Smokey Mountain Breakdown

I've been busy with rescue stuff and submissions.

I really need a hero for this guy in Elizabethton. He's so well housebroken, he's gotten constipated at the shelter. Time is running out and he gets put down this Friday. It's a small rural shelter and they just don't have room. So things are looking pretty bleak for Winston.

It's a sad fact that we just can't save them all. Rescues who don't recognize their limitations become little more than hoarders, but it still stings every time we lose one. But that's reality. There are so many lovely cockers and other purebred dogs in the shelters, on top of all the lovely mixed breeds, that we can't save them. Not all of them. All we can do is the best we can. It smarts, but there it is.

It's so crazy--the whole attitude I see here against spaying and neutering. And the people who won't spay or neuter their dogs and cats, are often the same people who say they can't bear to go to the shelter because it breaks their hearts. The same people who drop unwanted dogs off on the side of the road to starve to death because taking them to the shelter would be too cruel.

So they blame the shelters for their own crimes. They let the shelters clean up their messes because they are too lazy, uninformed or uncaring to take responsibility.

Yeah. It does chap my hide. It really does.

Pray for Winston, please.

This morning at 3:45 a.m., my “Little Old Man” left me.

I took Babe on as a hospice case. He was fifteen, an advanced age for a male cocker spaniel, and had a stage 5 heart murmur. I just wanted to give him a soft place to die. He didn’t have a very good prognosis and had been brought into the shelter to be euthanized. Not because of his heart murmur, but because he had a bad case of fleas.

Babe had spent the first fifteen years of his life locked up in a back yard. He was taken out once a year to have his coat clipped down to the skin. That’s pretty much all I know about Babe’s early life.

The very first time I kissed him on the head, he grabbed me by the throat. Not hard, he just held me for a moment to let me know he was no pushover. He may be little but, by golly, he could put a hurting on me if he wanted to. I remember feeling very sad, that in fifteen years, this adorable little guy had never been kissed on his head.

All of that was three years ago. He was only supposed to live for maybe three months. But, I guess, after getting used to being indoors and many head kisses later, he decided to stick around for a while.

I’m really glad that he did.

He started losing weight and muscle tone about two months ago. He’d done that before. It was sort of his “Fred Sanford” act. A canine version of grabbing his heart and saying, “You hear that Elizabeth? I'm coming to join you, honey!” I’d give him more food and he’d usually snap out of it. Well, he didn’t this time.

He had a few collapses over the past few months. I mentioned the first one to my vet. She was surprised that he hadn’t died. I’d pick him up and prop him up so he could breathe better…and he would recover. But a few days ago, he began developing ascites, a build-up of fluid in his abdomen. So, I knew he was serious this time. I was planning to call the vet today and take him in to evaluate whether or not “it was time”. Evidently it was.

He never lost his appetite and he had plenty of cookies and a bowl of mac and cheese yesterday as well as his dinner. He was bright right up to the end.

I fixed him a bed in the closet where I could elevate his front so he could rest better. He had a collapse at around 3:30 when we turned in. I sat there with him petting him as he left.

I told him, “Go on to the Bridge, Baby. Go on and wait for me there. I’ll be coming along before you know it.”

I’m burying him close to the house instead of where the other more active kids are. Babe was nearly deaf and blind and slept very deeply. Sometimes, he’d wake up and I would have left the room. He would track me in the house until he bumped into my feet. Then he’d look up and seemed to be saying, “Oh! There you are. I lost you for a minute there.”

I don’t want him to have to track too far to find me.

I guess, once more, it’s time to dig a hole.

Memoriam submitted to the Friday Ark at The Modulator.

Okay, it's not like I didn't see it coming.

It’s been a hugely gray day, today. Actually we’ve been having an entire week of gray. I don’t really mind days like this but it should at least have the decency to actually rain. A nice day to curl up by the fire and do not much. Though, since Wee Willy Wood Boy cheated me this last go round...I'm fast running out of wood for my wood stove. So...the search is on for another wood supplier.

Nothing much going on so I stuck Father Ted (Drink! Feck! Girls!) in the DVD player and plotted more chapters in the novel. Only 9 more chapters to plot…then I can write.

Anyway, the big excitement was that Max finally snapped. After over a week of non-stop goose torture, it was time for a smack down.

Let me tell you about Max. This is Max. Adorable, isn’t he?



When Max first came into rescue, there was no shortage of homes for him to go to. I should have known something was wrong when I saw the amazed look on the faces of the folks handing him over to me as he trotted quite happily beside me and jumped in the jeep. I’m like that with cockers. I’m the cocker whisperer.

Anyway, when I got Max home, it wasn’t long before I realized something was really wrong with him, temperamentally. I pissed off I don’t know how many people refusing to place him. One lady got really, really mad at me, but she had a gang of shih tzus and I’m pretty sure they would be shih tzu tartar by now had Maxie gone there. Max would be dead...put to sleep.

When he gets upset, he can’t calm himself down and he goes ballistic. In short, he becomes “Mr. Spike”. He’s still up for adoption and I still hope that the right lady dog psychologist is going to come along and it’s going to be a perfect match. Because he really is a lover boy when he’s in his Dr. Max stage…about 99 percent of the time. But that 1 percent means I can't let him go to just anybody. It wouldn't be ethical.

