dogs – aliciajoseph

You Used to be my Valentine

You used to be my Valentine. For fourteen years, the sweetest and most loyal Valentine a girl could want. Always ready for a cuddle. Never backing away from a kiss– And there were many of those cuddles and kisses. Yet, somehow, they now don’t feel like enough.

You used to love me. I used to be your world. Your every day revolved around me. You hated when I’d leave the house, even for a quick grocery run. You waited for me anxiously, as if worried you’d never see me again, and then greeted me as though years had passed since you watched me walk out the door.

That’s a hard love to get over, but I’ve been without you for exactly two months. There are moments I still expect to see your beautiful face in your usual spots, but then reality slaps me in the face, reminding me that you’re no longer here.

It’s a heartbreaking moment because my every day also revolved around you. You also used to be my world, and I miss you so fucking much.

The night after your suffering had ended, I went outside in the front yard. I walked around the trees and imagined your body in front of me. I even looked out for coyotes that I was always certain at any moment would jump out of the shadows and attack you.

I was your protector as much as you were mine.

I imagined us walking back to the front door together and then I headed to the place on the counter where your jar of treats used to be. No matter how sick you were in the end, you never forgot that you were due a treat every time you came in from outside, whether you did anything or not.

Uncle had moved those treats immediately after your body left the house, as well as your dish bowls. It was too hard to see any reminder of you, even though your presence had lingered so heavily in the house in those immediate days after.

Months later, you’re still there.

That night, I brought your bed and favorite blankie downstairs to my room. You hadn’t slept down there in many months.

I had washed your bed after I was sure this was the end. I wanted you to die in a freshly cleaned bed. After a week of lying in it and then dying in it, the bed smelled comfortably like you. So distinct. So safe.

Two months later, with the bed remaining in its place in my room, your scent still keeps me close to you.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

You used to be my Valentine.

For the first time in fourteen years, I won’t have my Valentine cuddling next to me. But I’m in no hurry to find a new one.

You can’t replace perfection.

Phil, you were your Mama’s greatest love, and I can’t wait to see you again and give you a kiss on the top of your nose.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my love. My boy. My Angel.

Phil, My Baby

Despite my constant intention to be more consistent with this blog, (do people even read blogs anymore?) the months soared with not a word written. As the year comes to a wrap, I have neglected not just my blog writing but also my author writing.

Life got chaotic. A sick dog. An unexpected stay by a family member and her dog. Two dogs-one old and sick. The other-healthy but anxious. A young, fearful, and unpredictable dog can be as stressful as a dog who barks in the night to be cared for.

Phil’s illness started in March. Coughing and wheezing through the night, with a very congested nose. A vet appointment resulted in an upper respiratory infection. Antibiotics cured the infection but not the overly snotty (sorry, will be writing about snots a lot) nose. That got worse.

More medication with an antihistamine. Wait for two to three weeks. Nothing. Then stronger meds. Wait more weeks. Still, nothing. My poor baby could barely breathe. Through the night he’d struggle to hock the phlegm free from his nose. I’d be there with tissue to pull the yellow mucous from his nose, stringy and thick like a pulled mozzarella stick (gross but true) from his nostrils.

This went on for months. I kept tissues all over the house to be ready for the boogers. There were plenty.

After another vet appointment, we tried steroids. With a concoction of prednisone, an antibiotic, and five Benadryl tablets a day, Phil could finally breathe easy. After about three months of sleepless nights, Phil and I were finally able to get some sleep.

As is often the case with prednisone, (I know from experience) the drug may ease the intended health issue, but it also causes harsh symptoms of its own. Phil’s back legs grew weaker. Being fifteen, they weren’t strong to begin with. He could no longer climb stairs and needed help getting up. Even with no-slip booties, he has difficulty walking.

The steroids gave him an insatiable thirst and appetite. He was unable to be calm, constantly panting and pacing. I no longer recognized my dog. While the old Phil would lick me all over the face, the sick Phil turned his head from me. I understood the changes he was going through, (I had the same side effects) but he didn’t.

