This takes balls.

The topic came to mind while I was watch­ing the base­ball playoffs —

or more specif­i­cally, watch­ing the num­ber of times the play­ers were crotchadjustmantshown clutch­ing their crotches, re-positioning their pack­ages, bunk­ing their junk…OK, OK, I know they are (mostly) adjust­ing their pro­tec­tive cups, but still.  Some­day I may count the num­ber of on-camera crotch grabs ver­sus sloppy spits. It should be quite a matchup.

Any­way, this touch­ing dis­play of testos­terone reminded me of some­thing that hit me like a screw­ball to the solar plexus when I first heard about it:  cos­metic tes­tic­u­lar implants for dogs.  Yep, you heard me right:  cos­metic tes­tic­u­lar implants for dogs. The dog­gie doc­tor pitch­ing this pro­ce­dure said things like, “It will restore the animal’s nat­ural look,” and “It can encour­age peo­ple to neuter who oth­er­wise wouldn’t.”  I don’t remem­ber his sell­ing points exactly; I was strug­gling for air.neuticlenatural3

Once I recov­ered, I did some research and sure enough, the “Neu­ti­cles web­site extols the product’s abil­ity to allow “pets to retain their nat­ural look, self esteem (sic) and aids the pet’s owner with the trauma asso­ci­ated with alter­ing.”  The poster pair on the home page is none Kimanddogrockyother than that cul­tural icon of self­less­ness and empa­thy for all crea­tures, Kim Kar­dashian, and her dog Rocky (who received his implants on TV, natch).

Now I’m not sure about Kim, but I’ve known a lot of ani­mals both pre and post-neutering, and if they have suf­fered a drop in self-esteem, I’ve some­how failed to notice it.  Anec­do­tally, dogs may be a tad less manandbabydom­i­neer­ing — or is that more relaxed? — after their testos­terone lev­els drop. Switch­ing species just for a sec­ond, sci­ence sug­gests that men with smaller tes­ti­cles are more likely to take an active, nur­tur­ing role in child rear­ing.  Hmm, is any of this a problem?

But back to just dogs.  Maybe this machismo man­i­fes­ta­tion will catch on (or maybe not; only half a mil­lion have sold in the eigh­teen years since intro­duc­tion).   I’m for almost any­thing that encour­ages peo­ple tosmiling dog humanely reduce the home­less ani­mal pop­u­la­tion and its con­comi­tant killing in shel­ters, so if tes­tic­u­lar implants help do the job, fine.  They may indeed give com­fort to human males who are still squea­mish about the idea of remov­ing part of a dog’s “manhood.”

intact dogThey may also, how­ever, pose a social dilemma for vocal spay/neuter advo­cates.  Let’s say you see an intact dog on the street and your instinct is to ask his human whether he’s for­got­ten to have the dog altered, or whether he’s sport­ing a pair of Neu­ti­cles.  Is the ques­tion more akin to remark­ing, “Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help notic­ing that your fly is open,” or ask­ing, “Excuse me, ma’am, but are those real?”

Either way, I have to admit that the entre­pre­neur who con­ceived of falsie canine cajones is just doing some­thing that’s as tra­di­tion­ally Amer­i­can as, well, base­ball.  He fielded an idea, drafted a team, and put a prod­uct in play that takes balls – in this case, sil­i­cone ones. Or per­haps polypropy­lene. Depends how big your sac – oh, excuse me! wal­let – is.

—There are meth­ods which keep canines “intact” while ren­der­ing them infer­tile.  The FDA has approved a drug that works via injec­tion to the testes; Zeuterin’s inven­tors say it’s too soon to know whether it will sup­press mat­ing behav­iors. Vasec­tomy is also an option, but the drive to mate is clearly unchanged.baseballnote

 

 

Fur? Seriously?

I hope you don’t mind receiv­ing this blog post again. We received such a pos­i­tive response that we are re-posting. Thank you for your support!

That ques­tion fired up my brain when an acquain­tance men­tioned an item in her new “lux­ury” prod­uct line – a sleep­ing bag lined with the coat of a sil­ver fox. I stepped away from the con­ver­sa­tion quickly, before my grief and dis­may could move from my mind and escape my mouth. This was the socially accept­able thing to do at the time, but the sor­row of that moment has refused to leave me. Take a look at just one rea­son why. silver+fox+5

This is a sil­ver fox. He’s beau­ti­ful, isn’t he? And smart.  And con­scious, shar­ing many of the sen­sa­tions we humans expe­ri­ence, includ­ing plea­sure, fear and pain.  And yet the sil­ver fox and dozens of other ani­mals graced with what should be their own per­sonal furry pro­tec­tion are made to suf­fer hor­ren­dous fates in order that we might usurp their skins.

