Heart Sick

I heard somewhere that the heavier your heart gets, the stronger you have to be to keep carrying it around.
I’m feeling that today. Day in and and day out, dealing with what’s left behind by humans who don’t care. . . animals hurt, injured, orphaned, abandoned. Every day I love animals more and love people less. If you see me out and about, or if you come by the shelter, and I have a vacant stare. . . my thoughts are probably still with the last “situation” I handled. . . the last person who brought in unweaned kittens, but left the mother behind, the last person who dumped her elderly mother’s beloved lap pet at the shelter because mom can’t care for it anymore, the last person who starved a dog to a remnant of its former self while it was chained to a tree in the yard, the last person who left a collar on a puppy until it grew deeply embedded into the adult dog’s flesh, the last person who yelled at me because I haven’t returned her call yet, the last person who threatened to kill me because he didn’t come to the shelter in time to reclaim his dog, the last person who called me at 10:30 at night because she has a pet emergency and she doesn’t want to drive to Pearland, the last person who abandoned a pregnant cat in a box on the carport, the last person who needed a “special favor” because she has a “special” situation, the last person who . . .
Thank God for my wonderful family and friends, our hard-working and compassionate shelter staff, and our absolutely fabulous volunteers. Without these reminders of human goodness, I would not be able to continue.
I’m tired today. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.

All that we can do

Smurf, a gentle giant
Smurf, a gentle giant

Yesterday was a difficult day. First thing in the morning, I received a call from one of our SPCA fosters, her foster dog Smurf had died during the night. She was devastated. Smurf was a gentle giant who was heart worm positive. Later in the day, I found out that Windy died during a surgical procedure to amputate her fractured leg. Windy was a tiny little thing, also heart worm positive. Both dogs came to us at the shelter with a lot of issues. . . malnourished, underweight, broken, neglected. We tried to fix them, but they were both already too far gone. They are still success stories though. Each dog, the gentle giant and the tiny tot, spent time being loved and cherished before they died. They left their worlds of abandonment, neglect, and abuse and knew the kind touch of a gentle hand. They spent their last nights on soft beds with full tummies. Sometimes this is all that we can do, but it is enough.Windy
Over half the dogs who come to us are heart worm positive. It doesn’t have to be that way. Heart worms are easy and relatively inexpensive to prevent. However, they are difficult and expensive to treat, and fatal if not treated. Please make sure all of your own dogs are on year-round, monthly heart worm preventative. Then, educate your friends and family.
We have a lot of dogs at the shelter waiting for heart worm treatments. If the heart worm disease progresses while they wait for their treatments, they could become too advanced in their disease to be candidates for treatment. This means heart worm disease will kill them. . . it’s not a matter of if; it’s a matter of when. We only have three local veterinary hospitals who offer discounted heart worm treatments to our shelter pets: Freeport Veterinary Medical Center, Pecan Acres Pet Care, and VCA Lake Jackson Animal Hospital.
What can you do to help?
1. Donate. Heart worm treatments cost anywhere from $125 for a dog Windy’s size up to $500 for a dog Smurf’s size. Most of our shelter dogs who need treatment are in the $300-$400 range. You can sponsor all or a part of a heart worm treatment by mailing or dropping off a check to SPCA-BC at 141 Canna Lane, Lake Jackson, Texas 77566 or donate online at http://www.spcabc.org. Please note your donation for “heart worm treatments.”
2. Foster. We need our dogs out of the shelter while they are treated. Typically a heart worm treatment requires kennel rest for about a month. Your foster dog will need to live inside with your family while he/she recovers.
3. Adopt. All of our heart worm positive dogs are available for adoption. As soon as your new pet goes home, he/she can begin treatment.
4. Thank the veterinarians who offer the discounted treatments for us. This is significantly less than the “normal” price for heart worm treatments. They do this out of love to help us save lives, so please let them know that you appreciate what they do to help our shelter pets, who so desperately need homes.
5. Spread the word. Let your friends and family know that these amazing animals need help. Make sure people are aware of how important it is to keep your pets protected from heart worm disease.
Smurf and Windy, thank you for letting us love you for the very short time that you were here. Your lives mattered. Rest in peace, sweet angels.


Off to a bat. . . errr bad. . . start.