A month later, I called the vet and told him we needed to wean Phil off those crazy pills. His legs slowly got stronger. He still can’t do stairs and a couple of times when the gate wasn’t up, he tried to go downstairs and fell the entire way down. I hurried to him (cursing myself for forgetting to put the gate back up) and plucked him back to his feet. The old dog shook himself off and slowly walked around the entire basement, taking in what used to be his territory.

Since he was already down there, I lifted him onto the couch. We cuddled together like we used to all of those years–14 years (he was two when I adopted him). He misses his basement. That is where we spent the most time together. It’s where we slept and spent lazy days/nights on the couch. It’s where he stood/ lay next to me on the floor while I did yoga–giving me kisses at every opportunity. Sometimes, he’d lie so close to me that his seventy-pound body pressed against mine and I couldn’t move to do yoga or any exercise.

But that’s where he always wanted to be–next to me.

There’s so much I already miss about him. He was a lazy, calm, loving dog that I used to have to wake up at ten because he’d sleep till noon if I’d let him.

Now he wakes up at six with a bark. If he needs me at night, he barks. Sometimes he barks throughout the day just as he lying on his blanket, not seeming to need anything. Except, for a little attention.

It’s a strange feeling, missing your dog while he’s still alive.

I’m missing the way he used to be. The way we used to be together. I didn’t think time would ever change our relationship. But the dynamics of a relationship never lasts for anyone/thing. Not for siblings. Not for parents. Not for friends. Not for lovers. Not even for dogs and their owners.

Everything changes.

I know I just spent my last Thanksgiving with him, and this Christmas will also be Phil’s last. I adopted Phil from Animal Care and Control on December 26,2010. He is a Pitbull mix. Not the type of dog that usually makes its way out of Animal Control with a beating heart.

Five months ago, I didn’t think he’d be alive come Labor Day. Now I have hope he will be with me to celebrate his 14th Gotcha Day with me. Last year, we had a huge birthday party for him. I turned a post-Christmas party with my siblings, nieces, and nephews into a huge birthday celebration.

We had birthday decorations, birthday hats, a birthday cake, and, of course, a birthday song. I’m glad I did that last year. I don’t think my sixteen-year-old doggie will be up for all that commotion this time around the sun. Though, I don’t think he’d mind a birthday cake.

So, Phil is not the same. He barks a lot. He wakes me up at all times of the night/morning. I am sometimes impatient though I try not to be. One day I will miss that bark. I will hear his bark only in my dreams and will wake up hoping it is real, expecting to see him. Then reality will set in. My dog is no longer here. How will I take that?

I don’t yet know. My dog is still here. Upstairs. Sleeping quietly, for now. I will go to him and kiss the top of his nose. Smell is fur. Hold him in my arms. Tonight, I will hear his bark. And no matter how tired I am, I won’t get frustrated, because I’ll remember a time will come when the bark I hear will no longer be real.

Phil Goes to the Park

Phil is a pitbull/lab mix. He’s 14 years old. Will turn 15 in December. I didn’t expect to have him this long. For him to still be with me is a gift, I’m not certain I deserve but will absolutely take.

Three years ago, almost to the date, Phil had liver failure. Early on, the vet told me she didn’t expect him to make it through the weekend. Days spent in tears; nights spent taking him outside every thirty minutes because of the IV fluids he’d been given. I begged. Pleaded for the universe to give me one more year with him, never thinking I’d get three, and still going.

A week before Phil’s health took a dive, we’d spent the day at his favorite park, with a large pond where children fish and plenty of green grass for picnicking. I’d brought a blanket. Read a book while Phil smelled the bushes and, eventually, rolled in the grass. We walked the path that circled the pond, a sign listed the trail at .45 miles.

Even at 11 years old, Phil had tackled that trail twice. A week later, he was dying. It took a couple of months for him to fully recover. By the time he was ready, I, unfortunately, was not. My own health had taken a hit and knocked me down for a couple of years. I missed doing many things– family functions, ball games, concerts, socializing with friends– but especially, taking Phil to the park.

After three years, Phil finally got to go to his favorite park. I had always brought water for him in a blue thermos. I never had to say a word. The moment he’d see me holding the thermos, he knew he was going to the park.