The fur trade is a ghastly, grisly busi­ness.  I will not be too graphic here (the links are more explicit), because if you care one iota about ani­mals, the real­ity of it is ter­ri­bly dif­fi­cult to stom­ach.  But – the weather is turn­ing chilly and we’re reach­ing for warm gar­ments, fash­ion con­tin­ues to include fur, and new “lux­ury” lines are being launched that may increase the num­ber of ani­mals cur­rently being skinned in the name of human indul­gence.  I want you to know about it.  I want you to be able to make a con­scious deci­sion on whether you will participate.

And it is a choice:  we do not need fur.  We are not cave­men headed out with our clubs to try and score a pelt in which to sur­vive the win­ter. We have a plethora of styl­ish syn­thetic fab­rics avail­able to keep us warm – I wear them in win­ter tem­per­a­tures that some­times reach 30 below.  Yet an esti­mated 50 mil­lion ani­mals die each year solely for their skins.  These ani­mals include dogs and cats. Some of them – and this is one of the most hor­ri­ble things to think about — are skinned alive.  Most of them are bred, born, and butchered on fur farms.  The hous­ing here is com­monly a stack of bar­ren wire cages. Clausen8 Their cap­tives may be housed indi­vid­u­ally or crammed together. Con­di­tions can be so hor­ren­dous that many of the ani­mals go insane before they meet their ends.  And their ends are bru­tal — humans don’t want to dam­age their “prod­uct.”  So slaugh­ter meth­ods that leave the ani­mals’ pelts intact are used, such as elec­tro­cu­tion via a rod in the anus, and gas cham­bers.  (And remem­ber, these are the more for­tu­nate ones.  They are dead before their skins are sliced off.) Some­times, if it’s not deemed too costly for the even­tual bot­tom line, lethal injec­tion is used.  The ani­mal may be par­a­lyzed but still con­scious when the skin­ning starts.

Furry ani­mals in the wild don’t fare much bet­ter when it comes to the end of their lives. Traps range from the purely ter­ri­fy­ing to the exquis­itely tor­tur­ous.  lynx in trap You’ve prob­a­bly heard sto­ries about ani­mals who will do almost any­thing to escape, includ­ing chew­ing off their own legs.injuredfox And then there is the annual whole­sale slaugh­ter of baby seals in Canada; this is done pretty much cave­man style.

Heard enough? There is faux or fake fur on the mar­ket, for peo­ple who want to make a more eth­i­cal or even a less expen­sive choice.  But beware:  not all the fur is actu­ally fake.  Some­times the label­ing is sim­ply false. There are ways that you can dis­cern the truth before you decide whether to pur­chase. And if you want to steer com­pletely clear of the issue, you can patron­ize fur-free retail­ers.

We humans enjoy many lux­u­ries.  Among them is the abil­ity to make con­sid­ered, con­sci­en­tious deci­sions about what we will and will not indulge in for the sake of fash­ion (and food, and fun, and so forth).  The ulti­mate lux­ury may be liv­ing in a place and time (Here! Now!) where we are free to make the com­pas­sion­ate choice.  I hope you will.  I hope you do.  Because I promise you:  a clear con­science feels a whole lot bet­ter than fur.

“You can judge the moral­ity of a nation by the way the soci­ety treats its ani­mals” –Mahatma Gandhi

Note:  I appre­ci­ate all of you who e-mail me with your com­ments – but if you are com­fort­able leav­ing a reply here, please do so.  It con­tributes to com­mu­nity dis­cus­sion. Thank you!

September 11th: Sit. Stay. Enjoy.

CathywbabiescouchWhen this photo was posted on Tam­ing Me’s Face­book page, I was struck by the feroc­ity of the fol­low­ing com­ment, includ­ing the cap­i­tal­iza­tion of the imper­a­tive:  “DON’T MOVE!  Stay right where you are!”  I thought that Paula Booth, the fol­lower who wrote it, must be a woman who knows the value of being in the moment, espe­cially a moment in which one is cud­dled up with loved ones, and per­haps even more so a moment when those loved ones hap­pen to have four legs.

In this world of con­stant con­nec­tion and a non-stop bar­rage of news, opin­ion and infor­ma­tion, chores by the score and a plen­ti­tude of places to be and peo­ple to see, it can be dif­fi­cult to stop and savor the moment – whether it’s an active moment or one like this, pinned on the sofa by pets. Lately I have found myself count­ing the days until some­thing I’m look­ing for­ward to – and even as I do so, I know that I am detract­ing from the day at hand.  So I thought that this anniver­sary of one of the most griev­ous days in our nation’s recent his­tory might be a good time to remind myself to Sit. Stay. Enjoy. Because who knows how many moments more there will be?

