Author: Renae White

Mason gets a bath

Mason is half German Shepherd, half Akita.

German Shepherds were bred to herd and protect sheep.

Akitas were bred to hunt bears.

I suppose neither of these occupations required much swimming or bathing.

I understand that Mason may not be genetically predisposed to a love of water.

But at 105 pounds and with a thick, long, double fur coat, he would be cooler if he was.

Mason got a shower yesterday. He’s a good boy, he really is. When I called him, he immediately sashayed towards me. Then I turned the shower on, and he hid in the crate until I coaxed him to the bathroom.

To be fair, he didn’t fight getting a bath. He didn’t exactly help, either. Once I convinced him to get into the shower, he thought his part of the bath was over. He suddenly forgot how to turn. He stood still, back end pressed to the shower wall, until I allowed him to get out of the shower.

This means that, in order to bathe his whole body, I had to get in the shower with him and push and shove and lather and bend and contort myself into a few yoga poses I knew and a few I learned right there in the shower.

Now, some people say that dogs don’t really feel emotions like humans do, and to say they do is mere personification. But I’m telling you–this dog was laughing. He was so happy with himself. Smug, I daresay. And as soon as he was rinsed and the shower was off and I had the towel ready, that arrogant beast shook and soaked every dry speck that may have remained on me, as well as the entire bathroom.

I dried him the best I could. That didn’t prevent him from soaking the living room with the next shake. As he dried, he shot me the most pitiful glares.

If you’ve never seen a half-dry Akita, go Google it right now. I’ll wait.

He looked terrible! His dad chose that moment to walk through the door. He immediately commented on his appearance, and Mason glared at me even harder. He had tufts of fur sticking out everywhere. There was nothing smooth or shiny or even fluffy about him.

As he dried, I managed to brush and comb his fur in a way that made him look more like a dog and less like a drowned rat, although it took all day for his coat to return to its previous majestic state.

As I type this, Mason is licking his fur and probably lamenting the fact that he smells nice. Belle, who also got a bath but actually liked hers, is lounging around, rolling over, showing off, and begging us to tell her she’s pretty every hour or so. Luna, as always, is planning world domination and also how she can knock everything off the table and sit in all the laps. She did not get a bath yesterday. I chose life.

I’m off to use a heating pad on my back while shopping for a bubble for Mason. Surely I’m not the first dog mom who wants a solution to keep my pup clean longer. If I figure it out, I’ll let y’all know.

References

https://www.akc.org/dog-breeds/akita/

https://www.akc.org/dog-breeds/german-shepherd-dog/

A Dog’s Life

A day in the life of Belle.

Grump. Light. Awake. No…

Hi mom. Outside?

Yay relief.

Mmm breakfast. Nom nom nom.

No not again…

Bye mom.

Boredom.

Only twenty toys,

none of them new

or exciting.

Nap time.

MOM MOM MOM YOU’RE HOME!

I LOVE YOU!

YAY MOM!

YAY PETS!

Boing.. boing… thud.

Yay tennis ball!

Squeak!

MOM LOOK IT SQUEAKS!

Mom, mom, look at it,

it’s in my mouth

and it’s squeaking!

I’m so good at squeaking tennis balls, mom!

LOOK!

Squeaky squeaky squeaky!

Run, run, I have to run!

Yay!

Tired.

Couch.

Cuddle me, mom.

Goodnight mom.

*Adorable puppy dream running*

The intersection of physical and mental health: how my brain affects my weight

We take a break from our regularly scheduled program for an important PSA: I know I’m fat. Please stop mentioning it.

There’s a reason your mama taught you not to ask about a woman’s weight. Bringing up someone’s weight is widely considered rude, but it can also harm their mental health. Since it’s impossible to know if someone struggles with body image, weight is a topic that must be dealt with wisely.