Three years later, Phil hadn’t forgotten that blue thermos. My 14-year-old dog turned into a tail-wagging, energetic puppy when he saw me filling that thermos with water. He knew. If his old legs would have allowed him, he’d have jumped all over me for taking so long to get him into the car.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. Sunny, with a cool breeze. While I was sick, I’d thought about those casual days at the park, sitting on a blanket in the grass, surrounded by water, thick green bushes, and flowers in full bloom, with the sun tingling my skin, and Phil’s doggie kisses wetting my face. I’d missed those days so much.

After three years, we made back to the park together. Though Phil’s legs no longer allow him to walk that trail, not even once, not even halfway, he enjoyed the park just the same. His nose still works, and boy, was he enjoying the scents. His tail never stopped wagging as he sniffed the grass, the bushes, and the trees. We stayed in one general area, as opposed to walking the entire park, but that didn’t bother him.

Dogs aren’t like people. They don’t lament about what they can no longer do but indulge in what they still can. Phil can still walk, albeit slower and not as far. But he took in the sun, the scents, the people…. the moment.

Humans can learn so much from animals.

The car ride there saw a dog perked up in the backseat, face looking out the rolled-down window, mouth open and tongue hanging out with pants of excitement.

The car ride home saw an old dog sprawled out in the backseat–exhausted and sleepy. I wish I had before/after pictures. But I don’t. However, I have other pictures that show Phil enjoyed his day at the park.

No one knows how many days at the park we have left. We should spend them the way dogs do.

Ricky Finds a Home

Last July my dog, Phil, suffered from liver failure. The situation was touch and go for a horrible two weeks. But, against the vet’s grave prognosis, my baby survived. He’s twelve, and though I know he won’t live forever, I was completely unprepared for losing my dog. My baby. My sidekick. The face that makes me smile even when I want to cry. The eyes that watch my every move, because his world revolves around me as much as my world revolves around him, maybe even more so.

During that miserable time of not knowing whether or not Phil would turn that miraculous corner to recovery, I was consumed with the idea of losing him. I didn’t eat. I cried when I held him and buried my tears in his fur. He seemed to know his precarious situation, but never gave up. I love him so much for that.

But all through that time and after, I only considered my loss of losing him. What I would have done. What my life would be like, while never considering his loss should something happen to me. I know he waits for me when I leave the house, as all dogs do, but how would they feel, how would they react, if we never make it back home to them?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot since last month, when a neighbor passed away suddenly. She had a dog, Ricky. We used to walk our dogs together, along with another neighbor and her little dog. The woman’s parents could not take Ricky, he didn’t get along with their own dog. This woman had no brothers or sisters. They didn’t know a lot of people who could, or would, take Ricky in. He went with a family friend, but that didn’t work out.

I volunteer at a shelter. I’ve seen many dogs come to the shelter in the way of Ricky’s predicament. Through no fault of their own, they lose their owners to death, and there is no one to take them in. So these dogs, used to living in a home filled with stability, love, security, now come to a shelter filled with loud chaos and uncertainty. Even the best shelters are a scary place to a dog who has only known a house as a home.

Luckily, Ricky didn’t have to meet that fate. My neighbor with the small dog took him in. She had the intention of keeping him, but two dogs were a bit too much for her. But she was determined to keep him until she could find a home for him, which wasn’t hard at all because Ricky is adorable.

Last week, Ricky went to his third home in less than a month. This was a friend of a friend, so my neighbor passed Ricky off confident he would be well-taken care of. I often wondered for those weeks that my neighbor had him what he was thinking. Did he think his mommy would come for him soon? Was he waiting for her? Did he miss his home and wonder why he was moving to different places? We avoided walking Ricky down the street he used to live. We didn’t want to confuse him.

But then on the day he was leaving, I took Ricky for a walk and thought maybe it was the right time for him to say goodbye to his old home. We walked down his street. He definitely knew where he was. He lead me straight to the familiar place, sat down in the driveway, and stared at the house. He didn’t try to pull me to the door, which I was glad for.

Ricky’s mom’s name was Tracy. She didn’t die at home, but if spirits find their way back home no matter where we pass, maybe she was there to see him one last time.