A friend was recently on vaca­tion with her fam­ily in one of her favorite places – a house beside the ocean.  She sat on the beach, chat­tedJuliecropped with her sis­ters, enjoyed din­ner with the entire clan, spent the evening teach­ing her lit­tle niece and nephew to play Chi­nese check­ers and promised that they would play again in the morn­ing.  It was a promise she didn’t mean to break, but the morn­ing she imag­ined didn’t come. She was buried, dressed in her cheer­ful orange cardi­gan, on her 48th birth­day. Julie had danced with can­cer and its con­se­quences for 30 years, and dur­ing those years, between hos­pi­tals, treat­ments and trans­plants, she gath­ered all the joy she could muster from life and spread a bunch of it around to the rest of us.

Focus Magazine photo DottieDot­tie – another friend – was, quite frankly, sup­posed to be dead by now. But she vowed, “I will be the mir­a­cle,” and she is.  Her pas­sion in life is mak­ing homes for kids who don’t have them, kids caught up in a fos­ter care sys­tem that doesn’t always have enough fos­ter par­ents to go around.  She’s still busy rais­ing money and build­ing space to offer what is some­times the most lov­ing envi­ron­ment the kids have ever known.  Oh, and she also spends a fair amount of time send­ing lit­tle love notes out to her friends and rel­a­tives.  Dot­tie knows how to make the briefest moment meaningful. Karyn withmask

And then there’s Karyn.  She got a diag­no­sis last win­ter that would have put some of us under the table. But not Karyn. You’d go to visit her in the hos­pi­tal and she’d give you a gift that she bought for you, in the hos­pi­tal shop. She’d send you jokes via e-mail and text. KaryngreenbowlhatShe’d make funny faces and pose for pic­tures, some­times with her room so packed with vis­i­tors you couldn’t find a place to sit down. Right now she’s plan­ning a girls’ week­end and already has spe­cial bags wait­ing for each guest, stuffed with good­ies. And she’s busy moth­er­ing her six dogs, all of them res­cues; she cre­ated a spe­cial dog park at the shel­ter where she vol­un­teers, for the ones she couldn’t take home.  Her house­hold canines get hot cooked meals twice a day Kerynwithbroodand the entire pack is wel­come in her bed – even if her hus­band has to get out of the way.  (He’s entirely good-natured about it.)

You know, my intent as I started writ­ing this was to talk mostly about the proven health ben­e­fits of pets — lower blood pres­sure and cho­les­terol, health­ier hearts, quicker recov­er­ies, improved spir­its and Lucy Fred and Willie copysocial­iza­tion — and how ani­mal com­pan­ions can pro­long and enrich our moments. But as I remem­bered the lives lost in the Twin Tow­ers and the many souls world­wide suf­fer­ing from con­flicts, poverty, ill­ness and dis­as­ters even as I type this, my fin­gers just seemed to want to talk about the peo­ple who endure, inspire, and con­tinue to bless us even when they’ve passed on, as we all must do. I think I’ve been giv­ing myself a lit­tle ser­mon. Thank you for stick­ing with me.

And please allow me one final men­tion of (another) friend. She recently gave me a book on mind­ful med­i­ta­tions, arranged by month.  September’s open­ing quote is from the Bud­dha:  “Be where you are; oth­er­wise you will miss your life.”  Thank you, Bud­dha.  I’ll try harder. Thank you, my friends, for your gen­er­ous spir­its. Thank you, PAULA BOOTH! I think I’ll go round up the crit­ters so that we can Sit. Stay. Enjoy.LucyCathyeveryday

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.

Breaking the Chain

Dogs are America’s favorite ani­mal

Or so the sta­tis­tics sug­gest, with 46% of U.S. house­holds includ­ing dogs.  That equates to more than 78 mil­lion canines cohab­i­tat­ing with humans in one way or another. ZachwtoyinchairUnfor­tu­nately, not all of them are pam­pered pooches wan­der­ing PetS­mart with their human com­pan­ions in search of toys and treats and rest­ing their heads on plump pil­lows in cozy beds at night. Some of them aren’t even see­ing the inside of a house, let alone a store to sat­isfy their dog­gie desires. Too many of them – and in this case, one is too many — are spend­ing their lives at the end of a rope or chain.

The Humane Soci­ety of the United States puts the num­ber of “tied-up” dogs at more than 200,000, although this is a hard num­ber to pre­cisely tetheredcal­cu­late. But I’m guess­ing you know about it and have seen it: the dog pulling and strain­ing against the restraint around his neck, which is tied to a tree or fence, or maybe a post stuck in the ground just for this pur­pose.  Some­times the dog is bark­ing wildly; other times, he or she sim­ply lies there in depressed defeat, know­ing there is no escape.  Except:  there can be escape.  And any­one who knows of a dog endur­ing this kind of exis­tence can help be the escape.

