Reichardt said.

Well, gee. I bet they cleaned those babies up before their new parents arrived to take their little bundles home. I bet the people who kept this hellhole in business never asked to see where the darlings were being bred, born by the hundreds, and raised in unspeakably cruel conditions.

Well, gee. This is what happens every day in puppy mills everywhere. They're in small towns. In neighborhoods. In the upstairs bedroom of the house down the street from you. They're not all operated by kind-looking, cruel-hearted farmers in Pennsylvania—you know, the bad guys Oprah exposed on her show. Puppy mills are operated by soccer moms and ballet dads. In trailers and minimansions. By scumbags of all description.

They can be stopped, though. It's not even difficult. The cruelty and heartlessness that enables some people to let dogs die in their own waste (there were SEVEN dead dogs found in the above raid) can be forced into dormancy. How? Just stop buying these dogs. It is the easy—and only—way to totally stop the puppy mills and the cruelty that these dogs live in every single day. It's a simple supply and demand equation—we all learned it in economics class.

So just don't buy a purebred or designer dog. Nobody must have a brand spanking new puppy that's somehow “better” than the puppies that people have been abandoned. Anyone can take the time to carefully choose a dog from a rescue organization or shelter. They have dozens and dozens ready to go. Every person who adopts or rescues a dog helps decrease the overbreeding, the cruelty, and the 9.6 million animals that are put to death every single year in this country.

It's a travesty. I've yet to hear a good reason for breeding dogs. Or for buying a purebred or designer dog. And every time I hear about someone buying one, I think about the cruelty that puppy mills keep pumping out. There are just no excuses.

UPDATE: We're up to SIX HUNDRED dogs rescued--80% of them are pregnant. Oh my heart.

WTF were these idiots thinking??@!???!?!??!

I'm On Mrs. G's Open House Tour!

Mrs. G. of Derfwad Manor had a great idea. Let's everyone

post photos and write about the heart of our homes.

So, come on in . . . or as the little sign in my

mom's kitchen said,

"Come in, sit down, relax, converse.

Our house doesn't always look like this.

Sometimes it's even worse!"

Don't trip over the dust kittens.

The two most expensive window seats in the state of WA.
I had to have 'em.

Aforementioned window seats, the piano,
and the fireplace. Comfy chairs for reading,
plenty of room for people and animals to lay around.
We spend a lot of time here, listening to D. play the
piano. He can play ANYTHING. Dog.

One view of the kitchen. Not quite the
heart of the home. More like the elbow.



I do love my new pot rack.


OMG. The cutest fur family EVER! This is Elica's bed
and the stuffed animals are hers. The real ones are ours.

Summer evening in the Pacific Northwest. Chilly, cloudy.

Flowers trying desperately to conjure up some show.

The good thing about our weather? There's
never a bad time for a nice hot bath.

That's it, folks. A tour from the front door to the back deck. Do come again.

And next time, bring some wine!

Dogs Who Walk Themselves and Other Hometown Stories

Sitting in one of our favorite pubs last week, I turned my gaze from my table mates when I spotted two dogs strolling down the sidewalk. Apparently alone and walking side by side, their easy rambling way reminded me of two old friends. Two old men, perhaps, heading out for a drink or to meet their lady friends at a dance. Or maybe they were just getting in some much-needed exercise. No humans followed them. I’m still wondering about it.
_________________________________
Dogs are everywhere, including out on dates with their humans. One of my favorite summer nights out starts with a walk downtown to the best pizza place in town, where dogs are welcome on the deck and they can help themselves to the big water bowls. Afterward, we saunter over to a live-music pub where we try to choose from among the excellent beers on tap and where, again, dogs are welcome to hang with their people. Ours lay among the peanut shells and took a nap while we enjoyed beer, tunes, and friends.
_________________________________
I pass an elementary and a high school on my four-minute drive home from the gym. Every morning, I observe a simple act that many don’t have a chance to see anymore: kids walking and riding their bikes to school. At both schools, the bike racks and the sidewalks out front are full. I love watching the little backpacked boys and girls hurrying down the street, and I gauge my lateness by how fast they’re going—because we both need to be somewhere by 8:15.
_________________________________
What else do I love about my town? While it might not have been apparent in a previous post, I do love the political climate—because in our city’s recent mayoral race, we actually had to choose between two liberal progressives. Wow!

