Rescue?

Consider how when a person gets a dog from a shelter they term it a rescue. They used to be called strays, or pound puppy, or shelter dog. What is being implied with the designation of recuse?

These people did not find this dog running through the city in distress. They did not undo the chain keeping the critter tethered, unattended in a junky back yard. They did not find the dog abandoned in a derelict house, or wandering the streets of Calcutta.

Rescue is typically applied to saving people from drowning. Fire Dept. does rescues. The dictionary defines it as: To cause to be free from danger, imprisonment, or difficulty; save. Aha! SAVE! That is what they mean to tell you, they “saved” the dog.

Now most shelters, at least in the more civilized states, are no kill. .so they aren’t saving the dog from death any longer, although even some no kill shelters do have to ‘put down’ (another comfortable euphemism) dogs that are sick, injured and the like.   And I suspect people want to convey they are good in having saved this dog. Implicit in defining the dog as a rescue is their good deed.

Shelters in many Midwest and NE states have been going down south for years due to a paucity of unwanted dogs in their own territory. Hurrah! We have the benefit of spay/neuter programs! And southern shelters are more likely to euthanize due to lack of funds and overcrowding (also have more heartworm problems).So I concede those dogs are being rescued. So I guess the dog in this case is a rescue. But they still get strays, owner surrendered, and selections from nearby shelters.

I am hesitant to refer to my critters as rescues. The current dog is an owner surrender, likely a backyard breeder who couldn’t sell two 10 month old dogs and dropped off both; the 7 year old cat is an owner surrender due to the all encompassing excuse of ‘moving’. Other dogs I’ve had were just strays, some of my cats dumped on my street.  When I used the term rescue I felt it was giving me too much credit and implying some moral high ground.

Nah, my pets are mixed breed, mutts picked up at the shelter. I get them for me, not to as a way to ennoble myself to others.

Poor Dad – Maybe Not

On Sunday evening, Father’s Day, I took a bag of garbage to the dumpster. Floating up against the top of the container were three shiny, colorful Father’s Day balloons. They were already in the dumpster in the early evening of Father’s Day!
Who throws away special occasion balloons? Don’t most people keep them until they deflate? Then you can subtly put them in a garbage bag and they don’t float out to haunt you.
So was it a father who discarded them? Or perhaps a child who had second thoughts on this gift.
I’m thinking if I were the child and reconsidered the gesture, I would probably be angry and would pop the balloons wanting to see them burst!
So why would a parent discard them? Hates the kid, dislikes false sentimentality?
Guess it could also be they were left over somewhere and needed to be thrown away. I might still like the bright shiny things to hang around awhile. They would probably scare the cats.
Wonder if they escaped when the truck emptied out the dumpster. Imagine them floating away to freedom…landing somewhere where somebody else wonders about poor Dad whose balloons escaped.

Sharing the Bathroom

Oh those cats and their litter box! I’m getting real tired of bits of cat litter scattered on the floor of my bathroom. Can’t walk in there bare footed.
Why do they insist on throwing the litter out of the box? And one of the cats perches on the edge of the box and urinates over the edge. I’ve given up using throw rugs under the box to catch the litter bits on their paws. I just put newspaper underneath. Of course they scratch at that and piss on it too.
I tell them, “You think I like this bathroom sharing arrangement?”
Probably need to buy a new litter pan with no smell.
I could just open the screen door and get rid of both problems, cats and litter box use. But I know they’ll come back to get fed.

Cat Update

My poor neglected pussies. Stuck in this small apartment, they are never able to go outside to smell the fresh air and kill birds. I try to dope them up with catnip, but it doesn’t seem satisfying enough for them.
Not that they do much anyway, but they could probably use more stimulation. Should I try walking them on a leash? Would they be horribly insulted?
They do come out, not like the first two weeks where Putt lived in the closet. He has come out of the closet, and now spends a lot of time on the window sills. No longer rushes off to hide if there is a sudden noise – which an apartment has plenty of. But he is still skittish. It is nothing like the solitude of the 20 acre home we had before April 1st.
And Boomer was the quickest to adjust. That fat cat prefers the living couch for lounging. day or night. I try to keep the slider open a bit so they can sit and pretend to be outside. Do cats dream, maybe of days where they hunted, free to explore scents and chase bugs, mice and anything that moved?