I hope so.

I thought about Phil, remembering what I went through when I thought I was losing him, but we need to consider what our furbabies go through when they lose us. Luckily, I don’t have to worry about Phil going to a shelter or being shuffled to three different houses. He has an uncle and aunties who love him, and who he loves, especially his uncle.

Uncle is his favorite.

Phil and uncle

My Dog, Phil.

phil-sick-3

My dog, Phil, has arthritis, mostly in his right back leg. So when he started favoring that leg, I gave him an anti-inflammatory I keep on hand for such occasions. Within a couple days, the limp went away and I stopped giving the anti-inflammatories. But four days after the initial limp in his right leg, Phil started hobbling, while favoring his left hind leg. This was unusual. The left leg wasn’t the usual favored leg, and the limp was never that drastic. So I called the vet the next morning and got Phil in for an examination that day. The doctor felt a tear, but I would need to see a surgeon to confirm. In the meantime, Phil’s anti-inflammatory was upped in dosage. This was on a Friday. By Thursday of the following week, my dog was dying of liver failure.

I had an appointment with the surgeon on Wednesday (before I knew about his failing liver), and a few nights before this, Phil was throwing up and not eating. I chucked it up to the stress he must have been feeling related to his injured leg. But blood tests showed morbidly high levels of liver enzymes, and I wasn’t prepared for the call from the surgeon telling me she was extremely concerned about my dog.

Just a few weeks ago, he’d been a completely happy and healthy dog. For an eleven-year old, Phil had avoided major health issues until now. Other than the usual yearly check-ups, I’d only had to take Phil to the doctor for an innocuous eye infection and common stomach issues. So it was crushing to accept that my dog was suddenly sick enough to die.

Phil sick

I spoke with my vet, and Phil was immediately given fluids that evening and put on seven different medications. His eyes and gums were heavily jaundiced, and it worried me. The hope was that we’d get enough fluids in his body to flush the liver. He was drinking on his own, but hardly eating, even with an appetite stimulant, but at least what he was eating, he was keeping down. Our go-to food was my mom’s homemade meatballs. Even with a failing liver, homemade Italian food was apparently hard to resist.

For the next few days, he went to the vet for IV fluids. After five days of almost no improvement, the doctor told me she wasn’t very hopeful, but if this was her dog, she’d give him a couple more days. A couple more days? Those words cut me deep. We were standing in the vet parking lot. The tears were hard to stop, though I don’t remember trying.

While Phil was at the vet getting fluids, I spent the time without him browsing through pictures on my phone, some taken at a park a mere two weeks before this happened. Those were emotional pictures to look at, because I knew the me in those pictures, with my dog, couldn’t fathom the reality that was in store in the short future.

Phil sick 5

I couldn’t stand being without him all day while he got his fluids, and I thought if my time with him was limited, I needed to be with him as much as I could. The vet agreed and she gave me fluids to put under his skin at home. You don’t go through a vein, you just stick a needle, attached to a long tube connected to a bag of fluids, in his skin. My brother did the honors of sticking him. I just couldn’t do it.

My brother loves that dog as much as I do. All you have to do is utter the word “Uncle” in front of Phil, and Phil’ll jump to his feet, tail speed-waggin’, in search of his favorite person. It’s heart-warming knowing my dog is so well-loved by people other than myself. Aside from his “Uncle”, Phil has a “Grandma”, “Aunties”, and “Cousins” who were all concerned for him. I had so much support from my family, I never went to a vet appointment alone. My brother was with me for every one of them, as well as for the fluids done at home

Phil loves sitting outside in the grass, so we sat outside as much as he wanted. Because Phil was filled with so much fluids, he needed to go out three or four times during the night. At three o’clock in the morning one night, Phil wanted to lie underneath a tree, near the street in front of our house, his favorite spot. It was a still and cool late July night, and I sat beside him and watched him take the night in. Phil was always so content and happy being outside.