It seems more acceptable to bring up someone’s weight in our society now that the medical community is raising awareness of the health problems associated with obesity. Many people bring up weight because they truly want others to be healthy. While they may have good intentions, I believe it’s best to not single a person out because of their weight (unless you’re their doctor, of course.) If someone wants help becoming healthy, they’ll seek help. Unsolicited advice is rude and not likely to be taken.

Some background knowledge about me: I have always struggled with my weight. For as long as I can remember, I have been fat. At times, I have lost a lot of weight and made healthy lifestyle changes. My mental health always takes a bad turn and my progress has been undone several times.

For someone like me, who grew up being reminded about my weight almost every day, there is no good comment about my weight. Here are some examples of things that have been said to me: 1) Wow, you look less fat. 2) You know, you could lose 20 pounds if you stopped drinking soda. 3) What have you been eating? (This began a conversation where the person insisted that I had recently gained an impossible amount of weight–she basically accused me of hiding a pregnancy.) 4) You’re getting an hour glass shape! 5) You’re so thick; you’re perfect. (I cried for two days.) 6) I can see your progress! 7) Wow you look good! 8) Wow you’re looking healthy! 9) I have some pants that I bet would fit you. (The pants were four sizes too big for me.) 10) You should try keto. 11) You should try Plexus; it really helped me slim down. 12) You should make healthier choices. 13) You’re not on a diet (said accusingly after I informed her that I was.)

For me, all the derogatory comments, backhanded compliments, and even genuine compliments sound the same. You see, it doesn’t matter what you say about my weight, because my brain interprets it all the same way: You’re fat and worthless. You could be my best friend and give me the most genuine compliment on my weight, but I will still hear that I’m fat and worthless. Lots of people with negative self image react the same way as I do. You could argue that we shouldn’t, but that doesn’t change the way we feel. You can’t change our brain chemistry or our prior life experience.

The reason commenting on my weight–on anyone’s weight–is rude, is because you don’t know what’s going on in anyone’s brain except your own. You don’t know who has struggled with negative self image, body dysphoria, eating disorders, or medical problems that cause weight gain (or medical problems that require medicine that causes weight gain.)

I’ve been injured almost constantly since 11th grade. I broke my ankle and it didn’t heal correctly. Cue years of pain when walking and frequent sprains. I dislocated my neck in 12th grade. I stepped on a rusty wire that had to be cut out of my foot my freshman year of college. Once I healed enough to work out again, I made lots of progress. Then, the comments started pouring in. Some backhanded compliments were obviously meant to tell me I was still overweight. Genuine compliments got mixed up in my head with the PTSD and depression and my brain interpreted them incorrectly. I lost motivation. I felt like it didn’t matter how healthy I got; I would always be fat, ugly, and worthless.

In the middle of my battle with these thoughts, a guy tried to rape me. I decided that night that I would stop working out. I felt like I had become a target because of my new and improved body. Maybe the workout that firmed my glutes was the reason he had tried to rape me? Obviously, looking back, I can see that my logic was flawed. Even at the time, some part of me knew that it wasn’t my fault he had tried to rape me, but trauma does strange things to the human brain.

My brain is healing slowly. Most days, I feel like I’m probably at least as sane as the people around me. Other days, my trauma and depression come rearing their ugly heads, and I must embrace my crazy to face them head-on. I stopped running from my trauma. My trauma hits like a witch (old, and frail, and definitely-not-a-curse-word.) I learned coping mechanisms (and got rid of a couple of things I used to use as coping mechanisms) and I will win the war.

I married the love of my life, who doesn’t quite understand, but tries really hard to help. Together, we began a journey to health. We’re eating better. We’re getting active. We’re encouraging one another and battling whatever comes up together. I had a setback when I broke my ankle (again), and I was prepared to go through all the pain I went through the first time. Fortunately, it seems to be healing much better this time. It won’t fully heal for about a year, but as long as I keep it realistic, I can work out. I ran for the first time in a long time in November.

