Monthly Archives: August 2013

Pets before Profits”

Sup­pose Adam, Eve, and a ser­pent were each offer­ing to sell you an iden­ti­cal apple -

same size, same color, same sweet­ness — for the price of four fig leaves. The ser­pent planned to use the fig leaves as cam­ou­flage.  Eve intended to turn the fig leaves into a new skirt. Adam planned to feed his fig leaves to the hun­gry doe who had just given birth to a fawn. Which apple would you buy?

If you chose Adam’s apple, then you just might be the ideal cus­tomer for a new busi­ness – one that, like Adam, promises to use its

Dr. Glenn Buckley

Glenn Buck­ley, DVM

pro­ceeds to help ani­mals.  Except that in this case, the prod­ucts are pet treats, toys and other sup­plies, with the pri­mary empha­sis on pet phar­ma­ceu­ti­cals. Glenn Buck­ley, the vet­eri­nar­ian who founded Pet Res­cue Rx along with his brother Scott, got in touch to intro­duce him­self and share their vision:  all net prof­its to ani­mal shel­ters.  “I have reached an age when I can really appre­ci­ate what money can­not buy:  my health, my life partner…time spent walk­ing my dogs and watch­ing them play.  I want to share that appre­ci­a­tion for life by what I can give back through this busi­ness,” says Buck­ley, whose title is CEO.

Scott Buckley,  President and Computer Guru

Scott Buck­ley,  Pres­i­dent and Com­puter Guru

Giv­ing some­thing back is not a new con­cept, thank­fully.  There are any num­ber of com­pa­nies that donate a por­tion of their prof­its to help ani­mals; adoptashelter.com is one of the best known.  1–800-PetMeds, which adver­tises itself as “America’s Largest Pet Phar­macy,” says it donates thou­sands of dol­lars in pet sup­plies and med­ica­tions to shel­ters.  What sets Pet Res­cue Rx apart is the promise to donate all net prof­its.  “I’m run­ning into some skep­ti­cism,” says Buck­ley, with a note of what sounds like res­ig­na­tion in his voice.  “But we’re doing this for the same rea­sons vol­un­teers at shel­ters do:  to get the money where it needs to go.”

Buck­ley says his eyes were opened to the needs of shel­ter ani­mals when he vol­un­teered in one, and started brain­storm­ing a new way of 995834_379259572180130_1319919697_asub­si­diz­ing them.  He likens his busi­ness model to Newman’s Own, which fun­nels all after-tax prof­its to human causes.  Newman’s Own says that’s about $370 mil­lion so far.  How much will Pet Res­cue Rx con­tribute?  It’s far too soon to know, as the com­pany just opened in June.  And when finan­cials are avail­able, they do not have to be dis­closed:  Pet Res­cue Rx is not a 501©3 and is not pub­licly held.  Buck­ley says that he is cur­rently fund­ing the startup via his two ani­mal emer­gency clin­ics in Florida and not tak­ing a salary.  Both of those things will likely change if Pet Res­cue Rx takes off.  But he vows that it will always be, “Pets Before Prof­its,” the company’s motto.

Buck­ley says he’s com­pet­i­tively priced with other online pet phar­ma­cies (and here’s where the anal­ogy comes in) because, “when you’re all sell­ing apples, you have to be.” He’s being choosy about his apples, though, car­ry­ing prod­ucts from other “do good” com­pa­nies “out there to make a dif­fer­ence,” like Halo Pet, John Paul Pet Prod­ucts, and yes: Newman’s Own Organic Pet Treats. “I have been given a gift, as we all have, to cre­ate some­thing which can have a greater impact for good.  We should all look within our­selves to find that and let it grow.”

Pet Rescue RX

Glenn and Scott out­side the phar­macy with Roz and Geri.

Growth going for­ward will be largely up to shop­pers. It’s cer­tainly a con­cept that holds promise, and entic­ing to those who care about the esti­mated 6–8 mil­lion ani­mals who enter U.S. shel­ters each year, half of them only to face a death sen­tence.  They could use the help.  If Pet Res­cue Rx should bear fruit, we can only hope — and per­haps even allow our­selves to trust — that Buck­ley will keep his promise.

Note:  Pet Res­cue Rx hopes to become licensed in all 50 states.  At this writ­ing, it is get­ting close to halfway there.

A Bird’s Eye View

I’ve spent a lot of time at my kitchen sink the past few weeks.
1treekitchenYou’d think I’m a woman who likes to wash dishes – which actu­ally I do, if there aren’t too many.  I appre­ci­ate the instant grat­i­fi­ca­tion of turn­ing a dirty plate clean, the warmth of the water, the tickle of suds on my hands.  But it’s what unfolded just beyond the win­dow by the kitchen sink that cap­tured my atten­tion, a fam­ily real­ity show play­ing right there through the screen: The Robins Raise their Triplets.