One Sunday afternoon, a few days later, we sat underneath that same tree, and I thought this would be our last Sunday afternoon together. I kept noting the time, so that the next Sunday, I could look at the clock and say “at this time last week, I was lying in the grass with my baby”. Or, “At this time, I was rubbing Phil’s stomach.” I wanted to be able to look back on that Sunday and remember how every moment was spent with him. I was so conscious of my time with him. I suppose that’s what you do when you think you are living your last moments with a dog who is your everything.

The only other thing Phil loved more than sitting outside, was going to the park. My brother and I took him for a ride to his favorite place, and we took a lot of pictures. I hated thinking this was the end, but I wanted these days documented. I wanted to be able to look back at the possible last days of my dog’s life and know that despite everything he was going through, Phil was happy. I didn’t like thinking that way, but the vet’s words of hopelessness never left my mind, though it was hard to accept.

Still, after those “couple of days” the vet said she’d give her dog had passed, there was no doubt we were continuing with treatment. After a few more days of fluids and medication, we did another blood test, and though the levels were still high, they were lower than the previous test. And that was all the hope I needed. And when you’re pathetically desperate, as I was, all you can ask for is hope. Phil was still jaundiced, but we continued on.

About three weeks after getting the blood results that had showed his liver was failing, another blood test revealed all of his levels were back to normal. My dog survived liver failure. It is a major understatement to say that I am relieved and so appreciative to be allowed more time with my baby.

As Phil continues to age, I knew this wouldn’t be the last of his ailments, but I didn’t expect the next thing to happen so soon. The day after that last blood test, I noticed Phil’s right ear looked a little red. I thought it maybe have been an allergic reaction to something, so I left it be. But the next day it was even redder, so I called the vet. By the time I got an appointment, the infection was in both ears. A double ear infection seemed so innocuous compared to the liver failure he’d just survived, so I wasn’t very concerned. Phil was prescribed ear drops, but after three days of giving him those drops, my dog had completely lost his hearing.

I called the vet, and was told an ingredient in the drops, gentamicin, can cause hearing loss. The vet expected Phil’s hearing to come back after a couple days and periodic flushing, but it’s been five days now, and he still can’t hear his mommy’s voice.

In the last two months, Phil tore his ACL, survived liver failure, and is currently deaf. I wonder what is going through his mind. I know he’s confused, because he’s even needier towards me than he used to me. It’s as though he needs extra reassurance from his momma that he’s gonna be okay.

I haven’t given up hope that he will hear again, cuz what do you have if you haven’t got hope? If we got through liver failure together, we’ll get through this. Despite what happens, Phil will be okay because he’s loved so much, and I can only hope that he knows it.

Please Adopt Your Next Pet. A Life is Waiting to be Saved.

Tonight I saw a disgusting video of a sick fuck piling innocent and beautiful dogs into a large steel bin, close the lid, and gas them all to death. I don’t know where this took place or if any effort was made to find these precious babies homes, or if he networked with a rescue, but all the dogs are dead.

Some dogs went into the crate with no fuss, trusting the arms that carried them, unaware of their own tragic fate, while others put up a struggle they lost.

Death is the sad reality for millions of homeless dogs and cats because there aren’t enough people adopting. We have a dog and cat overpopulation problem in America. People aren’t neutering their pets, while others are irresponsibly over-breeding dogs, and pet stores are selling dogs from over-crowded puppy mills where they are inhumanely treated — all for profit.

I have a very hard time understanding why people go anywhere but a shelter for their pets. I’ve heard all the reasons: “I want a puppy.” Believe it or not, there TONS of puppies at shelters. Or, “I want a certain breed.” There are shelters dedicated to rescuing specific breeds. Or, “I want to be cool and have an expensive, unique-looking designer dog.” Okay, this last one I made up, but I imagine that’s what people want when they drop thousands of dollars for their custom-made pet that will be given some fancy, foo-foo made-up breed name when really all the dog is, is a mutt — just like the millions of adorable mixed breeds dying in shelters every day.

I cried when I watched this video tonight. I’m not sure how anyone with a soul couldn’t. However, if anyone who watches videos of innocent dogs being killed feels outraged, but gets their pets from a pet store or breeder then dry your tears because you are part of the problem. You are the reason why dogs are being killed every year by the millions.