My husband is helping me work through it and allowing me to set the pace. My lung capacity is improving (a big deal, because I also have asthma). My legs are toning up. My blood sugar is going crazy. I’m surrounded by people making New Year’s resolutions and asking me how I plan to lose weight this year (even though I do not make resolutions and do not discuss weight loss with these people.) It’s a stressful time.

Because of my struggles with mental health and my weight, making healthy choices for my body often results in negative consequences in my brain. Every time I eat a healthy snack, order a healthier option at a restaurant, go walking, or pop in a yoga video, my brain screams at me, “you’re fat and ugly and worthless and you’re stupid if you think you can change that.” I have to fight that battle daily if I want to get healthy. It’s exhausting, and the last thing I need is to be reminded of my weight by someone who has no business commenting on my weight.

Last week, when my boss stood in front of us and said “I want all of you to participate in this weight loss challenge. You’re leaders and students are watching you make unhealthy choices,” all of these feelings and more came crashing down around me. Outwardly, I nodded in agreement. Inwardly, I screamed, “I will never be good enough. I am fat and ugly and worthless and always will be.”

Losing weight is easy. Not losing my mind is exhausting.

How to become a crazy animal lady

I wasn’t born a crazy animal lady. It took years of hard work and dedication. I hope to become an even more vocal and annoying animal advocate in the future.

My journey started early. Growing up, we always had animals. Dad kept a guard dog around. Feral cats were always slinking through the neighborhood. Once, we convinced our mom to let us have parakeets. The science lady at the elementary school mom subbed in contributed two “female” gerbils and a rabbit. The gerbil population boom was a great science lesson, by the way.

When my family got Duke the pitbull, I had a great time playing house with him. My dad had this old travel trailer he wasn’t using anymore, and it was the coolest. Playhouse. Ever. Duke wasn’t allowed in the house, but he was allowed in the travel trailer. He potty trained in no time. The only issue we ever had was when someone fed him cheese. It took us (my sister and two friends who often came over to play with us) weeks to get the smell of Duke gas out of the travel trailer.

Sometime in late middle school, it occurred to me that dogs should probably live in houses. Maybe I was a little late to the game, but I grew up in rural north Florida, and every dog I knew lived outside on a chain. By the time I entered high school, I was developing some pretty radical ideas about pet ownership (maybe dogs should be spayed and neutered?) Those ideas were validated during the rise of the internet. Apparently, I was not alone. Knowledge gave me power (and anger…lots of misdirected teen-angst-y anger).

Not long after high school, I bottle fed my first kitten. Nothing will make a person a crazy animal lady quite like bottle feeding a newborn. I had an alarm set for every two hours. I barely slept for a month. It changes a person.

Next, I began to write politicians about banning BSL. In case you haven’t yet reached this level of animal crazy, BSL means breed-specific legislation. Basically, I wrote a whole bunch of emails to a whole bunch of people because some places were trying to ban pitbulls.

The next step was to volunteer for a humane society. They needed some data placed in a computer program, and I was just computer-literate enough for the job. I learned several things from that experience, like how hard it is to be designated as a 501(c)(3) nonprofit and that keeping good records helps when applying for grants.

The final step to becoming a crazy animal lady is losing your mind when fighting an act of injustice. In my case, a mama dog and her puppies were being severely neglected (starving, no vet care, eye infections, fleas, heartworms…) and nobody would do anything about it. Animal control came to check it out and told me the owner wasn’t doing anything wrong. The cops told me they didn’t investigate animal crimes because that was animal control’s job. I snapped.

I took pictures and plastered it all over social media. I wrote emails to all my county commissioners and the entire city council. The animal control officer who “investigated” the neglect attacked me on social media and I told him I was coming for his job as soon as the dog was safe. I got help from animal advocates across the country and even a few in Canada. I added names, numbers, and emails to my post and had people from all over North America writing emails to everyone who had any pull whatsoever in my town. Crazy animal people are a special breed, and quite ferocious in large groups.