Move­ments against teth­er­ing are tak­ing hold across the coun­try, spurred on by increased aware­ness of the cru­elty to dogs and dan­ger to humansimages by restrain­ing dogs in this way. Dogs are pack ani­mals, descended from wolves.  They crave com­pan­ion­ship and inter­ac­tion.  Dogs are smart, emo­tion­ally astute crea­tures. They yearn for stim­u­la­tion and affec­tion.  Tie them up and aban­don them and they can go berserk from depri­va­tion.  Imag­ine the human in soli­tary con­fine­ment year after year, see­ing no one except the keeper who drops off food and water and, tor­ture on top of tor­ture, the occa­sional unfet­tered crea­ture walk­ing by who doesn’t stop to set them free, or even to say hello. Do any of us doubt that this can pro­voke a descent into mad­ness? Phys­i­cally hor­ri­ble things can hap­pen on the end of a tether also.  Dogs can be tied up so long that their col­lars become embed­ded in their necks.  They can develop all sorts of dis­eases, sores, and mange from neglect and the inabil­ity to maneu­ver to scratch or groom them­selves.  They can become entan­gled in their teth­ers or even stran­gle themselves.

Let me be clear:  dogs who have endured and sur­vived the worst of cir­cum­stances can be res­cued, reha­bil­i­tated, and restored to the lov­ing, giv­ing crea­tures they were born to be.  (The Michael Vick dogs are a case study.) Teth­ered dogs are lib­er­ated, taken to shel­ters and adopted out daily across this coun­try.  But the dog on the end of the chain can also be haz­ardous to humans, dri­ven by stress, des­per­a­tion or even train­ing — some dogs are teth­ered for the express pur­pose of pro­tect­ing prop­erty; they are expected to be dan­ger­ous. The Amer­i­can Humane Asso­ci­a­tion says teth­ered dogs are almost three times as likely to bite, and cites their sense of vul­ner­a­bil­ity as one rea­son why.

Hence the anti-tethering move­ment, for our mutual ben­e­fit.  18 states now have laws on the books address­ing teth­er­ing.  The laws tend to set con­di­tions for teth­er­ing, rather than pro­hibit it.  For exam­ple, there are restric­tions on how long a dog may be teth­ered, or spec­i­fi­ca­tions as to how long the tether must be.  One state sim­ply man­dates that there be “ade­quate space” for a teth­ered “com­pan­ion ani­mal.”  Excuse me, but an ani­mal that is teth­ered out­side and away from you is not a com­pan­ion.  Try this on your spouse or kids for even an hour and you’ll see what I mean. (Just mak­ing a point here:  do not take that sen­tence lit­er­ally, please.)

Many teth­er­ing restric­tions hap­pen on the local level, with ordi­nances. You can find out whether your com­mu­nity or county lim­its or bans teth­er­ing here. In my county, the cam­paign against teth­er­ing pro­claims Tethered Dog 2“Break the Chain – It’s the Law.”  If you want to become part of the chain of cit­i­zens work­ing to untether dogs who don’t yet ben­e­fit from gov­ern­ment pro­tec­tion, take action. Con­tact your local rep­re­sen­ta­tives.  Change hap­pens when enough of us demand it long enough.

And if by chance you get up close and per­sonal to a teth­ered dog that you don’t know, don’t try to pet or free it your­self. Call a reli­able, humane ani­mal wel­fare orga­ni­za­tion for assis­tance. Chances are you’ll be help­ing that dog to a far bet­ter life, maybe even one indoors with dot­ing humans, which is where America’s favorite ani­mal belongs.

Going Loony!

I am a very lucky woman.

Every year around this time, I go a bit loony – and no one seems to mind. My fam­ily and I flee the Florida sum­mer swel­ter for a lake­side camp sev­eral states to the north, a place where it can get cold enough to snow on Memo­r­ial Day and ice over in August. That is where it starts: the wail­ing, the yodel­ing, the hoot­ing, most of it in the dark­est depths of the night, car­ried at tremen­dous vol­ume over the still water, wak­ing sleep­ers and spook­ing the unini­ti­ated. These are the calls of the com­mon loon, and I am crazy for them. In fact, I’m a lit­tle bit crazy for loons period, and I am not alone.Two loons

These beau­ti­ful and intrigu­ing birds pop­u­late waters of the north­ern U.S. and Canada, their dis­tinc­tive black and white speck­led backs, white breasts, black necks adorned by a neck­lace of stripes and bril­liant red eyes a sum­mer­time fix­ture in the breed­ing grounds to which they return after win­ter­ing in dis­tant climes. And here “grounds” is a bit of a mis­nomer, as the loon spends most of its time in the water, except for when it is cop­u­lat­ing or incu­bat­ing its eggs.

waitingLoons are faith­ful birds, which accounts for part of my – and oth­ers’ – fas­ci­na­tion with them. Because they are gen­er­ally true to their home ter­ri­to­ries, return­ing year after year to their cus­tom­ary lakes, loon lovers go out look­ing for “our” birds. Are they back? Are their nests in the same spot? Do they have any hatchlings?