Ten Things My Dogs Have Taught Me

1. If you're happy, show it.

2. Enjoying the journey is more important than reaching the destination.

3. It's okay to do it wrong.

4. Naps are a delicious necessity.

5. Greet your loved ones with a big smile, every single time.

6. Greet strangers with caution.

7. Be brave.

8. Don't take everything so seriously.

9. Loyalty matters.

10. Just because someone tells you to do it, doesn't mean you should.

IN MEMORIUM: 1/16/94 -- 3/4/07

My friend:
You were a love, a companion, a confidante, a fixture. You were loyal, loving, funny and fearless. We don't know how we're going to continue without you. Our lives are instantly and forever changed. We wander through the house, reminded of you at every turn. We try to fill the time that we used to devote to your care. Now you're gone, and we have more time. But I don't really want it.

But I didn't want you to suffer for a moment. That was always our deal. I know you were tired. I know you were uncomfortable. I know you were frustrated that you couldn't run and jump and move like you used to. Did you feel trapped in your body? Were you fighting on because you knew we couldn't bear to lose you? Or were you still happy to be here? I wish I knew.

I wish I knew for sure that we did right by you; that we gave you the life you so deserved: did you have enough fun? Enough adventure? Did we take you on enough hikes and walks? There could never be too many walks. Did you have enough lake wading, and tennis ball chasing, and hanging out in the backyard with your sister, warning every pedestrian not to enter or else? Were there enough lazy summer afternoons napping on the porch? Did you like your food? How about your vet? We think she's amazing. . . did you?

I'm thankful that we have been able to bring you to work with us for the past few years. I have so enjoyed that time with you. You loved it too, right? You would run to the car in the morning, ready to go to work. Especially on Mondays. Leave it to a dog to love Mondays like you did.

You provided us so many years of laughter. You were such a funny guy. You used to just sit and stare at me with so much love on your face. I thank you for that. I thank you for the love, the protection, the loyalty, the perseverance, the fighting spirit, the life lessons, the companionship, the pure enjoyment of your personality, the gentle giant that you were. Your spirit shone through and touched so many of us. Everyone adored you. Everyone misses you. Most of all I miss you.

You came into our lives in a big way: physically, you took up a lot of space and your personality filled the house. You howled at police sirens. You hid in the bathtub during thunderstorms. You crashed through the screen door when you wanted to go outside. You turned and left the room whenever we tried to take your picture. Your presence was not to be unnoticed.

You left us as gently as a breeze. I will always remember you. I will always miss you. And I will always, always love you with all my heart.

Good-bye my friend.

My Old, Old Dog is Breaking My Heart

I'm worried about my old guy. He's been less than robust for--gosh--probably two years now. He stopped running with me not long after we returned from Hawaii, and that was April of 2005. Last May he had back surgery and you could say he's never fully recovered from that. Just when we had him going to the underwater doggie treadmill regularly to build up strength in his back legs, he developed a bladder stone which forced him onto antibiotics and out of the pool. At the same time, he developed a problem in his neck, likely another disk thing. His neurologist (yes, he has one) does not want him working out for a couple of months.

In the mean time, his back legs are getting weaker and weaker and he needs lots of help--I mean LOTS of help--getting around. This I don't mind a bit. We take him to work and we don't leave him alone ever--not more than a couple of hours. He simply cannot get up by himself. He's peeing on his blankets and pee pads and himself and just when I think he's got to be miserable, he grabs his tennis ball and starts chomping on it. Or he starts barking at a passing dog outside our fence. You'd better just keep gettin' it, buddy, 'cause if you don't, I'm gonna come through that fence and tear you up. His appetite is extremely hearty. Dog wolfs down food. Film at eleven. He has light in his eyes and a smile on his face. He's the freakin' energizer bunny because he just will not quit.

It's as if he doesn't know he can't walk worth a shit. Or he doesn't see the faces of people, looking upon him with pity. Or he doesn't hear them: "Poor, poor dog. I feel so sorry for him." Well, lady, I feel sorry for him too. And there is little I can do for him that I'm not already doing. And how do you think that makes me feel? This dog is my heart. I know I won't have him much longer. And I know that could be a week or a month or four months.