Long story short, the dogs are safe now, and everyone is a little more aware of the corruption in my town. I wouldn’t say justice was served, but the dogs were always my main priority, anyway.

It should be noted that being a crazy animal lady is not for the faint of heart. I have received threats. I have been bitten, scratched, peed on, and bled on. Going public with my crazy animal passion has changed my image. People I don’t even know message me when they have an animal in need. I made enemies who won’t speak to me now. I scared a lot of people who think I’m psychotic. People look at me differently than they did before. It’s worth it.

You, too, can be a crazy animal person (being a lady isn’t required, only a love for animals and a total disregard for your own safety). If you haven’t done so already, make friends with a couple of animal rescuers and learn how to bottle feed a kitten (or puppy, or squirrel, or goat…) Then, go find the names and contact information of all your representatives (national, state, local…you’ll need them all) and let your passion show.

Resources

https://www.house.gov/representatives/find-your-representative

https://www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm

Belle’s Story: When our new pet isn’t what we expected

Many pets are adopted each year with the expectation that they’ve found their “furever” home. Sometimes, the story has a happy ending. All too often, however, animals are returned to the shelter or given away because the new owner wasn’t prepared to care for them.

This is Belle’s story. Belle started out life as an unwanted puppy and was given to me because her owner couldn’t provide for her. Nothing about her story went the way I expected it to go, but I decided that no matter what, I wouldn’t give up on her.

I adopted Belle when she was about 4 months old. Her previous owner had lots of dogs. He couldn’t afford lots of dogs. He didn’t have time for lots of dogs. Thankfully, he reached out for help before he got into a hoarding situation.

When we arrived, it was raining.

My best friend went with me because, well, meeting strange men alone because they promised you a puppy isn’t the wisest decision in the world. The yard smelled bad. It wasn’t hard to tell why. The dog pen was out back. The baby of the bunch had no name, although I was told that this was her second owner. She didn’t really stand a chance against the bigger dogs when they had to fight for food. She was skinny and her fur was thin. They all had fleas but most of the dogs seemed fed, at least.

The man told me she was pit/rottweiler. I could immediately tell that was false but didn’t argue. He got her out of the pen. I put a collar on her and tried to lead her around. The puppy was too afraid to move. I knew I would have my work cut out for me.

My best friend carried her to my (almost brand-new) truck and we let that muddy, shaking, flea bitten mutt ride shotgun all the way home. We were in love with her.

I often joke that my house is “White’s Flea Bath and Pet Rescue.” I should really have a sign made. A flea bath will do wonders for a pet.

I’m not sure Belle looked any better after her bath, but she sure smelled better. She had the short fur and build of a pit, but she had the ears of a hound. I’ll never know for sure what breed she is, but that’s something I decided was unimportant. At the time, she was less than 20 pounds and I could nearly count her ribs.

She wasn’t pretty or even healthy. She had constant diarrhea. I assumed the hair loss was from the fleas. I was also fairly certain she was anemic. There were lots of fleas. Luckily, I had just bought a house and removed all the carpet. I didn’t even have couches. I barely had furniture. This all helped make the flea problem a short-lived one.

I named her Belle (Beauty) out of hope that she would one day be beautiful. At the time I named her, she was a half-bald, itchy, skinny pup. I like to think she grew into her name.

I got rid of her fleas and fed her well for a couple of weeks before bringing her to the vet (what are they gonna do, tell me she has fleas and is underweight?) Even though she had gained some weight and her ribs weren’t quite so visible, her condition raised some eyebrows. She was examined, weighed, wormed, and brought up to date on her shots. After taking her history, the vet told me I was doing the right things and that he could spay her at 6 months old.

Things did not go as smoothly as planned. Even though her worms had been treated, she still had watery stools. Even though she had been flea-free for a while, her fur just wasn’t growing in right. And she scratched all the time.

