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Easy Way to Help Adoption of Meat Trade Dogs into Loving Homes Worldwide

A gift idea for the holidays?

One of the lucky adoptees

One of the lucky adoptees

Countless dogs ‐ pets as well as street dogs ‐ are stolen and cruelly killed for the dog meat trade in Southeast Asia. Soi Dog Foundation has rescued thousands of dogs from this fate, and now these animals desperately need new homes. $20 covers all costs associated with getting one dog adopted. Your donation helps provides medical care and food, behavioral assessment, promotion of the animals online for adoption, and transportation  to Bangkok to fly to forever homes around the world. For this small amount you can play a huge part in giving these animals a second shot at life.

The mission of Soi Dog Foundation is to improve the welfare of dogs and cats in Thailand, resulting in better lives for both the animal and human communities, to end animal cruelty, and to ultimately create a society without homeless animals.

Click here – $20 provides ALL adoption expenses for 1 dog

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Part V – I Came from the Deep South

continued from part IV  –

Mr. Bean, the cat, and I arrived at an armed truce, but I had the upper edge.  I know that in skirmishes between dogs and cats, the cats often lose.  I didn’t wish Mr. Bean harm, but I have thousands of years of instinct in me, and as much as I want to please my person, instinct is powerful.

The woman began supervising the cat and me at all times.  This seemed unnecessary to me.  Why, there were many times when Mr. Bean and I slept near each other, when he wound between my legs, when we walked by each other without comment.  To be fair, there were some times when I’d stalk him, when I hunkered low and keened on him, my eyes glittering black.  I knew I wouldn’t do anything actually, but the woman didn’t know this and she did not approve of my behavior.  She was irritated with me far too often.  I did not deserve this.

The trainer suggested that we adopt a second dog; she said that would likely get my focus off of Mr. Bean.  The woman said no–one dog was enough.  So that was that.

We went to the family reunion of adopted pets and their people at Main Line Animal Rescue.  I recognized the scent of the place before we turned down the lane and I sat up tall in the back seat to look.  When I jumped out of the car, I saw Jenny, a pit bull who was still there.   I overheard someone say that people have the wrong idea about pits and that they are actually one of the most devoted dogs.

Jenny and I greeted each other and I see other dogs I’d peripherally known who were now romping happily with their families.  There were new dogs there, many brought up from the South like me, and others rescued from inner city Philadelphia.

The shelter director saw me, walked over, and stooped down to pet me.  She asked us to walk through the kennels together; she wanted to show the woman something.

We passed the dogs, some with pleading eyes, some turned in on themselves and sad, some barking.  I was so happy not to still be there.  The shelter director stopped before the kennel I had been in, and there was Kentucky, who came up from Alabama with me.  He was the only one who had not been adopted, and he’d been at the rescue for a year.   Pointing to him, the director said, “Kentucky is a sweet fellow and has some remaining neurological defects from having contracted distemper in Alabama and survived it.”  Apparently the rural south is not big on vaccinating, spaying and neutering, and there are millions of homeless dogs, and a lot with preventable diseases.  Main Line Animal Rescue had had Kentucky checked out by University of Pennsylvania Veterinary School, and his neurological defects would not affect his ability to learn but his gait would remain odd, and he had a rounded back.  On occasion he fell over.Screen Shot 2015-06-26 at 4.50.25 PM

Kentucky and I sniffed at each other through the chain link door and he did a little jig, hopping on three legs and spinning in a circle.   The director said, “If you would consider adopting him.  He’s a good dog and he needs a home.  He’s very shy and the shelter is not a good place for him.  The likelihood of him getting adopting is slim.  People don’t typically want a special needs dog.

My person looked at him and grew very still. I watched her and knew what she was thinking.

to be continued

Part I

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Borneo: Orangutans Are Dying as Indonesia Burns.

