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Out of the Mouths of Babes
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Empath, Voyeur or Action? What Type of Advocate Are You?
by Gretchen Pachlhofer, co-founder of www.untoldanimalstories.org
Let’s face it. If you are reading this blog, you are an animal advocate. You love to read stories about animals and nature. It touches that chord, deep inside you, the place that very few humans allow themselves to venture. It’s a special place deep within ourselves that we tuck tightly away for fear of our true feelings being exposed to those around us. That is the source of the feelings that allows us to honor animals. Animals allow us to stop, and feel, and experience being in the present moment.
Empathy for animals is the key ingredient that allows us to take the first step in helping all creatures great and small. Whether it be a stray cat, a dog that has been dumped on the side of the road, or a bird that has fallen out of the nest, there is no way we can just turn away and ignore the situation. If you choose to actually stop and do something to contribute to the given situation, you have just entered the world of being an Action Advocate. Congratulations!
Another choice is to be a Voyeur Advocate for animals. You read the blogs, you identify with the feelings that are unlocked inside as you immerse yourself in your own private reading experience. It make you feel good to read all the wonderful stories that others have chosen to share. Now, I’d like to just toss this out to you—what would happen if you made the choice to take the next step and actually DO SOMETHING to help animals? What would it feel like to actually BECOME an Action Advocate?
I want to share my recent story with y’all (yes, I am from Texas) and hopefully you can take the giant step forward and join me.
I recently relocated to a rural area of the Texas Hill Country. I sold my business and now have a choice to continue to make a difference for animals. I found a group of women who run a shelter located on a ranch in acute need of regular volunteers to help care for the dogs and cats in their facility. I chose to make a commitment to volunteer once a week for 3-4 hours. Volunteering is such a rewarding experience and the animals give back ten times of the effort I give weekly. I jokingly call it my “therapy time” but there is a lot of truth to that statement.
So all of you reading this, I want to throw something out to you. Over the next couple of weeks, think of something you can DO for animals, then TAKE ACTION and do it. And then, if you feel inclined, chime in and tell us what you did. This is not a contest. The purpose is to create a community for Untold Animal Stories for all of us to share and become more interactive. Email us at untoldanimalstories@gmail.com
You Can Save This Iraqi Kitten…Really
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Lars
by Keith Barnaby*
My name is Lars. I used to be an outdoor cat. My people would let me out to roam my domain, explore, and hunt. Over time, other outdoor cats came and went in my neighborhood. I was friends with some, especially Shadow, another young male. We played and teamed up to defend against other cats who entered our lands.
One day Shadow disappeared, and his people brought home another cat, an unspayed female. She had many kittens, the kittens had kittens, and their ranks grew exponentially. Pretty soon there were lots of cats. Unlike Shadow, the young males didn’t like me and my life changed.
Now when I crossed onto Shadow’s and my old lands, I was the one being attacked. I fought but was bitten badly. My face swelled and my people took me to a man who made me feel better.
Why I returned to Shadow’s lands, I do not know. Why I stood my ground and fought the cats instead of avoiding a fight I could not win, I do not know, but I did so repeatedly. And this time I was hurt worse than ever before.
Once I healed, my people kept me inside. They made a new room for me on the side of my house with soft walls through which I can smell and see birds and passing cats. One day a cat came too close. I hissed and lunged, forgetting about the see-through wall. I bounced off it backward. The cat was so surprised he ran away. I acted like I meant to do it, and licked my paw in a dignified manner. Taught him!
I don’t mind being an indoor cat. My people put a little swinging flap in the front door so I can go out to my special outside room any 
time. When I see a bird, I crouch low, stare, and think, “One, two, three…gotcha!” Then I curl up and go to sleep.
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A 2013 Nature Communications study estimated that outdoor cats kill more than 1.4 billion birds annually. To protect wildlife—and your cats—please keep them indoors.
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*Keith Barnaby owns www.youreldercare.com and helps seniors and their families save money, time, and pain with a flexible, customized elder life plan.