If you shop for you pets, or breed your pets, or don’t neuter your pets, then pat yourselves on the backs because you have contributed to the deaths of millions of innocent dogs.

I know, I know. We all have the right to get our dogs where ever we want. Free country and all, but please save your tears or your horror when you see dogs being killed for lack of homes because you are part of the problem, not the solution.

Below is the video of this heart-wrenching murder of innocent dogs. I hope anyone who goes to pet stores or breeders for their dogs will change their minds and visit their local shelter instead.

Did you know

Love Dogs? Then Boycott China

My Twitter feed has blown up with tweets about the upcoming horrendous Yulin Dog Meat Festival that is set to take place on the summer solstice. If you don’t know about this barbaric festival, take a moment to Google it, and then do what you can to raise awareness. Tweet, donate, share on social media. I have signed petitions and tweeted up a storm against last year’s festival, but the festivities went on, and over 10,000 dogs and cats were stolen from streets and backyards to become someone’s meal in the most brutal way.

It is utterly disgusting. I don’t think that tweeting and signing petitions are enough. Short of flying to China myself and rescuing as many dogs as I can, the only thing I can think to do from here is to boycott everything that is China.

How hard would it be to boycott Chinese products? I don’t know because I’ve never tried it before, but I’m bracing myself for a huge challenge. A call to boycott “Made in China” isn’t new. Most likely everyone’s heard that cry before. I do try to be a conscientious consumer (although I really hate referring to people as consumers, because we are so much more than consuming maniacs, at least we should be, but I will call myself a consumer in this case), especially when it comes to the food I buy.

I am not an over-shopper. I hate shopping. Usually something has to break before I consider replacing it. I finally bought a new phone last month after three years with my old one, a Motorola that most likely was made in China, by a six year old, even though Motorola is an American company. (Yeah, this boycott’s gonna be tough.) It’s not that I suddenly got sick of my old phone. It lasted a long time, especially considering that I didn’t buy it new. The thing just suddenly stopped sending texts, and probably receiving them, too.

When I told a friend about my plan to boycott all that is China, he informed me that if I shop at Walmart that it would be impossible to find anything that isn’t made in China in that store. Luckily, I don’t shop at Walmart. I can probably count on both hands the amount of times I have stepped into that store in my life. I stay away because of what I believe are unfair employment practices.

Since I won’t even buy food for my dog that was made in China, because of the many recalls pertaining to food and treats for dogs in recent years that were made in the country, steering away from food made in China shouldn’t be difficult at all.

However, it is my plan in the next few months to buy a new computer. And this is where the Chinese boycott may prove difficult. The desktop I am currently working on is eight years old, and, like my phone, I believe that too was bought refurbished. I would have to call an ex-girlfriend if I really want to confirm this, because she’s the one who bought the computer for me, but the specifics aren’t that important to me. I won’t be making any phone calls to her anytime soon. So, the question is, can I find a computer that isn’t made in China? I’ll soon find out.

I also need a new desk chair because the one I just threw out was, no kidding, twenty-one years old. I did not buy that new either. I didn’t buy it at all, actually. The chair was given to me by my sister’s boyfriend at the time. I was looking for a chair and he had one he wasn’t using. It was a comfortable chair. A lot more comfortable than the temporary seat I am sitting in right now. Will I find a comfy desk chair that isn’t made in China? Again, I’ll soon find out.

In the much more distant future, I will hopefully be looking to purchase a new car NOT made in China, rather America, preferably. I am currently driving a ten-year old Dodge. Knock on wood, the car’s been good to me. And I’ve been happy with it. Like my old phone, my computer, and my old chair, the car, too, was not bought new. This lack of “newness” in my life never occurred to me until now. I guess I just don’t need “shiny and new” all the time.

I like broken-in. Worn. Reliable. Experienced.

I am starting my boycott on all Chinese products today. I know the country won’t feel my sole boycott in the slightest, and children and women will still be forced to work long hours at slave wages in deplorable conditions. And, most likely, the horrific Yulin Dog Meat Festival will still go on this year.

But at least I will no longer be contributing to a country’s barbarities.

I’m through with you China.

made-in-china-boycott

Photo is public domain.