He simply will not give up. And until he does, I will not give up on him. But it breaks my heart just the same. It breaks my heart to see him struggle. It breaks my heart to see him fall down and hear the sound of his hip hitting the floor, as I'm running toward him to try to catch him. It breaks my heart to see him lose control of his, let's say, "functions."

I know that many, many pet OWNERS (and I use this term deliberately) would draw the line at the "ohmygawd he's peeing on ____________(fill in the blank: the carpet, his bed, the kitchen floor)". And I know that many, many people look at us (dear husband and I) like we are crazy or cruel, making him go through this every day.

We're not crazy. We believe we are doing the best we can for him. We hope that some day, when we can't control our bladders, a kind soul will mop up around us. And for however long it takes until he shows us he doesn't want to be here anymore, we'll keep doing it for him. And I just keep drinking Old Vine Zin, thinking maybe it will fill the holes in my heart.

Am I Lucky, or What?

Today was a typical, but overwhelmingly wonderful, day. We set off on a standard, average walk with our dogs. But in this part of the world, standard and average means the most remarkable scenery coupled with solitude and tranquility.

We put our two dogs in the car and headed for one of the many nearby picturesque mountain lakes we have to choose from. Lucky, right? A ten minute drive and we're there. We helped our old guy out of the car, put leashes on both and set off down the trail. The old one walked about fifty yards or so through the woods, smelling the air and the leaves and sticks, peeing on a few rocks and enjoying looking around. He tired out pretty quickly, but kept going strong until we could tell it would be difficult for him to make it back, so we turned him around and guided him back to the car for nap while we took the younger dog for a frolic along the lake. Pretty average so far, wouldn't you agree?

Except that the lake is a huge, glacier-formed beauty surrounded by pine-covered hills, which lead to craggy mountains capped with snow and ice. The only human on the water today was a single, quiet, surface-skimming kayaker. No speedboats, no jet skis, no noise. The trail is situated between the lake and a mountain of sandstone boulders on top of rock on top of more layers of sandstone all covered with a dense forest of Western red cedar, pine, alder and maple. Waves of sword ferns cascade down the mountain, bright green against the darker green cedar. Even more green explodes before us as furry moss climbs the hill, blanketing limbs, blanketing tree trunks, blanketing rocks.

Walking down the trail, we heard water flowing fast down the mountain, and held our breath in anticipation. And just a few steps later, there it was: a picture book waterfall, a "next to the word waterfall in the dictionary" waterfall. Not real wide at the top where it starts falling in white foam, then it hits a pool and rests before it falls another fifty feet or so, where it ends in a bubbly little creek, strewn with rocks, limbs, boulders, that slow down the flow a bit but it won't be stopped because of gravity and force and so much water melting, draining from the glacier source a distant mountain away it comes down, down, down, settles and turns under the wooden bridge and out to the lake.

And I'm standing on the bridge, lost in my thoughts, watching the water flow, listening to the rush, while he is throwing sticks out into the lake for the young energetic dog to swim out, scoop up, and bring back, over and over. And all is lovely in my world today.

But there's more. Another waterfall and then another. Three waterfalls, the lake, the mountains, the trees, the boulders. Someone has stacked three or four groups of rocks on the shore, perfectly, precariously balanced. Our pup runs around them, picking her way carefully without disturbing a single one. We let her run, swim, jump, while we walk for a few miles altogether.

Then the tummies start rumbling and the idea of pizza and beer is too irresistible for words. Off to a favorite spot on the side of the road that leads to the big mountain, twenty or thirty minutes away; this is farther than we usually drive, so it's a rare treat. As I'm riding, I'm looking out the window and I see something large and black flying along the river. I watch the bald eagle fly with us for about a half mile, casing the riverbank for salmon carcasses. He's in for a treat, too. But he looks so much more elegant in his pursuit.

He doesn't know the joy of hand-brewed beer, though, and there is nothing better to top this day off than the IPA we slurped and swallowed. It is worth walking thirty miles for, if necessary. I have been on summer hikes when only the idea of this IPA sustained us. And the pizza? Divine.