Angela Bassett Hound
by Cherie Damron (co-founder of Untold Animal Stories)
A few years ago I moved back to the small town in rural NC where I grew up. I started volunteering at the local animal shelter, photographing adoptable dogs and cats for the shelter’s Petfinder.com site and the “Pet of the Week” feature in the local paper. I’ve always had a soft spot for seniors and animals with special needs, shy pets, and animals needing assistance. I started a small rescue service, taking as many of the dogs as I could that weren’t likely to be put up for adoption, finding foster homes for them or working with other rescues outside of the area (usually in the northeast).
One day in May 2007, Animal Control was called to come and pick up Angela, a 6-year old female basset hound, and take her to be put down. Her back legs had become paralyzed and she was unable to walk or urinate on her own. Had Angela gone to the shelter, she would have been immediately euthanized (there is no “hold period” for owner surrenders of high-needs/unadoptable pets).
The Animal Control officer knew I loved hounds and called me as she was leaving Angela’s house to see if I were willing to take her. I met the truck before it arrived at the shelter and took Angela directly to our veterinarian. He explained the surgery that was needed, which had to be done at a specialty hospital, and left it up to me and my partner, John, to make our decision. There was no decision to make for me, and when John looked into those big, sad basset eyes as Angela sat crumpled in the corner of the exam room, he knew we were about to embark on a very expensive, difficult mission.
Off we went to the Veterinary Specialty Hospital in Cary, NC. Doc called ahead to schedule surgery to correct the two ruptured disk in her spine. The surgery had to take place within 24 hours of injury or the likelihood of her walking again would be slim. Angela was taken in to surgery that night.
Angela came through the surgery very well, although bloodwork revealed that she is Heartworm Positive and has antibodies for both Erlichiosis and Rocky Mtn. Spotted Fever, 2 tick-borne diseases. I brought her home from the hospital two days later. Angela was still unable to walk or urinate on her own at that time; however, she had no problem wagging her tail!
By Day 4 Angela was going to the bathroom on her own and there was very slight movement in each of her back legs. By Day 9 she was still unable to support her weight or walk without a sling, but there was a great deal of movement in her legs and she “pedalled” in the air as if she were walking.
Exactly three weeks after surgery, Angela took a few steps on her own without the assistance of the sling. Five days later, she was walking completely unassisted by a sling, and although slightly wobbly, she was able to stand still and support herself without swaying from side to side.
A week later Angela had a setback—she became depressed, lethargic, and stopped eating entirely. She had a temperature of 105.5, and a full-blown case of Erlichiosis. Four days of hospitalization, IV fluids, and antibiotics later, she was on the mend but fragile.
She came through that, completed her Heartworm treatment, and just prior to her spay surgery, Angela’s teats started growing and she began “nesting” type behavior. There was no possibility of pregnancy, as she hadn’t been in contact with any except my pets, and mine were all neutered. Our vet suspected a “pseudo-pregnancy,” which I had never even heard of. We went ahead with the spay surgery and the pseudo-pregnancy was confirmed.
Finally the medical procedures were done and Angela could start being a dog. Throughout her recovery her personality blossomed. Angela Bassett Hound has become a fun, happy lady with a huge voice and a very, very big heart. She loves everyone she meets. Now, 6 1/2 years after her surgery, at almost 13 years old, Angela has moved across country twice, attended Basset Tea Parties” with founders, and although she is slowing down a bit, she now loves to run and play on the beaches of Cape Cod. I am so very grateful that I’ve had the chance to have this wonderful being in my life.
The Starry Night Was My Blanket
My path here was roundabout, here being a place with space to roam and explore within a context of belonging. Here I’ve come to know something I’d not known before: trust. Sometimes it feels foreign, and I retreat back to my native high alertness.
I had lived on a ranch where I had a job to do: tending the livestock. I took my job seriously and performed it with singular focus, but the time came when the cattle were moved and the people left. I ran after their truck, sure there had been some mistake, until I could run no longer. I returned to the empty place; knowing no other place else since puppyhood, I stayed.
There was a trickle of water at the edge of the property from which I drank. I passed my days foraging for food. The starry night was my blanket, the warm sun my companion, the rain my welcome, thirst-quenching friend. And so I passed my time.
One day I saw a car coming from a distance, a cloud of dust trailing behind it. People I didn’t know emerged from the car. It was the woman who saw me first, pointing me out to the others then calling to me. I approached her cautiously.