Even Animals Know a Good Day

It’s Friday. That fact alone is cause for celebration for most people. But when forecasts call for a beautiful and sunny Friday, in a season that has consisted of temperatures that have kept most people in doors, it would be no shock to learn if bosses all across the state woke up to early calls from employees suddenly too sick to come to work.

The temperature hovers near 60 degrees, up from freezing temps only a week ago. Aside from being a little windy, the day is almost perfect. One can feel a shift in the air. Daylight is hanging around a little longer. I heard birds chirping in trees they hadn’t been gathered in for a while.

A change of seasons is soon to begin.

Phil seems to sense something is different, too. He was sitting by the door this afternoon and when I let him out he stood on the patio and lifted his face against the wind. He closed his eyes and sat still for a couple moments. I knew then that he wanted to be outside just to be outside. His waiting by the door wasn’t for his usual doggie business. No, he wanted to be outside to enjoy the gorgeous day because even animals know a beautiful day when they see one.

So I brought his bed out and as soon as I laid the bed down, he plopped himself comfortably inside it. I wrapped him in a blanket because of the wind and Phil loves his blankies so he seemed happy. I watched him for a while from inside the house. I smiled at his sense of calmness and satisfaction. I left him be and went downstairs and wrote a little until I heard him barking to come back inside. (I suppose one needs a break from even the most gorgeous of days.)

Once he was inside the house, he lingered near the glass sliding door as though he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the beautiful day just yet. So I dropped his bed beside the door and watched him lay in it and plop his head against the cushion and watch the outside with an aura of peaceful contentment.

As a doggie momma it was very satisfying to see my baby living such a pleasing moment and I reflected on the animals who will never live the kind of day my dog has realized today. Whether it be mother dogs crammed inside small cages in puppy mills where they are bred until they are dry, without any veterinary care.

Or farm animals trapped inside dingy over-crowded factories who’ve never felt grass beneath their feet or felt the warmth of the sun against their skin. Animals love nature and need it as much as humans do because even animals know a good day.

Time to End BSL. It’s Discrimination.

In December, 2010 I adopted a dog named, Phil. The same dog who is asleep right now in a tangled mess of sheets in my bed. The same dog I have been obsessed with since the day I brought him home. He is a pit/lab mix and I didn’t even consider the “pit” part of him when I saw him on Pet Harbor and decided to drive to Animal Control to visit him. I love Labradors. It was the Lab in him that caught my eye, but the pit bull mix part didn’t deter me in anyway because I had no preconceived notions about pit bulls. I guess I wasn’t paying much attention to mainstream media news that love to portray pit bulls as inherently mean and aggressive dogs who want to do nothing but tear your limbs apart.

With all dogs come the possibility of a bite if the dog is mistreated, teased, or trained to be aggressive. And we know that pit bulls are the most abused breed out there. Every day I am so grateful that I didn’t let ignorance prevent me from bringing Phil home. But when I ask myself if my decision would have been different if I’d been paying a little more attention to the negative portrayal of pit bulls in the news headlines, and I wonder if Phil would be sleeping peacefully in my bed right now. I’m not sure. And that scares the hell out of me because Phil had already been with Animal Care and Control for a couple months by the time I got to him.

In fact, when I brought him in for his veterinary check-up shortly after adopting him, the Dr. told me she was surprised he was kept that long. I was crushed. Over-crowded kill shelters don’t give dogs a lot of time to find homes. And most of these shelters, especially city shelters where I found Phil, seem to be filled with mostly pit bulls, a breed not everyone is willing to bring home. (But I know from experience they are missing out on a great breed of dog.)

As a pit bull owner, I am really concerned about Breed Specific Legislation. BSL does nothing but make it harder for dogs like Phil to find homes. I didn’t know about BSL when I brought Phil home. I didn’t know there could have been external factors preventing me from having Phil as a pet, a companion. Phil has been an amazingly loving dog to me for six amazing years and it infuriates me to think that some city ban, or insurance policy, or association could have told me Phil wasn’t allowed to stay with me.

But yet, some people have to adhere to ordinances placed by people who have never known a pit bull personally (I am sure of this because to know a pit bull is to love a pit bull) and as a result, great dogs never make it out of shelters alive.