My day so far today: A text wakes me up at 3:46 am. I know Jason and my girls are at home, so it must be an emergency with my parents. Nope. It’s just someone wanting to let me know that a dog she found is at the shelter. Now I’m awake. Wide awake, so I go to the kitchen to get a little work done. I’m cranking things out, getting stuff done, answering emails, etc. and I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I don’t have to see it closely to know it’s another freaking bat in my house. (We’ve stopped counting, but we have had at least thirty bats INSIDE the house this year so far.) I duck down and try to retreat to my bedroom, but the bat flies into the ceiling fan which hits it and knocks it down toward me. I scream and hit the deck. Our “deck” is rock hard terrazzo. I land hard on my knees. Pain shoots up my legs and I see stars, but I army crawl back to the bedroom and shut the door. Good. I’m safe now, and somehow, everyone in my family is still sleeping soundly. I get snuggled back up in bed, nice and cozy. Then I start thinking again. While I was up, I opened the back door to look outside. Did I lock the door when I shut it? Now, my OCD is kicking in, and I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep until I check the door, so I have to venture back out into The Batlands to check. I climb out of my coziness and army crawl back through enemy territory. Check. Door is locked. It’s safe to retreat. Here comes the bat. No time for army crawls. . . I stand up and run into the closest room, our guest bathroom. I am certain the bat is chasing me. I have to stop and catch my breath. I am in complete panic mode. Now, how to get out of the bathroom and back down the hall to the safety of my bedroom without being detected by the malicious bat? I seriously consider curling up on the bathroom floor for the rest of the night. But I have dogs. Our floors are gross. And rock hard. I summon my courage, crack the door open just a smidge to assess the situation. The coast is clear. I duck low and speed down the hall to my bedroom. I made it! I check the time. It’s now almost 6:30. I have to get up at 7:00. I curse my miserable life and nod off to sleep. Of course, when my alarm sounds at 7:00 I turn it off and keep sleeping. I awake at 7:54 am to another text. Same person. Wants an update on the dog. Yes. Really. This happened. I get up and wander into the kitchen where Jason is about to leave for work. I ask him if he found the bat. Yes. He did. It is still alive and chillin’ on our living room wall. He can’t reach it, so we will just have to leave it be until it decides to start flying again tonight and we can let it out of the house. In the safety of daylight I go into the living room to look at it. It is about an inch-long in body length. I swear that bat was the size of a California condor when it was chasing me last night.


Taking a Chance (reposted from May 21, 2012)

He was invisible; forgettable. You know what I’m talking about—one of those dogs whose lives are spent on the edges—skulking on the side of the road, foraging through trash, existing on muddy water and garbage. If you glance his way, you see him, but he’s not really there. You know he needs help, but what can you do? Dogs like him need so much rehabilitation, so much care. It’s too much for you. You’re busy and how would you catch him anyway? So you keep driving, and you forget about the invisible dog.
But someone saw this invisible dog. He was injured, walking on three legs. He was starving and probably dehydrated. He was terrified. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he ducked his head and held his tail tucked tightly beneath his belly. She briefly made eye contact and he skirted quickly away. But she looked away, and slowly walked toward him. Starvation, desperation, or sheer luck caused him to take a chance on her—just like she was taking a chance on him. Maybe he sensed that they needed each other. She reached out, and he licked her hand.
As things would have it, she was desperate too. She had a kind heart and cared deeply for the suffering. But she was suffering too. She was ill. Her immune system was weak. She was supposed to be careful about exposing herself to anything that could compromise her health. She had come close to death and didn’t want to go back in that direction.
She loved to rescue animals. Her husband did not. Her medical troubles had taken a financial toll on her family. Their marriage was strained. She couldn’t take this dog home.
She knew this, but she still reached out. He licked her hand. They looked quietly into each other’s eyes. They had a bond now. She gently petted his head. He allowed her kind touch and slowly wagged his tail. He was just a dog. But touching him gave her the first bit of comfort she had felt in a very long time. So she carefully carried him to her car and took him home.
She knew she couldn’t keep him. He clearly needed veterinary care. Her finances were a shambles. To make things even worse, this dog carried a label. Pitbull. A big, square head; a strong, sinewy body; small, penetrating eyes—his appearance alone was enough to elicit hatred from some. Rescues are full. Many shelters euthanize pitbulls automatically. Finding good homes for these labeled dogs is more than difficult, even if they’re friendly and healthy.
She reached out. She knew about a person who loves invisible dogs, someone who remembers the forgettables, someone who would feel compelled to help. She named this dog Chance.
And then she brought him to me.
I had never met Chance’s rescuer. She knew about me from Facebook. Why she chose me, I don’t know. There are plenty of dog advocates on the internet. Many of them live much closer to her home. But she chose me, and I chose Chance. I am overwhelmed by people seeking help with rescues. I love animals. My husband loves animals. We want to help, but we can’t save them all. So we have to choose, and this time, I chose Chance.
I would like to say that Chance is now safe in a forever home, or that he is sleeping comfortably on a snuggly bed at my feet, but that isn’t true. There’s more to Chance’s story. But I must save it for another day.
Chance is still looking for his permanent adoptive family. He has thrived in foster care, but he can’t stay here forever; I must prepare room for the next dog that needs me, and I have been forced to turn away so many simply because I don’t have enough resources. If you would like to help write the next chapter in Chance’s journey, please contact me at (979) 266-7080. You can also help by sharing Chance’s story.