2mama nestI was a lit­tle slow tun­ing in.  Mama Robin’s red breast caught my eye one morn­ing as she pecked at their cozy lit­tle home, snug­gled in a fork of a birch tree.  I couldn’t see inside the nest, but once Ms. Robin fin­ished her chores and set­tled in for a good long sit, I under­stood that she’d been rotat­ing her eggs, keep­ing the babies inside from get­ting stuck to the shells, and also help­ing to ensure a uni­form tem­per­a­ture, which she main­tained with her own body heat, ema­nat­ing from a patch on her belly gone bare for just this purpose.

From that moment on, I couldn’t catch enough of the drama: first the sev­eral days’ wait for the hatch, dur­ing which Mama Robin laid faith­fully on the nest dur­ing sun­shine and down­pours, day­light and dark, leav­ing 3earthwormcutonly occa­sion­ally to find some food.  Papa Robin came by to visit, but mostly he bus­ied him­self in the yard, hop­ping around and look­ing proud already, his breast thrust out and head tilted upward as he kept neigh­bor­hood watch.

After sev­eral days of wait­ing, the big moment hap­pened inside the walls of the nest. It was too high up for me to see the break­throughs, but life became so hec­tic for the Par­ents Robin that I knew they had hatch­lings. Now both of them were busily peck­ing at the yard, hunt­ing, gath­er­ing, return­ing to the nest for a quick drop off before 4tulipscuthead­ing out to work again.  A cou­ple of days later, the lit­tle ones began to peep, and then their demands became vis­i­ble as well as vocal.  Three lit­tle carrot-colored throats extended upward over the nest rim, their gap­ing bills like freshly opened tulips undu­lat­ing in the breeze.  Their cry was unmis­tak­able:  “Feed me!  Feed me!” And they were insa­tiable, eye­ing the sky for a par­ent and spring­ing into upward open-mouthed posi­tion 5mamapapacutwhen Mama or Papa (or some­times both together) would swoop down on a nearby branch before deliv­er­ing break­fast – or lunch, or din­ner, or in between meal snacks. Earth­worms appeared to be the edi­ble of 6grasshopperchoice, although the occa­sional hap­less grasshop­per or other bug found itself star­ing down a throat of no return.

7teenagerAfter a meal, the tired young­sters would flop their lit­tle heads on the side of the nest, some­times star­ing straight at me, the down on their heads look­ing like dou­ble Mohawk hair­cuts glis­ten­ing in the sun, their end­lessly 8jostling and competingopen mouths still mak­ing demands. Come to think of it, they must have been teenagers by now!  They grew rest­less, preen­ing and jostling and com­pet­ing with each other for food. And they just plain grew. It had been barely more than 9flashreda week when the first one flashed me a glimpse of bulging red breast. Their abode began to look more cramped than cozy.

And then one morn­ing came the inevitable.  I turned on my cof­fee pot, car­ried the cats’ bowls to the sink, looked out the win­dow and the birch tree seemed sud­denly, heartrend­ingly bar­ren. Ms. and Mr. Robin had become empty nesters.  I’d antic­i­pated this moment, remind­ing myself that suc­cess­ful par­ent­hood is all about rais­ing the young­sters to spread their wings and make their own ways in the world. And I know they grow up fast, but still, I wasn’t quite ready for these kids to be gone. And, as in so many fam­i­lies, 10outerit turned out that one of the kids wasn’t either. I didn’t notice him until after­noon, hud­dled on an out­er­most branch sev­eral feet from the nest, wob­bling a bit, ten­ta­tively flap­ping his wings every once in a while and then wob­bling some more. Frankly, he looked too fat to fly. But he still had an eye out for hand­outs.  A par­ent would wing in every so often and pop a worm into his mouth like a mom shov­ing a casse­role into the oven and then rush­ing on to other chores.  Could it be that part of the chores was check­ing on the other chil­dren?  I’d read that train­ing flights were part of the pro­gram before full inde­pen­dence from the par­ents, so I spent some time out­side, watch­ing Mama and Papa Robin peck­ing for food and then fol­low­ing their routes through the air.  Sure enough:  one fledg­ling had moved into a high rise, a tow­er­ing birch in the side yard.  Another had set­tled in the sub­urbs: a stately, plush fir on the edge of the woods out back.

I decided that I could not devote my days to wan­der­ing from tree to tree to check on progress, so I set­tled for watch­ing the one triplet still out­side the win­dow.  And sadly, I missed the moment of his final dis­ap­pear­ance through my screen. A par­ent had just flown in for a feed­ing, which he’d gob­bled with his usual gusto.  I looked down for barely a few sec­onds and when I looked up, he was gone.

Will there be a sequel?  I don’t know yet.  Robins lay more than one clutch each sum­mer and some­times they reuse their nest.  So I’ll stay tuned.  Mean­time, an inor­di­nate amount of bird­calls has alerted me to a spar­row nest right out­side my bath­room win­dow.  Oh dear.  Maybe I’d bet­ter stock up on bub­ble bath.