So, today, the geese, emboldened by the success of the goose para sail adventure, went after Max in a big way. My sweet boy snapped and all of a sudden, I had Mr. Spike out there in the yard with the goose by the neck doing that savage shaking thing. And I didn’t have my spray bottle of ammonia water. (Yeah…we already tried vinegar...straight, no less…don’t work.)

So, I’m standing in the yard saying calmly but firmly, “Max. Max. That’s enough, Max. It’s learned its lesson. Max. Stop now, Max.”

And, amazingly, he stopped. Very, very upset little dog. His sides are heaving and he still can’t seem to get the adrenaline under control. His eyes are rolling and wide. I venture a pet on his back and call him into the house. He’s grateful to go in and still so very upset. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s not like he’s angry…it’s like a toddler that can’t stop crying or having a tantrum.

You know that scene in “A Christmas Story” where the kid beats the crap out of the red-headed bully? That’s what Max does when he’s upset. And you have to handle the situation pretty much like the Mom did in that movie.

The other amazing thing is… that damn goose was just fine. There was no maniacal goose laughter though. I’m hoping they’ve learned their lesson and will resist any more Darwinian urges to attack Max. 'Cause, I got a feeling he's not going to take any more goose crap from those two.

A Great Big Thank You Goes Out to Everyone!!!!

Most particularly to MerryLea Rescue in Frederick, Maryland who picked up the entire bill for the Fat Buddy's treatment!

If you were planning to help the Fat Buddy out, please instead consider donating to MerryLea since they have made it possible for us to go ahead with F.B's treatment. Donating to them will make it possible for them to help another needy dog...so, pay it forward!

Fat Buddy would give you all a great sloppy kiss of thanks but, believe me when I tell you, this would not be a pleasant experience.

I went into town today for a few reasons.

I took my two big wethers to the sale barn. It's the most unpleasant part of what I have to do as a responsible goatkeeper. The truth is, I have to do this, because if I didn't, the rest of the herd would suffer. I can only keep so much stock on my property with my budget. There are many months, and this is one of them, when I do without for myself so my animals can eat.

Yesterday I watched my big Togg wether who I've had for so long...who I've kept for purely sentimental reasons...push poor skinny Freaky Didi away from the alfalfa. Freaky is going to be a lovely doe if I can just get some weight on her. She will produce beautiful purebred Nubian kids and give me milk with a 4 to 5 percent milkfat. Winky does nothing but eat and laze about in the pasture and lord his great size over the other goats. He's done this for five years here.

So, today I loaded up Winkin' and Bolly and took them to the sale barn. I did this because I don't want to be remotely associated with assholes like this cruel fuck.

Sheep Hoarder charged with animal cruelty

POSTED: 2:40 a.m. EDT, March 29, 2007

APEX, North Carolina (AP) -- A man who kept 77 sheep in his suburban home was charged Wednesday with 30 counts of misdemeanor animal cruelty.

David Watts, 47, was being held at the Wake County jail in lieu of $12,000 bail after a court appearance. A judge denied a request by Watts' lawyer to release him pending trial.

Watts surrendered the flock to animal control officers Monday after police found some sheep grazing on artificial flowers in the town cemetery in Apex, a suburb of Raleigh.

Thirty of the sheep were euthanized because of various health problems. In addition, sheep bones and carcasses were found in Watts' yard.

Veterinarian Kelli Ferris, who examined the flock, said some of the animals' hooves had never been trimmed, causing infections that led the sheep to walk on their knees.

Watts kept some of the younger sheep on the ground floor of his house and kept the others in pens in the yard, authorities said.

Watts denies abusing the animals. He told The News & Observer of Raleigh on Tuesday that he was overwhelmed by the number of lambs born this year.

Watts, who said he has raised sheep for a decade, called the animals "relaxing to be around."

"It's like in Florida, you can swim with the dolphins. If you can get sheep to follow you, it might be a similar experience."

A high school in western North Carolina adopted 13 lambs. The lambs will live on the school farm, where students will care for them. It was unclear where the rest of the sheep went.

I don't know where my boys went. It broke my heart to leave them there. But I know they lived a pampered healthy life while they were here with me. But I had to let them go for the good of the rest of the herd. Am I playing God? I guess I am. But isn't that what we do when we, as humans, raise an animal solely for our own pleasure, comfort or food? As the gods of these souls we have to make the hard decisions. If we don't, we become some unspeakable something else.

My other task in town was a much better one. I went into the Newport Animal Shelter to give Flash a groom and bath in preparation for his trip to Charlotte where I had coordinated placement for him with A.R.F. Flash is a cocker youngster who got returned from his first shelter placement for objecting to a toddler pulling his ears.

As I clippered back the mop of hair on his little head, I half gasped at the lovely shape of his head. It was so much like my Hi-Lite's. The cocker spaniel who really was my first rescue...the one who drew me into this crazy mess. I haven't had another buff since.

I so wanted to take Flash home with me, then and there. And when he bussed me on the nose to forgive me for trying to scissor his paws, my heart gave a lurch. There was much of Hi-Lite in this pup.

But I bundled him up after his bath and placed him in his nice clean cage. Tomorrow he travels to Charlotte and hopefully soon, a wonderful forever home.

Why? Because that's what I'm committed to doing. The hard part.