Re-Post: I’m Open for Argument (originally posted February 21, 2012)

I am an animal advocate. I spend most of my time trying to make life a little better for animals in my community and beyond. I also eat meat. Does that make me a hypocrite? I don’t know. . . but I DO know that humans were designed to eat meat, and right or wrong, I don’t fight that. When I can, I try to eat meat that is humanely raised by local farmers and ranchers. (Thank you, Davis Family and Meagher Family.) I also believe that when we kill an animal, we should respect the life that was given for our consumption. We should use all of the animal that can be used. Waste does not respect life. I do not hunt, but if a hunter offers me meat, I accept it gladly and gratefully, and I do not judge the one who has generously offered me his bounty.

I know people who are vegans or vegetarians. This is a path that they have chosen because they do not want to participate in the killing of animals for human consumption. That is their moral choice, and if they wish to share their opinions, I listen to them. I have definite opinions about almost every moral choice under the sun. However, I am not so arrogant as to believe that I am always right. In fact, in my 40-odd years on this earth, my opinion has been swayed many times by good, persuasive argument. I also have swayed the opinions of other opinionated people like myself.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love a good argument. Sometimes I even change sides in the middle and play “Devil’s Advocate.” I frequently do this when I believe that my challenger is less-skilled at the art of persuasion. Sometimes changing course confuses my opponent into changing course also. I delight in this. When I was in law school, I arrived late to a class (something you should never do in law school), and as soon as I walked in the door, the professor instructed me to stand in front of the class and argue one side of a case we had read for class. When I finished, he asked the class for counter-point. No one volunteered, so I offered counter-point to my own argument. I’m proud to say that I won.

Argument, or the art of persuasion, is the respectful and thoughtful exchange of ideas. Emotions get in the way of a good argument. When I become emotional, I know that I am going to lose that argument. There is a difference between being emotional and being passionate. Passion gives fire to an argument. Emotion extinguishes reason, incapacitating the one who has lost rational thought. When I can listen to your ideas, consider them thoughtfully, and then offer my own ideas and reasoning, I can give both of us the opportunity to grow. As iron sharpens iron, the careful exchange of ideas brings wisdom to all who listen with open minds.

As an animal advocate, I believe that it is morally wrong and irresponsible to allow dogs and cats to breed. I believe that ALL dogs and cats should be spayed or neutered before they reach sexual maturity. I believe that this is in the best interest of the individual animal, and it is in the best interest of animal welfare at large. Again, am I a hypocrite? Maybe. I have purchased dogs from breeders. Several years ago, I allowed my Chihuahua to have puppies. (Something that I now acknowledge was a HUGE mistake.) Last year I purchased a cat from a breeder. On several occasions, I have purchased Labrador puppies to offer to non-profits to raise money in their Live Auctions. That doesn’t mean that I don’t believe that adoption is the best option. It only means that I am imperfect and sometimes contradict myself. Who doesn’t?

However, I still feel an urgency in getting out the Spay/Neuter Message. Over 8 million pets are abandoned in our nation’s shelters every year. Over half of them are euthanized–no murdered–for no reason other than there is simply not enough space to house them until a suitable home is found. That’s four million pets killed in our nation every year, or approximately eleven thousand every single day, or four hundred and fifty in the next hour, or about seven or eight this very minute.