The next vet trip ruled the scratching and thin fur a flea allergy. Since she was now on flea and heart worm prevention, we thought it would sort itself out. It didn’t. Since a Google search is considerably less money than a vet visit, I decided to try to eliminate grains from her diet. She had her first solid poop a few days later.

By the time she was old enough to be spayed, her fur was growing in. She almost looked healthy when she went in for surgery.

On her first birthday (a guesstimate of St. Patrick’s Day-ish), she was a healthy, happy puppy. I was so proud of her progress. Visitors to my house, on the other hand, were not. She still wasn’t completely potty trained, and no matter what I did, she always jumped on and scratched people.

Looking back, I’m sure the transition from yard dog to beloved pet set her potty training back significantly. Her previous owner told me she had never been in a house before. At first, I was a patient potty trainer. After 8 months, I was growing more frustrated after every accident. There were days I completely understood why people give away dogs who are difficult to potty train. But I wouldn’t give up. By this time, I was also dating my now-husband, and he gave me lots of advice because his dog had been difficult as a puppy, too.

Whatever breed she’s mixed with (some kind of bird dog maybe?) must be very high-energy. Belle hasn’t calmed down since she got healthy. It’s like she’s powered by a motor that never stops. She even runs in her sleep. She learned basic commands in a heartbeat (wayyy before she was potty trained), but still, the jumping persisted.

It wasn’t until recently that I could confidently open my door to a visitor. While Belle no longer jumps full-force onto everyone she sees, she still likes to raise herself up on her back legs and will place her paws on someone to greet them. She has stopped jumping on my husband and I, for the most part. It’s refreshing to only really have to worry about her under unusual circumstances.

There are two issues that persist, but my husband and I are tackling them each day. We put pet gates up on the bedrooms because we couldn’t stop her from eating cat litter and peeing on the bed. I feel guilty for not letting her sleep on the bed like she used to, but hopefully this will give her time to mature and we can someday allow her on the bed again.

Naturally, I thought Belle peeing on the bed was a potty training issue at first. Given her history of trouble in that area, I thought peeing on the bed was the last step in potty training. Eventually, we figured out that it was more closely connected to her separation anxiety than it was to her potty training difficulties. Now that we’re working on that more intently, she seems to be a much happier puppy.

Belle was certainly not what I expected. I wanted a pit/rottweiler to be my guard dog, but I got a hyper bird dog with allergies who peed on everything I loved for almost a year. It would have been easy to give her away, like her previous two owners, but persistence and patience paid off. As I type this, Belle is lying to my left: happy, content, with a full coat of fur, with her leg doing the cutest little kick as she chases what I can only presume is a squirrel in her puppy dreams.

I love my sweet Belle girl. I have no doubt about it: she was worth every moment of sweat, blood, and tears. She was worth every vet visit. She was worth the potty training nightmare and the seemingly endless flea baths. She is worth more than her expensive allergen-free food. I have a loyal companion until the end of her days, and she’s even a pretty good guard dog, too.

Luna’s Story

Before she was queen of the house, Luna was an orphaned kitten whose only chance of survival was a human willing to bottle feed.

Like everything else in my life, my sister found out first. Two kittens needed urgent help. Their mom had been killed by a dog, and the owner knew they weren’t old enough to make it without milk. My sister didn’t really know the owner. In fact, I don’t think I ever learned exactly how Elaine learned about the kittens. But if there’s anything in life I know, it’s that Elaine knows things and is never wrong. I learned a long time ago not to question it.

Some background knowledge: at this point in my life, I had never bottle fed anything. Maybe a human? I don’t remember. The only things that qualified me for bottle feeding a kitten were spare time, a love for animals, and a willingness to learn.

If you’ve ever had to bottle feed a baby of any species, I hope you had an in-person demonstration before you were thrust into that responsibility. My sister and I had no such luxury. We had Google, love, and determination.