Loons are also faith­ful to their fam­i­lies, from mat­ing to the offspring’s matu­rity, and amaz­ingly egal­i­tar­ian in their duties. They even look alike. Mates share the work of build­ing the nest, sit­ting on the eggs until they Loon percarious position nest copyhatch, and then feed­ing and rais­ing their young. Last year, one of “our” mat­ing pairs built their nest on a nar­row bog unfor­tu­nately close to boat traf­fic, prompt­ing them to hop off fre­quently when fright­ened by motors or gawk­ers who came too close. The eggs, which usu­ally take a month to incu­bate, never hatched. Yet the par­ents sat there nearly all sum­mer long, devoted to their duty, hold­ing out hope.

We loon watch­ers love to look for a baby — brown in color at this stage — rid­ing on its parent’s back, warm and safer from preda­tors, until it is large loonchickonbackenough to both fish and fend full­time for itself. We love to watch an adult loon dive beneath the water’s sur­face and then wait while scour­ing the lake to see where it will turn up. Mature loons can dive to 200 feet and stay sub­merged for sev­eral min­utes, so track­ing their sur­fac­ing spot can be quite a chal­lenge – unless they call out. Which brings us back to that hoot­ing and wail­ing. Loon lan­guage is eas­ily under­stood once you get the hang of it. The hoot says, “Here I am!” or, “Where are you?” The wails back and forth help loons deter­mine dis­tance from each other. The yodel is for males only, warn­ing, “My ter­ri­tory!” And then there is the tremolo, the eerie vocal­iza­tion that sounds like a vaguely demented laugh but is actu­ally an alarm call. (Some think the tremolo is the inspi­ra­tion for the say­ing, “crazy as a loon,” but it may have more to do with the moon or lunar phases than with this ter­res­trial talking.)

This com­ing Sat­ur­day, my hus­band and I will hop in our kayaks and head out for the annual loon cen­sus run by the local con­ser­va­tion soci­ety. At the same exact hour on every lake in our area, vol­un­teers count the loons they spot. So far, so good. Local pop­u­la­tions seem to be sta­ble. Humans are band­ing together to pro­tect health and habi­tat. I hope the loons we loonchicksee reg­u­larly will show up at the appointed time to be counted, and not be off on a jaunt to some nearby body of water. They’re “ours,” after all. Or at least it’s fun to feel that way dur­ing the short time that I’m here and going loony.

 

Food for Thought

The Fourth of July.

imagesThe star span­gled hol­i­day is upon us, the zenith of sum­mer for many Amer­i­cans, a long leisurely day of out­door play and pic­nics, fam­ily and friends. Even those who use the hol­i­day to catch up on yard work or home improve­ments may find them­selves drawn at dusk to the near­est fire­works dis­play, where the rock­ets’ red glare does not sig­nal bom­bard­ment upon our home­land, but instead joins a glo­ri­ous pro­fu­sion of col­ors to peace­fully burst in the air and sprin­kle down­ward like star­dust, remind­ing us of our country’s foun­da­tions and freedoms.

This year, many will reflect upon the expan­sion of free­dom in Amer­ica, decided last week by the Supreme Court. Some rejoice. Oth­ers regret. Still oth­ers resolve to fight. But all must surely rec­og­nize the inevitable onward march toward par­ity, slow as the foot­steps some­times are. On the 4th of July, we com­mem­o­rate the year 1776, when the United States patriotic-pups-pictures0pro­claimed its inde­pen­dence and the found­ing fathers declared that “all men are cre­ated equal.” Well, not so much. It took 89 long years tar­nished by blood­shed and teardrops before every slave in the repub­lic was declared free – but still not equal. Half a decade later, slaves were allowed to vote, cour­tesy of the 15th Amend­ment, which man­dated that “race, color, or pre­vi­ous con­di­tion of servi­tude” could no longer stand as bar­ri­ers to the bal­lot box. But hold on: they were still talk­ing men here. A full half cen­tury later, women long con­sid­ered chat­tel (includ­ing the non-black ones and the ones pre­sum­ably loved by the hus­bands who were writ­ing the laws) finally won the right to vote. To this day, the Equal Rights Amend­ment, first con­sid­ered by Con­gress back in 1923, has not been rat­i­fied. But the cam­paign continues.