Many people consider animals disposable, and dump them as soon as they become tired of them, or have a baby, or move, or realize that having a pet isn’t always cuddles and warm noses. It’s also poop, and pee, and mud, and veterinary bills, and . . . well, there’s always another “and.”

Backyard breeders and puppy mills are churning puppies out by the thousands while dogs and cats of all breeds, ages, shapes, sizes, and temperaments die. The owner of a beloved lapdog dies and the family dumps a terrified Chihuahua who has never known anything but love and safety into a shelter where it dies from “kennel stress.” Shelter workers quit in tears because they become emotionally fatigued by the bodies they carry to the dumpster. It happens every day. The madness has to stop somewhere.

But people like me try to get that Spay/Neuter Message out there–try to get people to stop breeding their dogs and cats, try to get people to help stop the madness, and we get emotional “shut up” arguments thrown back at us. Or “I’ll do what I want to do and you can’t stop me.” Or the infamous “pitbull” frenzy begins and all of a sudden hysteria and hype rule the day. And the argument, along with the opportunity for anyone to gain any wisdom from an exchange of ideas, is lost.

So. . .

Hey. You. Yeah, you. If I communicate my opinion to you and you have a thoughtful, well-reasoned response to share, please share it. I will listen and respect your thoughts. You may not change my mind, but then again, you might. And in return, please respect my opinion. It is garnered from years of working in the animal care profession and years of volunteering in shelters and rescues. I actually have some research, knowledge and expertise backing me up. And I may not change your mind, but then again, I might.

And if you can’t communicate without getting emotional and name-calling and slamming me and everything I believe. . .

Well then, just shut up.

Re-Post: My Guardian Protector

My Guardian Protector

Quasimodo, or Modo for short, came into my life when I needed him most. Jason had just finished his first year at LSU vet school, and I was just about to begin my first year of law school. We had just lost our black pug, Reggie, a few months before, and I swore I would never love another dog again. It just hurts too much to lose one.

We lived in Port Allen, Louisiana, in an old plantation store–the two large porches on either side had been converted into apartments with a giant storage area in the center, and the strange little store-turned-dwelling was situated right in the middle of a working sugar cane farm. LSU was an easy commute accross the Mississippi River, and we enjoyed living among the giant sugar cane stalks. Our home was mostly hidden from sight, accessible by a long, narrow gravel drive; only the rooftop was visible from the lonely street.

As much as I loved our life in Louisiana, I’ve always been a Mama’s girl, so I came back home to the Texas Gulf Coast as often as possible. It was the summer of 1995, and I was just arriving back at our plantation house after one of my trips home. Jason greeted me outside as I pulled up, “I have a surprise for you. . . I hope you’re not mad.”

I was instantly suspicious, “you didn’t get a dog while I was gone, did you?” Feelings of anger brewed–he knew I didn’t want another dog.

“Just come see.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me up the steps to the front door, and as I looked in through the large glass door, I saw the saddest little pitiful lump of puppyness sitting in the middle of my living room. The poor little thing tried to get up to come greet us, but his head was so large and his legs were so short, each time he tried to steady himself, he would topple over, head first. His fur was a strange mottled color, his tail was stubby and curved under, and one ear hung down while the other stood straight up. He was the ugliest thing I had ever seen, and I knew at that moment that I was in love.

“He’s an ‘Imposs-i-Bull,'” Jason explained. He had found a sign in the elevator at the vet school. One of the school’s vet techs bred champion French bulldogs and champion bullmastiffs. She had over twenty years of success with each breed. Because of the size difference, she didn’t think that it was physically possible for them to mate. She was wrong. Modo was the offspring of a 23-pound French bulldog mother and a 126-pound bullmastiff father. He was the last puppy she still had, the ugly little runt of a litter of four. Of course Jason would bring him home.

It didn’t take long to come up with a name for this strange, freakish puppy. Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame, known for his physical deformities, yet proven to be kind at heart, was named Quasimodo–which in Latin translates to “almost the standard measure.” Modo’s stange appearance frightened many, yet he had a sweet and gentle nature. He was too large and looming for a French bulldog, but not quite big enough to be a bullmastiff. He grew to become a 60-pound dog, but never reached over about two feet tall at the shoulders, short and squat with an enormous chest and head. Jason told me while he was still a puppy that because of his physical deformities, he probably would not live as long as most other dogs–eight or so years at the most. But everyone who met him, even people who professed to not like dogs, loved this odd creature.