Yet I think of millions of people on the planet, living in squalor, living in slums, in cities far too over-crowded, never able to escape their surroundings for a day, an hour. Millions of people who will never see a waterfall like I saw today. Never see the lake, the mountains, the moss that I wanted to etch onto my memory because it is all so unbelievable beautiful. Who will never know the joy of walking along a lake trail on an average, normal day and see the beauty I saw today. And I know I am lucky. So fortunate to have been born in this country, with this skin and the privilege that comes with it. I'm lucky and I don't know what to do with it except to try to appreciate and to protect what comes my way.

The Road to the Rainbow Bridge is Paved with Poop

I have a very old dog. He had back surgery several months ago to repair a herniated disk and he's not back to full strength; he has quite a bit of trouble walking. So today we took him to a doggie spa with an underwater treadmill so he could get some exercise while being supported by the water. Amazing! He seemed to enjoy it and it was a kick to watch the underwater video and see his back legs moving again almost normally. We're hoping that a few sessions a week will strengthen his legs and improve his quality of life. He's almost thirteen, and some might question our decisions, but as his neurosurgeon said before he performed the surgery, "Just because he's old and paralyzed doesn't mean he should be put down." We agreed. Seven months later, he's still here and, more importantly, still happy.

The physical therapy vet said that while most people want to do right by their pets, there are lines some people will not cross. Helping a one-hundred-pound dog stand up, holding his butt as he climbs the stairs, picking up his poop and cleaning him after he drags his butt through it are not the most pleasant tasks one could engage in. Still, I never imagined that I had a choice in the matter. When I adopted him, I took on the responsibility for his care through the rest of his life, whatever that may look like.

Apparently many pet "owners" (these people would consider themselves owners, not caregivers, companions, or mommies and daddies) decide they don't have to be there for their dogs and cats when they pass a certain point, mostly, when they become incontinent, meaning they can't make it out the door before the turds start dropping or the pee starts flowing. Also meaning if you need me to clean your butt, you're out of here.

These people suck. They will put an animal to death rather than expending a little (or a lot of) energy and time to help them along. If you are one of them, listen up. There are products out there to help make this part of your animal's life a little easier on you. Buy them. Use them. Slings, pee pads, wipes, even doggie diapers are available if you can't deal with a little poop on your Persians. As you might imagine, there is a ton of information on the Internet about old pets. Informing and educating yourself is part of being a pet caretaker.

I also don't think there is a price tag on my dog. Credit cards are made for emergencies, and that includes back surgeries and physical therepy sessions, and whatever else he needs. When you get a young dog, buy some health insurance so you don't have to look at him or her some day and say, "sorry, I can't afford this, bye." Some people who don't hesitate to put a $4000 plasma tv in their living rooms wouldn't dream of spending a couple grand to keep their dog around for five or six or ten more years.

Or if money is not the problem, would you then kill a gentle, loyal creature just to save you some inconvenience? Would you be able to look him or her in the eye, knowing why you're putting them down, as they look at you, thinking you're doing what they need you to do?

My dogs are extremely important to me. I've had three in my life, all as an adult. I never had one as a kid. I shaped my own feelings about what is right and how animals should be treated. My first one lived to be fifteen and a half. As a large dog, that means she was 106 when she died. One hundred and six! She was deaf, couldn't stand up without help, and didn't realize when she had pooped in her bed, but none of that impacted her living. She was alert and happy until the day she died.

I still think of her nearly every day, after two years without her. It's hard not to when there are two dogs that look like her still living in my house, along with many photos and reminders and oh, yeah, that urn of her ashes on the bookshelf. I've not been able to do anything with them, and I don't know if I ever will. I know she's gone and these are just ashes. I know they're not her. But I haven't felt a need to throw them or spread them or bury them. I know I'm not keeping her around by keeping them in my house and I don't think she's waiting for me on some multi-colored bridge somewhere this side of heaven. She's gone and I still miss her. If I've been drinking wine, I will get weepy about her. Can't help it. I'll do it again when it's the next old guy's time to go. And he'll let me know when that time comes, just like she did.

Until then, we clean up after him. We help him up the stairs. We stand him up when he can't do it himself. And we take him to physical therapy a few times a week. Someday, someone will have to do it for me. If he could, he would. Someday someone will have to do it for you, too. If you have an old dog, do yourself a favor and keep him around as long as you can. The rewards are beyond measure. And you know they would do it for you. Now go give Sam, Max, Buddy or Molly a hug. Tell them it's from Claire.