Serbian Animals Voice (SAV)'s avatarSerbian Animals Voice (SAV)

orangutans-fire-MAINOrangutans in the haze shrouding the Borneo Orangutan Survival Foundation camp on Oct. 5. (Photo: Antara Foto/Reuters)

John R. Platt covers the environment, technology, philanthropy, and more for Scientific American, Conservation, Lion, and other publications.

http://www.takepart.com/article/2015/10/22/orangutans-are-dying-indonesia-burns?cmpid=tpanimals-eml-2015-10-24-orangutans

Orangutans Are Dying as Indonesia Burns

Thousands of forest fires set by palm oil companies across Sumatra and Borneo threaten not just endangered apes but the global climate.

Indonesia is on fire.

Right now, tens of thousands of small forest fires are burning across the islands of Sumatra and Borneo, the only habitats for orangutans and other rare species.

Many of the fires appear to have been intentionally set by palm oil companies, which employ slash-and-burn agriculture to clear land of native trees to plant their cash crop, which is used as an ingredient in everything from food to cosmetics.

Richard Zimmerman, executive director of Orangutan Outreach, calls…

View original post 741 more words

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Part IV – I Came from the Deep South

continued from Part III  –  “I hadn’t wanted a puppy,” I heard her say, “I planned on adopting an older dog, but Lucy’s my dog and I’m hers.  It felt like the choice was less of a choice and more of a fait accompli.”  From my perspective, I’d applied those puppy-dog eyes to many people, but she’s the only one who got it.  At this juncture, those reasons didn’t matter.  What did was that I had a home.  Recollections of my fractured past began to fade from my mind, except for one repetitive memory: my sister’s eyes as she watched me be carried away from her.

My new life kept me busy.  There was the woman and two teenagers, various family and friends who came and went, and two cats: Gracie and Mr. Bean.  Gracie was a decent being.  She walked around the house and screened porch minding her own business, occasionally greeting me by touching my nose with her nose.  Mr. Bean, however, well, suffice it to say that we had our differences.Gracie (left) Mr Bean (right)

Mr. Bean was an odd fellow.  He’d been rescued from an Amish farm, and by 6 weeks of age the small chunk removed from his ear had already healed, he was starving, and he had worms.  His personality was, shall we say, edgy.  You can tell by the look in his eyes.  He’s the one on the right.

When I met Mr. Bean, he puffed up like a dandelion puff ball and screeched.  This hurt my ears and annoyed me.  Our relationship went downhill from there.  When Mr. Bean walked by henceforth, he narrowed his eyes at me.  Sometimes my eyes got a prey-drive glint, of which the woman extremely disapproved.  Apparently among my hound mix background was greyhound, a magnificent sight hound, one of the oldest of breeds used by early man for hunting on the plains.  This ancient instinct in me was not triggered by Gracie, who was, to my mind, a reasonable being and more like a dog than a cat, but it was, intermittently, by Mr. Bean.

The woman spent a great deal of time intervening between us.  She hired a trainer to soften this edge of my otherwise beautiful behavior.  This was only partially successfully.  I did enjoy the treats she offered when she diverted my attention away from Mr. Bean.

I knew the game, and I really did want to please her, but my instinct sometimes got the better of me.  I never actually touched Mr. Bean, though he increasingly became afraid of me.

to be continued…  Part I

 

 

 

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Part III – I Came from the Deep South

IMG_1424 - Version 3I’ve had two names in my time.  Maybe three, if you consider no name a name.  At the beginning I was part of a brood of too many puppies in an overpopulated, under-inoculated part of the world: rural Alabama.  I was named Delaware by my rescuers, who named the 50 of puppies each a state name.  One day when I was four months old, I became Lucy.

People walked through the rescue’s kennels every day.  Some were caring for us, some were looking to adopt one of us.  I noticed a woman walking through with the shelter director.  The woman was talking about wanting an older dog.  Oh well, I thought.  When the woman walked by our kennel, I sat down and looked up at her, willing her to choose me, choose me, choose me.  We locked eyes for a moment, but she walked on.  Seconds later the woman backed up, as though drawn backward by an invisible force.  I like to think it was my intent.  She leaned down and put her fingers through the gate.  I looked into her eyes and gave her fingers a gentle slurp.  The woman sighed, slid her eyes to the side, looked back at me, then walked on.  I watched her as she went through the swinging door and disappeared from sight.  I turned back to my kennelmates.