Heart­break­ing and hard to believe as it is, the real­ity that human beings could be deemed prop­erty — even saleable goods with­out thoughts or feel­ings wor­thy of con­tem­pla­tion or con­sid­er­a­tion — gives me hope. It gives me hope when I think of the sen­tient beings still suf­fer­ing sim­i­larly today, the think­ing, feel­ing, liv­ing crea­tures treated as prop­erty – saleable mommy and baby goatgoods not wor­thy of con­tem­pla­tion or con­sid­er­a­tion as we throw another chunk of one of them on the grill in cel­e­bra­tion of the 4th. It gives me hope because his­tory tells us that thought­less­ness can be teased into con­scious­ness, com­pas­sion and change – and some­times, it takes time.

So let me reas­sure you right here and now, my car­ni­vore friends, that I love you even though. I trust in time and I hold out hope: that some­day the infants ripped from their moth­ers so that we might eat or dis­pose of norman_1their bod­ies while we ingest the milk meant for them, that some­day the sen­si­tive, intel­li­gent crea­tures forced to endure all man­ner of phys­i­cal tor­ture with­out anes­the­sia or any other means to ease their pain, that some­day the beings dri­ven to insan­ity by their forced con­fine­ment and inabil­ity to so much as turn around or lie down, that some­day our fel­low ani­mals who endure dis­mal lives ended by dread­ful deaths will rise up in our mass con­scious­ness and that com­pas­sion will win the day for their descendants.

And don’t worry. We won’t go hun­gry or feel deprived. Alter­na­tives to ani­mal flesh abound. Want a burger, a “beef” tip, a slab of “chicken” or hot dog to throw on the vegetable-grill-lgbar­be­cue? All of these and more are in the grocer’s freezer. New del­i­ca­cies are cre­ated reg­u­larly, in addi­tion to the vari­ety of fruits, grains, and veg­eta­bles already grac­ing the earth. A vegan diet can be diverse, deli­cious, and is con­sid­ered by many health pro­fes­sion­als to be the best for the human body. Oh, and did I men­tion that by not eat­ing ani­mals we help to save the planet also?

But let me save that for another day so that we can all get back to cel­e­brat­ing. Per­haps you will, how­ever, take just a sec­ond to con­sider whether you’d toss Fido or Fluffy on the grill – and if not them, then why their cousins? If the time is now for you to con­tem­plate these ques­tions, click here for a great start­ing point. We enjoy the free­dom to choose. May we choose wisely, com­pas­sion­ately, and well.

Happy 4th of July!flag-fireworks

 

Summer Road Trips with the Family

Wagon…HO!

I remem­ber the excite­ment and antic­i­pa­tion as my three broth­ers and I scram­bled into the sta­tion wagon, Dad behind the wheel and Mom han­dling the maps, lug­gage rack on the roof. I would look back at the horses, cows, cats, dogs, rab­bits, sheep — whichever crea­tures hap­pened to be inhab­it­ing our hobby farm at the moment, some of them stand­ing watch as the car pulled around the dri­ve­way and turned onto the rural road, car­ry­ing us to excit­ing new adven­tures and explorations.

For a week or two, I wouldn’t be pet­ting sheep, con­vers­ing with cows, rid­ing my pony, crawl­ing into the straw-bedded dog­house for a snug­gle with our col­lie, car­ry­ing cats and rab­bits into my play­house, romp­ing through the pas­tures, fill­ing the water trough, side­step­ping the manure, muck­ing stalls, or feel­ing the deli­cious tickle of a horse’s lips tak­ing treats from my palm.

I was priv­i­leged to grow up sur­rounded by ani­mals, to learn the traits of var­i­ous species, the per­son­al­i­ties of indi­vid­u­als, the many ways in which ani­mals think, feel, and express — and the ways that ani­mals we domes­ti­cate depend upon us for their sus­te­nance: phys­i­cal, psy­cho­log­i­cal, and emo­tional. I wish that every child could have that priv­i­lege, and that every adult who’s missed it could make up for it now. So I have a vaca­tion sug­ges­tion: don’t travel away from the ani­mals, as I did: travel to them!