People who support BSL believe it is an effective way to prevent dog attacks by basically profiling and discriminating against a specific breed. Even though that “specific breed” has no “specific look” because it includes over five different breeds, including mixes, the legislation continues to ban dogs whether that particular dogs is a danger to society or not.

The term “pit bull” is actually an umbrella reference to include up to five different breed of dogs and mixes. There is no set rule to determine if a dog is actually a pit bull. If a dog looks strong and has a big head, it most likely will be deemed a pit bull, thus decreasing the odds that dog will find a home, despite how sweet and loving the dog may be, and also puts the dog at risk of being a victim of BSL.

BSL wreaks of mistaken identity and unfair judgement that cost innocent dogs their lives. Phil doesn’t know that being part pit bull means he’s supposed to be mean because all he wants to do is cuddle with his blankies and give sloppy kisses.

If the town I live in passed BSL they could legally force me to muzzle my dog any time he is in public despite the face that he has never bitten anyone as long for as I’ve had him.

If you’re interested in learning more about BSL and why it’s not effective, please visit the link below.

http://www.realpitbull.com/laws.html

And if you’re looking for a pet, please visit your local shelter or Animal Control. Please don’t be put off if your shelter has an influx of pit bulls because despite being given the same generic breed name, all of these dogs are so different in looks and personalities.

My baby taking an afternoon nap in his mama’s bed

Don’t Just Read the Label. See the Dog!

The shelter I volunteer for caps how many pit bulls it will take in at one time. I understand their reasoning for doing this, even though I don’t like it, but this practice won’t change until the stereotype changes. Dogs labeled “pit bull” take longer to adopt out because people are scared of them. Or their insurance won’t cover them. Or their city has banned the breed. (Technically, “pit bull” isn’t a breed. It’s an umbrella term that unfairly covers multiple breeds and mixes.)

One of the pit bull mixes sitting at my shelter right now is named Gipsy, and she’s such a wonderful dog. If all goes right today, I will be with her in a few hours, playing with the tennis balls she loves so much. She is playful and sweet and loves human interaction, especially if that human has a tennis ball in his/her hand.

The second she walks into one of the yards, she’s searching for a ball, and if she doesn’t find one, she’ll walk to the fence and sit patiently in front of the toy box she knows her beloved balls are, on the other side of the fence. And if you aren’t quick enough in getting there, she may cast you an anxious look as if to say, “WTF are you waiting for? You know I only have fifteen minutes out here.”

It always amazes me how much dogs live in the moment. They take in every moment they have when outside. They don’t worry about when they’ll be taken back to their kennels, surrounded by other scared and anxious barking dogs. They just enjoy the time they have outside doing what they love.

It makes me reflect on how much time (moments) people waste worrying about what will happen three minutes, three hours, or even three years from now. Dogs don’t do that. They savor the moment they’re living AS they’re living it.

I hope all dogs in shelters find homes real soon because they’re all so deserving. We get dogs from all kinds of despicable situations – dogs picked up as homeless strays, dogs taken from neglectful or abusive homes living in vile conditions, dogs used as bait dogs, dogs who’ve been tied to a tree their entire lives. There are so many heart-wrenching scenarios and it’s so heart-warming when they finally find a loving furever home. But the dogs I wish for the most are the ones who have the most decks stacked against them – the pit bulls.

Gipsy shouldn’t be waiting so long for her furever home. She’ll make a loyal and loving pet for any lucky family out there. But instead of walking by her kennel, like so many people do, someone has to actually look and see her, instead of the label card hanging outside her kennel stating “pit bull mix,” and pass her by.

Gipsy is lucky to have ended up at my shelter because we are a no-kill shelter. So she will be with us however how long it takes for her to find a home, but so many pit bulls out there aren’t so lucky. They have no idea their time is about to run out.

If you’re thinking about getting a pet, please consider adopting at your local shelter. Most pet stores get their puppies from puppy mills.

Check out this cutie below. Gipsy knows how to play, (see how agile she is!) but she also knows how to chill. Plus, she’s got the best darn eyes I’ve ever seen on a dog.