A half-hour later, the shelter director came back, clipped a leash to my collar and led me to an outdoor pen where the woman was saying patting Jenny, the sweet black pitbull who had been in the shelter longer than I had been.  She watched the pitbull leave then turned to me and smiled.  As I ran up to her, she stooped down to greet me.  Mine.
   …to be continued.   Part I     Part II

IMG_1422IMG_1425IMG_1424

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Part II – I Came from the Deep South

(continued from the previous post) … There were 50 of us puppies altogether.  We were taken to vans and placed in crates with food and water and towels–soft and clean smelling.  I was in a crate with another puppy, a little black fellow with brown fur over his eyes and a hunched back.  The 50 of us were each given the name of one of the states.  I was Delaware, and I shared my crate with Kentucky.

Our ride was days long, and along the way we were let us out of the vans on leashes to stretch our legs, wander around, and greet our fellow travelers.  I knew almost all of them by scent.  I looked around hopefully for my sister, but she was not among them.

We arrrived at a farm, Main Line Animal Rescue in Chester Springs, PA, where there were many dogs and cats and people.  I and nine other puppies were separated from the rest because we were sick.  The following day, the 40 other well puppies were taken to a shelter in Connecticut for adoption.

Those of us who remained were cared for gently and nursed back to health.  Our new home was a kennel with a dog run attached.  Four of us puppies were together in our kennel, and there were several others in the room.  We puppies played together and slept together in a heap.  People cared for us gently, lovingly.  It was noisy, and I grew accustomed to the noise, but Kentucky often tucked his tail between his legs and cowered.  I’d go over to him and nudge him to let him know everything was fine but he didn’t quite believe it.

People came through the kennel area, looking into the faces of each of us for which dog to adopt.  Each time a person came through, some of the dogs in the kennel barked in greeting or jumped up against the door of their kennels.  Others of us sat and looked intently into the eyes of the person, communicating: me, me, choose me.

In the three months that passed many of the puppies, as well as other dogs in the kennel, were adopted.  I wasn’t, and neither was Kentucky.  We were relatively happy though–we had food and water, a soft place to sleep, people who cared for us kindly.  … to be continued    Part I

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Part I – I Came from the Deep South

Most of all, I miss my sister.  She was brindle like me with white blaze dividing her face and ears that headed upward but took a U-turn.  We were one of four puppies born to a tired mother in a shrubby expanse of woodland.  Our mother disappeared one day, and we ventured out, hungry, beyond the flats.

Only my sister and I survived, wandering in the woods and feeding on bugs, drinking from muddy puddles, sleeping entwined to keep warm.  We were so little.

In a clearing in the woods, an old woman stood on the porch of her cabin watching us.  We watched her warily, but she stooped down and extended her hand to us.  We went to her and as she stroked our heads, we closed our eyes.  She put us into the back of her truck and we bumped down the road, careening this way and that.  She handed us over to people to ran a shelter full of barking dogs.  Time passed.

One day the shelter closed; they had run out of money.  They clanged open the doors of the cages, and a hundred dogs were let go.  They wandered off, tentatively, confused, into the Alabama countryside to live, to die.  A woman took another hundred of us to her place where they were hundreds and hundreds of dogs.  We lived with minimal food, never enough water, and squalor and disease.  Many of the dogs died.