As Modo began to grow into his giant head, he was a constant source of amusement for us. Always adapting to his strange body, he learned to walk sideways down stairs, to keep his heavy skull from getting him off-balance and causing him to tumble down head first. He frequently fell face-first into his food and water bowls, then would awkwardly regain his balance to come over and give us a sloppy wet kiss as we laughed at his expense. He loved to bask in the sun in our front yard, not moving for hours, greatly resembling a giant gargoyle lawn ornament. He was the pleasant host at all of our crawfish boils, attended vet school and law school parties, and befriended people and dogs of all breeds and sizes. One year he indulged in too many appetizers before our Christmas party. He would clear the room with his gassy emissions, and we would put him outside in the back yard. He would circle around the house and re-enter with the next group of guests before the next emission would unpleasantly remind us of his presence.

Always gentle and patient, Modo was the perfect babysitter when Claudia was born. She learned to crawl by trying to keep up with him, and he would indulge her for hours as she sat on his back and pulled on his ears as reigns. When our parents would come to visit, they would stay with Claudia while Jason and I were at school. Modo would shadow them closely to be sure his baby was safe. When Claudia was about a year old, her Uncle Matt was tossing her in the air. She would squeal in delight and laughter. Modo was not sure this was safe. He gently, but firmly grabbed Matt’s arm in his mouth and guided him to the floor. No horseplay was allowed on Modo’s watch.

However, it was a few months later when Modo proved to be my true Guardian Protector. It was December, and I was just finishing  my second year of law school semester exams. Claudia was about 18-months-old, and I was about 8-months pregnant with Isabella. Jason was doing a preceptorship at Audubon Zoo in New Orleans, and he only came home on the weekends. I was home alone with Claudia during the week. It was about midnight, and I was asleep in my bed with Claudia by my side. Modo was asleep on the floor next to my bed. I awoke to a strange, electric feeling in the room, and looked down at Modo. He was crouched, but his posture was erect, ready to spring. His hair was on end, hackles raised, and a deep rumbling growl pressed from his chest. He was staring through the bedroom door at our glass front door. I slowly and quietly shifted positions so that I could see what he could see, and I was instantly gripped in fear. Silhouetted by a full moon behind him, a man was on our front porch, quietly trying to pry our lock open. I was trapped. Pregnant, with my young child asleep at my side, the only phone was in direct view of the door. The old lock surely would not be hard to pry open, and it would only be moments before this man was in my house. Before I had time to think, Modo slowly moved from his crouching position and crept toward the door. When he was about three body lengths from the door, he sprang–leaping at the door and crashing his enormous chest against the frame as monstrous snarls roared from his throat. The man fell backward over the porch railing and scrambled up to run for safety. I grabbed Claudia, and ran to the phone to call for help, as I watched the man through the window running away, disappearing in the sugar cane. Modo returned to my side, continuing to watch and growl, protecting us with his love.

Modo stayed with us a lot longer than we expected. His life expectation of eight years stretched into thirteen. The dog I didn’t want became the dog I loved the most, my hero and my Guardian Protector. He was my truest friend when I needed him the most.

As he grew older, his days became increasingly painful and confusing for him. Jason and I delayed the decision as long as we could, but it became evident that it was time to release this sweet gargoyle from his awkward and pain-ridden body. Jason gave him morphine for his pain, and he fell into a deep, restful sleep, snoring loudly. True to his spirit, his loud snores made us smile through our tears as we ushered him out of this world and on to the next. I believe he continues to protect me with his love, and he will be waiting for me when it is my time to join him.

Re-Post: Do you love your work?

“Work is love made visible.” –Kahlil Gibran

“If you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work.” –Kahlil Gibran

What is work to you? I’ve had many different jobs–some I loved, and some. . . well, not so much. Today, I do what I do because it’s what I love to do. I work very long days, but my time is flexible. I spend my days in the company of people and animals that I love. I can be availabe to others as they need me. Someone asked me just the other night why I gave up practicing law. There is no pat answer, except that I found something I love more. Think about your job, and what you love. If “work is love made visible,” then what about your work demonstrates what you love?

Today, think about why you work, and more specifically, why you work at the job you have. Remember what it is that you love, and focus on that throughout the day. And if you cannot find what it is that you love in your work, consider making a change. . . . As Lucille Ball said, “Love yourself first and everything else falls into line.”