She stooped down, holding her hand out to me. I looked into her eyes then walked to her. She touched my forehead, my ears, my neck and spoke to me quietly. I didn’t understand her words, but I understood her. She placed her hand on my spiny back, each finger resting in an indent between my ribs.
They took me to their house. I hung behind as we walked in, as I’d never before been inside a house. A cat at the far side of the room arched his back and widened his eyes. I looked toward the woman for reassurance, who nodded. I moved slowly toward the cat, my head hung low to show respect. I reached my neck forward and touched his nose with my nose. The cat sat down and began bathing his paw. I went back and stood beside the woman, glancing up to her to make sure I’d done the right thing. She placed her hand gently on my head. I closed my eyes.
These days, there is a cedar-smelling bed near the woodstove and bowls of fresh food and water for me, always. Sometimes I walk to the far edge of the property and sit on the bluff. From there I gaze out toward the place I used to live and back toward the place I now call home. I almost always lay my head on my paws and, under the big sky, doze. Later, I rise, shake myself off, and follow the familiar path home. There, I am greeted with love, always.
•photo by untoldanimalstories.org co-founder Cherie Damron, http://cdamron.exposuremanager.com/
Part II – I Was Born on an Amish Farm in the Middle of Winter
For part 1: https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/09/13/i-was-born-in-the-middle-of-winter/
The man and woman said thank you to the people, talked to me kindly, and we left. As we moved along, I saw a flash of gray fur streak across the field and into the barn. My brother.
They took me to a family who adopted me. There were new smells and places to investigate, and two kids who cooed, named me Mr. Bean, and almost never put me down. Best of all, there was another cat, Gracie. She looked like a paler version of my mother. I walked over to her, excited to have her company. She pulled herself up to her full height, narrowed her eyes at me, and took a few aimless swipes. The people scolded her, scooped me up, and held me. They commented on how sweet and docile I was.
I divided my time between being held, trying to make friends with 
Gracie, eating, and sleeping. I slept a lot because even though I was happy and warm, I didn’t feel all that well.
The vet came to the house and sat on the floor with me, prodding and poking me, which I did not appreciate. She told my people I had worms and gave me foul-tasting pills.
One morning I woke up and felt different. The sun came blazing in the window and my body felt alive, so I tore around the house like a maniac. Gracie took to high ground. I paused, mid-stride. It occurred to me that she was a wonderful, large target….
to be continued
For Part III: https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/09/27/part-iii-i-was-born-on-an-amish-farm-in-the-middle-of-winter/
Frank Sinatra
Why they named me Frank Sinatra, I am not sure. The neighbors laugh every time they say the name. From what I understand, Frank was a singer. Perhaps they named me because of my voice. I wouldn’t say it’s mellifluous, like the birds that live at the borders of our pasture, but to my ears the intake breath sound of Hee and outflow breath sound of Haw have a nice, solid sound, like large farm machinery scraping across the floorboards of the barn. I like that. It makes me less lonely for my kin.
I do have a friend. He’s a horse who shares the pasture and barn with me. His name is Fred. No last name. Wherever he goes, I follow. Mostly he doesn’t mind, but sometimes he swings around toward me with flattened ears, so I back up a few paces. A little later, when he’s not paying attention, I sidle up and stand near him. I’m quite a bit shorter than Fred, but I feel that my being near him somehow adds to my stature.
We came here from different places—here being this roomy pasture with a barn, and a man and woman who live in the stone house. Fred traded hands many times. He made friends at the first few places, but with each subsequent trade he kept more and more to himself. He told me, What’s the use in making friends when humans can decide at any time to send you somewhere else? Horses have no choice. We’re compliant, and we withstand all sorts of things. But that doesn’t mean that our hearts are resilient.
Fred came here five years ago. I don’t think he or I are going anywhere. That’s the feeling I get from our people, and I’ve overheard them talking about letting us live out our days here. Still, Fred keeps himself a little apart from me, just in case. Once in a while, Fred touches my neck with his nose and I bow my head in gratitude.
The man and woman take him on trail rides now and then. Sometimes I go along, led by a long rope. I like the change of view and I’m happy not to have all that saddle and gear strapped to me. We go down to the end of the pasture, out through the gate, across the cool stream, and up into the woods.