One day rescue workers arrived.  They talked fast and in a different, clipped accent than I’d heard before.  They gathered fifty of us puppies, putting leashes around our necks and picking us up, carrying us into waiting vans.  In the confusion, my sister and I were separated.  As a man carried me away, talking to me in a soothing voice, I craned by neck and saw my sister among those who remained.  I whimpered and struggled, trying to get out of the man’s arms and back to my sister, to no avail.  I still remember the look on my sister’s face as she watched me go.  Not one night passes when I do not think of her.Delaware.JPG_medium-younger - Version 2

…TO BE CONTINUED   Part II

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The Sway-Back Horse

8726074306_0f40ca7d39_sAlmost every window in the house across the pasture was lit up at night, like cheerful eyes peering out into the darkness.  Sleek cars purred up the winding drive, and people came and went.

Each day the other horses and I had fresh water and grain.  In summer we grazed in the pasture and slept with fireflies blinking around us.  In winter, we passed our nights in the barn, away from the biting winds and snows.  I was the oldest of the four of us.  I’d carried many a foal.  In my day, I streaked across the meadows, my head held high, my tail flying in the wind.

Gradually a change came: fewer cars, fewer people, and less food.  One day some strangers arrived, looked carefully at each of us, then led the other three horses into a trailer and drove off, dust kicking up behind the wheels.

I was let out into the pasture.  I grazed on the grasses and drank from a small pond near the fence.  There was a blackbird that kept me company sometimes, perching on my back and clutching my mane, chattering away.

The only human I saw was a man who walked the far hills from time to time, disappearing into valleys and emerging again.  One day he came to the fence, offered me a fistful of grass, and stroked my face.  I closed my eyes at his touch.

With the first winter storm the pasture grasses were buried in snow.  I pawed at the ground and ate what I could uncover.

As winter set in the snow grew deeper, and the grasses were more difficult to reach.  The pond froze from the edges inward, and I couldn’t quench my thirst from eating snow.*  Mostly I stood with my eyes closed, snow crystallizing on me.  My hunger and thirst grew, and my ribs became more pronounced.

The walking man came one day, spoke to me gently, and climbed over the split-rail fence.  He looped a bridle over my head, and I stood still for him.  He led me away through the snow, each footfall sinking deeply.  We walked a long way, coming at last to a barn.  Two horses in their stalls looked up expectantly, their ears forward.

The man led me into a stall with soft hay, and grain and water, and I drank and ate my fill.  The man leaned against the wall and watched.  Then he said a few words to me that I didn’t understand, but their meaning was clear: you are safe here.

The winter has turned to spring.  The other horses and I run in the pasture, blue sky overhead, sweet grasses beneath our hooves.

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* Did you know that horses cannot get enough water from eating snow only?  A bucketful of snow melts down to an inch or two of water.

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Why Do I Inconvenience Myself to Help an Animal in Need?

56149118_3d9b94d590Why do I inconvenience myself to help an animal in need?  I’ve been known to be late for meetings, wading into the field alongside the road to call a skinny, scared dog to me and deliver him to the SPCA so that he can be helped, reunited with his owners or placed in a caring home.  I’ve been known to humanely trap a feral cat, have her spade, release her, and provide ongoing food, water, and shelter to her.  I’ve been known to adopt a rescue cat, a rescue dog.  I’ve been known to telephone for help and wait by the side of an struggling, car-struck deer until animal control arrives to put it out of its misery.  I’ve been known to contribute to neutering costs for people in financial hardship.  Why, I’ve been asked, why?

The reason:  because I feel deeply, can empathize with the feelings of others, and I care about the suffering and experience of individual animals.  Of course animals can feel pain and fear.  Of course they can suffer.  I have a commitment to myself to do what I can to help, and it turns that with minimal effort, I can do a lot more than I originally thought I could.  Doing so allows me to live in peaceful alignment with my values.  Yes, it can be a nuisance at times, but it’s worth it.  In the bigger picture, it doesn’t require that much of me, really, to help a creature to experience less pain, less hunger, less thirst, less bitter cold.

What if each of us committed to helping an animal in need?  It’s so much easier to turn away, but that small sense of satisfaction that comes from bringing relief to another sentient being is a reward in and of itself.  I am immensely grateful for the ability not to turn away.

 

 

 

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New Zealand 2015 Ruling Recognizes Animals as Sentient Beings