On the south­ern bor­der of Utah, just above the Ari­zona line, cerulean skywhere rust red cliffs glim­mer against the cerulean sky, and long stretches of open space call to mind set­tlers and cow­boys, their horses kick­ing up adobe dust, sits an expan­sive par­cel of par­adise on earth. Nes­tled in Angel Canyon is Best Friends Ani­mal Sanc­tu­ary, where abused, aban­doned and neglected ani­mals who have nowhere else to go find refuge and a level of com­pas­sion­ate care that leaves me search­ing for prop­erly descrip­tive words. Best Friends Animal Society“Ded­i­cated” is too shal­low. “Heart­warm­ing” is too trite. “Breath­tak­ing” is barely hyper­bole. Ani­mals that would be con­sid­ered hope­less else­where – injured, crip­pled, chron­i­cally dis­eased – and likely des­tined for euthana­sia are instead reha­bil­i­tated to their great­est poten­tial and given life­long care. Or, bet­ter yet and in every instance pos­si­ble, adopted out to for­ever homes.

Sanctuary sign copyBegun by a group of bud­dies back in the 1980’s, the 3,700 acre sanctuary’s name is a pro­pos for both the founders and the ben­e­fi­cia­ries of Best Friends Ani­mal Soci­ety. It started with a few home­less dogs and cats and now, enlarged by another 17,000 acres of leased land, it includes horses, mules, goats, sheep, don­keys, pigs, rab­bits, birds, and even injured and orphaned wildlife in need of care so that they can once again roam or fly free. These days, the aver­age ani­mal pop­u­la­tion is around 1,700 – and you are wel­come to visit them, vol­un­teer to work with them, maybe even take one (or two?) home. (Note: you do not have Panthegoatto per­son­ally visit the Best Friends sanc­tu­ary in order to adopt one of the ani­mals in their care.)

Free tours are offered every day at the sanc­tu­ary, and vol­un­teers are asked to sign up ahead of time. Care is taken to match vol­un­teers with appro­pri­ate ani­mals accord­ing to their inter­ests, ages, and phys­i­cal abil­i­ties. If you have the oppor­tu­nity to vol­un­teer, do! If you’ve never been truly “in touch” with ani­mals, this can be a life-changing expe­ri­ence. And if you already know and care for ani­mals, you’ll likely find new expe­ri­ences. Cat on leash copyIt was at Best Friends that I first walked a cat on a leash, fed a pot­bel­lied pig, and spent an entire after­noon scoop­ing rab­bit poop! You can do some­thing as down, dirty and nec­es­sary as pick­ing up poop, as sooth­ing as sit­ting with a cat in your lap, giv­ing him or her per­sonal atten­tion and pet­ting, or as adven­tur­ous as tak­ing a com­pan­ion ani­mal on an excur­sion off premises.

cottage view copyStay­ing on the sanc­tu­ary grounds enhances the expe­ri­ence. There are a lim­ited num­ber of cab­ins and cot­tages avail­able to vis­i­tors. They are com­fort­able, and the scenery is awe­some: the red rock moun­tains as back­ground to horses play­ing in the pas­ture, the sun set­ting over another day of kind­ness. sleepoverYou can even enjoy a sleep­over with an ani­mal and offer your impres­sions of his or her per­son­al­ity and tem­pera­ment to Best Friends staff. That helps when mak­ing adop­tive matches. When I was there, a pot­bel­lied pig ambas­sador was eli­gi­ble for sleep­overs and was quite the cov­eted guest! If you’re stay­ing in an RV or other accom­mo­da­tion, no prob­lem. You’re wel­come to share your space and affec­tions with eli­gi­ble can­di­dates there, as well.

I was so besot­ted with the sanc­tu­ary that I passed on the sight­see­ing dur­ing my visit, but you can make this as much of a var­ied vaca­tion as you want. The near­est town is Kanab, five miles away. Sev­eral lodg­ings — hotels, motels, pri­vate res­i­dences — are avail­able and many offer pet friendly space with a Best Friends dis­count. You can visit numer­ous state and national parks and wilder­ness areas; go golf­ing, bik­ing, swim­ming, kayak­ing, ATV­ing; explore the “Old West” areas where movies and TV shows were filmed; enjoy art gal­leries; attend the local theater…

But first and fore­most, I hope you’ll expe­ri­ence the ani­mals and soak up the ele­vated air of com­pas­sion and dig­nity for all who exist here. Intro­duc­ing a child to this mar­velous assort­ment of sen­tient crea­tures and the humans who care for them may inform that child’s sen­si­bil­i­ties for a life­time. Get­ting hands on with the ani­mals as an adult could alter your own view – and even expand your house­hold, should you decide to take a new best friend home.adoptionpromo

With wishes that you’ll get to be a part of Best Friends Ani­mal Sanc­tu­ary some­day – and for safe, happy sum­mer travels,

Cathy

 

 

My Wedding Anniversary…

Warn­ing:

If you are uncom­fort­able learn­ing inti­mate details of a rela­tion­ship, do not read on. If, how­ever, you accept voyeurism as an inalien­able Amer­i­can enjoy­ment, then please: step into my bedroom.