Day of the Ducks

It was early winter when the ducks moved in. Snow was on the ground and ice had formed on the lakes. There were a couple – a drake and a female. Because they were mixed, part mallard and part domestic, they couldn’t fly away come winter as the lake froze over. The people that fed them throughout the summer were no longer out throwing bread scraps. The mallards flew south, but these ducks were left to fend for themselves, and they couldn’t. This is how they ended up at the Humane Society animal shelter before they starved or froze to death.
I was a board member of this Humane Society and the workers knew that I wanted some of what I called ‘decorative’ garden fowl. I had a house in the county with acreage and wanted something picturesque to wander around the yard. I already ‘rescued’ a very large rooster that was picked up running about in the north end of the county. He was big, but good natured. Friends asked if it was a turkey – city folk! I could easily pick him up and he got along with the dogs. They quickly learned to keep their distance as he had long spurs and big wings that he would flap at them when they got too close.
Being able to pick up the rooster proved handy when I needed to first check him for lice. And then I got to treat him for the lice. That’s another story.
Life with the rooster, dogs and cats was fine. They all knew their place in the hierarchy. That is until one day while the dog Molly was peacefully lying in the sun warmed grass when the rooster jumped her. He either was trying to mount her or needed a better post from which to crow.
Molly was 65 pounds of dog and really pretty startled at having something, anything, actually try to climb up on her. I was startled as to what the heck was going on. This is surely unnatural. Then it occurred to me that the rooster might need a chicken, or two. Interspecies relationships just aren’t going to work for any number of reasons. And I lived in a religious area where Darwin wasn’t considered a proper subject for science class.
So I got chickens from the Humane Society, two Rhode Island Reds. Seems certain ethnic groups living in the city like to keep fresh animals on hand. Whether for Santaria rituals or food, I don’t want to ask. And when they get out – animal control is called. The shelters want to adopt them out as soon as possible. Farm animals bring a whole new level of issues.
So by the time the ducks moved in there were the dogs, cats, chickens with rooster. Room was made in the little outbuilding for the two ducks and a big water bowl. I didn’t know if the ducks actually needed the ability to swim through the winter months. There was a small ornamental goldfish pond in the yard, very small, But they didn’t want to walk through the snow to get to it.
I learned many things, including that ducks are very messy. Chicken poop is much easier to clean up than ducks splats. We got through the winter alright. The shared living quarters for the poultry proved fine with everyone getting along. I had my hands full keeping things clean, however.
Soon it was spring and all the critters could spend more time outside. Ah, in spring a drake’s fancy turns to thoughts of sex. The first problems were with the dogs. I’d catch the duck chasing after Molly. The drake couldn’t really fly, which he why he was here in the first place. Instead he did a low level combo run and fly chasing Molly around the yard. She thought this was great fun, as the duck tried to bite her in the butt. To her it was a game. And it was rather amusing to see a bottom heavy duck chasing a 65 pound dog.
Then there was Sydney, the other dog. Sydney had a fondness for birds, the fondness that comes in hunting genes. He had already dispatched a Rhode Island Red hen – first time I ever had one pet kill another. I scolded him even though he looked so pleased with himself as the brown feathers fell from his lips. Fortunately I was in the yard when the duck bit Sydney in the butt. I ran quickly to snatch up the duck away from the jaws of death.
Then one day as I was enjoying the spring weather I saw the rooster dragging around the duck who had his bill clamped onto the roosters wing! Break it up!
As I sat at the picnic table the ducks would wander over to me and slyly nibble at the hem of my pants. I think they wanted to bite more, but were testing the waters.
The duck was uncontrollable. He ran after the cats. He continued to chase after Molly who was starting to tire of this game. None of the animals were safe to wander the yard without finding themselves victims of the sex crazed duck.
As soon as the cats got out the back door they would run and jump over the fence for safety. Sydney would no longer even go out into the backyard; I had to let him out the front door to do his business.
One day the duck was walking past when I noticed little dots on his white head. I picked him up to look closer. I think they were peck marks! He must have tangled with Mr. Rooster again.
Oh, the horror of it. There was no enjoyment to be found in the yard. Everyone had to keep an eye open for that duck. He would run for any critter in his sight! Quack – quack, and fastened his bill onto a feather, some fur, a leg. He was unstoppable!
The duck was terrorizing everyone. Couldn’t sit outside and we didn’t have a moment’s peace.
Resettlement was the only solution. I consulted with the people at the Humane Society. They pull me in touch with a wildlife rehabilitator that specialized in waterfowl.
I put the crate in the back of my truck and grabbed the two ducks and took along a forty pound bag of feed. Off I drove. The rehab place was most of a half acre lot. It was fenced in and had a nice large pond. There was a crowd of Canada geese and several ducks. Many of the geese had angel wings, a deformity that made them unable to fly.
We carried the crate into the yard and let out the ducks. The drake ran into the throng. At first he seemed in sex crazed mode, but then he became aware of all the other ducks, female ducks. Oh he was going to be busy for some time – defending and seeking new conquests.
When I got home I made a nice beverage and went out into the yard. The dogs came out cautiously; the cats joined us. Then chickens stared to wander about the yard pecking among the plants for bugs. No one was being chased. There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief. My peaceable kingdom had returned.