Unlike Fred, I wasn’t so much as bought and sold as shunted from one place to another. Children at one barn rode me a few times before becoming bored with me, so I went to another place where men in straw hats and suspenders and women in long, dark dresses worked me hard.
I pulled some contraption across a field, back and forth, back and forth. I wasn’t fast or strong enough to suit them, and more than once they lashed my back harder than necessary to get their point across. I strained and tried and sweated, but it was never good enough for them. They believe that animals were put on earth by god for their use. Never once did they touch me with kindness. I closed my mind to it, but I never got used to it.
Eventually they stopped working me and brought in a broader, stouter donkey that pulled whatever they strapped to him. In the pasture, though, he always stood with his head hanging low, his eyes half-closed.
I was sold at auction to the man and woman I live with now. They coaxed me into the trailer and then out of the trailer, down the ramp, and into a pasture of tall, sweet grasses.
I kept waiting for things to unravel—for the food to become meager, for a command to pull something far too heavy, but it never happened. Gradually I came to trust them.
Sometimes at night the man and woman sit on their porch playing wooden stringed instruments. The woman sings. Her voice is like a wisp of wind spiraling up into the sky. Sometimes I’m inspired to sing along with her. When I do, Fred stands nearby and listens attentively to the sound of our voices in harmony and the kind, kind laughter of the man.
-UntoldAnimalStories.org – We tell animals’ stories from their perspectives. Gentle in our approach rather than shocking, we invite connection, compassion and, from that, action. We also provide tips on what you can do to help animals, and we seek new action ideas, as well as animal and rescue stories, from you…. Please contact us at untoldanimalstories@gmail.com or via our contact page
“But I’m Not Really a Dog Person”
I angle my head to the side when I try to puzzle out what Mom is saying. Despite what you might think, I know quite a few words. My favorite word, of course, is walk. Mom takes me out on the wooded path every day and I trot alongside her. Sometimes we go to the creek where I fish for minnows in the shallows. I won’t go in above my ankles because I do not like to swim. Mom tells me this is silly, because I am half-Labrador and labs are water dogs, she says, sighing. She throws a stick into the water for me to fetch and I turn and give her a level look.
I came to live with Mom and the girls after living three other places. I was born in a backyard, landed in a shelter, and then lived in a college dorm, where I stayed precisely three days. A woman took me away from all the chaos and set about trying to find a home for me. I lay on her kitchen floor listening to both sides of a phone conversation (I have excellent hearing). I heard the woman on the other end of the phone say, “But I’m not really a dog person. We were only toying with the idea of adopting a dog, maybe. But a pitbull?”
“Pits are the most devoted dogs. They’re only aggressive if people abuse them. He’s a pit-lab mix, with brindle shoulders, velvet ears, a handsome blaze on his chest, and chestnut eyes. A sweetie. You could try him for a weekend. Just a weekend.”
The woman got off the phone, patted my head, and said: “I think we’ve found you a home.”
A little later a mini-van pulled up. Two girls jumped out, ran over to me, and hugged my neck tightly. Their mother stooped down, looked into my eyes, and stroked my ears.
The woman who had taken care of me handed the leash over to the mother. “Thank you for this. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”
I hopped in the back of the van, lay down, and dozed while the girls petted me.
I walked into the house, and sniffed here and there while the mother tucked a dog bed in a corner, put out bowls of food and water, and hung my leash on a hook by the front door. Fastening a new red collar around my neck, she ran her hand along my back and said, “Let’s see how this works out.”
I looked up at her from where I lay. She laughed.
That was five years ago, and I’ve been here since. I have a self-appointed job: I take care of my family and watch over them. It’s what I do.
When I sleep I keep one ear attuned to what’s around me. I like it best when my family is with me and I can keep an eye on them. I worry about them and wait by the window when they’re not at home. When they return I wag wildly, welcoming them as if I haven’t seen them in weeks.
They love me. I love them.
—About UntoldAnimalStories.org—We tell animals’ stories from their perspectives. Gentle in our approach rather than shocking, we seek to invite connection, compassion and, from that, action. In addition, we provide tips on what you can do to help animals, and we seek new action ideas, as well as animal and rescue stories, from you.
Untold Animal Stories 