The day begins like nearly every other. Whether our alarm sounds at 5:00 or we sleep in until the sun beck­ons brightly through the win­dow, time for togeth­er­ness is always part of the morn­ing. My hus­band gets up, show­ers, and returns to the bed­room, where the object of his affec­tion lies drift­ing in and out of a lux­u­ri­ous doze, dream­ing in antic­i­pa­tion. As he approaches the bed, smelling of freshly soaped skin, herbal sham­poo, minty tooth­paste, coconut sun­screen — a deli­cious morn­ing mélange — doz­ing morphs into con­scious­ness and a long, lux­u­ri­ous stretch upon the com­forter, still redo­lent with sleep. Antic­i­pa­tion mounts to expec­ta­tion. Expec­ta­tion, built upon the mem­o­ries of so many morn­ings prior to this one, induces an invol­un­tary quiv­er­ing, as though the skin is ris­ing up of its own accord to meet the hands about to descend upon it. And then the caresses begin.

My husband’s pow­er­ful fin­gers set­tle into the back of the head, gen­tly teas­ing the brain into total wake­ful­ness. They travel down the spine, dig­ging deli­ciously into either side of the back until they reach that region that moti­vates the body, mind­lessly giv­ing itself up to sen­sa­tion, to turn over and invite more caresses, offer­ing up its most vul­ner­a­ble areas in com­plete trust, with­out reservation…

It is, I admit, an envi­able way to wel­come the day. I am, I admit, occa­sion­ally envi­ous. Because I am talk­ing, of course, about the dog. Anniver­sary, birth­day, hol­i­day, every day: Wee Willie Winky gets a morn­ing mas­sage before his walk in the park.

It took me years to soften my spouse to the point where he would accept a dog in our house­hold, already pop­u­lated with cats. When I sus­pected that the time was just about right, I called friends at our local shel­ters to let them know what I was look­ing for: a small dog who could travel, wasn’t inclined to be yappy and wouldn’t shed too, too much. The very next day, the call came: an alleged puppy mill run­ner from Alabama had been busted sell­ing six week old dogs out of the back of his pickup truck in the unfor­giv­ing Florida sun. I took this pre­cious, tired Shih Tzu home, cud­dled on my lap.Willie croppeda I walked into my husband’s office and said, “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” The puppy fit entirely into his palms. Tom looked into his gen­tly Willie 3picblink­ing eyes and instantly named him. That first night, Willie slept for a dozen unin­ter­rupted hours, on his back in his brand new puppy bed with his legs straight up in the air, exhausted.

The love affair between spouse and Shih Tzu took some time to develop. Tom hadn’t lived with a dog before and he was some­what slow to suc­cumb to Willie’s con­sid­er­able charms. But once he opened him­self to the expe­ri­ence and began bond­ing with play time,bathtime snug­gle time, bath time, there was no deny­ing it: my place as most loved mem­ber of his fam­ily was being chal­lenged. And with valid his­tor­i­cal and sci­en­tific reason.

Wolves, from whom dogs descended, are believed to have first turned to humans for food and shel­ter, while humans wel­comed the wolves’ pro­tec­tion, hunt­ing prowess, and even­tu­ally, their warmth, affec­tion, and empa­thy. 24rDogs can “read” their humans in extra­or­di­nary ways: a sim­ple move­ment of the body or even the eyes can speak vol­umes to your canine com­pan­ion about your inten­tions. Your dog very likely can under­stand and even share your emo­tions. Dogs and humans have the same brain struc­ture, includ­ing the amyg­dala, which is linked to emo­tional and psy­cho­log­i­cal states. Dogs and humans also share many of the same hor­mones. Fur­ther­more, a recent study sug­gests that sev­eral sets of genes in humans and dogs evolved along the same time­line, likely as a result of liv­ing together.

There are rea­sons other than sci­en­tific for the pro­found love between man and dog too, of course. I, along with most humans, absolutely refuse to run to the door every time my hus­band comes home (whether he’s been gone five days or five min­utes), wig­gling my fanny like a feather in the wind. I decline to lie on the floor at his feet, gaz­ing up at his face with naked love in my eyes. I will not pant in antic­i­pa­tion of a leisurely walk in the evening.

But I will — and do — work on man­ag­ing my envy. After all, I “gave” Willie as a gift and thus am happy to accept the shar­ing of affec­tions. Besides: I am madly in love with Willie too. Happy anniver­sary, sweetie.

11monthswide

Note: actual spousal inter­ac­tions on our anniver­sary have been omit­ted in def­er­ence to tra­di­tional deco­rum – and so that my mother does not expire pre­ma­turely from mortification.