At first, we tried not to name the kittens. We were pretty certain they would die. More than that, we were also fairly certain that our dad would kill us if we kept them for much longer than it took to save their lives. At this time, both my sister and I still lived at home. Dad was not a fan of cats.

One of the kittens was much larger than the other. We thought that the larger one may have a chance at life. We hoped the runt wouldn’t suffer too much. We tried to keep them very comfortable and prayed a lot. Everything we read warned us that they would probably die. We hoped against hope that at least the larger one would beat the odds.

I think it was around day 3 that Elaine named the larger kitty. I held out for a long time, knowing that I would have rights to naming the runt if it lived (fair is fair–I don’t make the sibling rules, but all siblings know that if two things must be named, each sibling gets to name one. As always, youngest player goes first). One morning around one o’clock (did I mention that these things had to be fed every two hours, even at night?!?!), I was watching the runt eat through lots of tears (and a little blood–did I mention that bottle fed kittens tend to scratch the crap out of whoever holds the bottle?) when my sappy poetic side got the best of me. This jet black runt, the underdog of this story, was fighting for life with every sip of replacement milk. I named her after the moon because she was shining bright in the metaphorical (and literal) night.

For some reason, perhaps a miracle, both kittens lived past the bottle feeding stage. Luna’s brother disappeared before he was fully grown. I’d like to think that he’s living a great life somewhere.

Luna grew into an adorable, petite cat. She stayed short and skinny for a long time and we assumed that she would always look like a runt. She loved our pitbull, Duke. Duke adored and protected her. They looked stunning next to one another. Duke was many times her size, but they shared the same coloring. They seemed like siblings from different species.

Even though I hate the color pink, I can’t deny that bright pink looks awesome on jet black. My mini panther turned into such a diva that I couldn’t imagine her wearing anything other than a pink collar. I meticulously researched the best type of collar. It must be a breakaway collar in case she gets caught on something. A chihuahua collar simply won’t do. Because she turned into quite the huntress and cats tend to harm native bird populations, I made sure her collar had a bell to warn away potential prey.

When she was old enough, I had her spayed. She herself had been part of an unwanted litter, and as much as I love kittens, they are a lot of work. Luna much prefers the company of humans (and even dogs) over cats. While I sometimes pine for a new baby kitty, I know that our home is maxed out at one cat until the natural end of her life. Luna will not be contributing to the pet overpopulation problem.

Luna stayed loyal to me as I secured my first job. She moved into my new house with me. She approved (somewhat begrudgingly) the acquisition of a puppy soon after the move. After all, we would need a guard dog, and Duke had passed away by that time. Belle joined our family and joyfully filled the roles of watch dog and Luna’s annoying baby sister.

Luna enthusiastically approved of my new boyfriend and his giant floof. Eventually, the giant floof moved in, and Luna was often caught snuggling with him on chilly nights. My then-boyfriend was finishing up his degree 4 hours away, but the floof had to stay in town to go to the vet. He had been infected with heartworms. Luna nursed him back to health and seemed to bond with him much the same way she had bonded with Duke. Mason (the German Shepherd/Akita hybrid) had joined the family.

Luna “helped” with the wedding planning, mostly by knocking things off the table and reminding me to feed her and scoop her poop. She was quite pleased when another human joined the family. Humans are her favorite thing, and my husband, Clifford, is very good at feeding her and scooping her poop.

Throughout the years, Luna has grown. She has matured and filled out. At her last appointment, the vet assured us that 17 pounds is “within range.” Elaine, on the other hand, has dubbed her “fat cat.” Luna loves it when Elaine visits, and will come running when Elaine calls her by her nickname. If anyone else mentions her weight, she smacks them with a front paw in a way that seems to say, “I didn’t use claws this time. Don’t make me regret showing you mercy, human.”

Visitors to our home often point out that Luna acts like she’s royalty. My answer is that she absolutely is. Luna is the queen of the house, and must approve all visitors and activities. Her gaze or glare leave no doubt of her approval or disapproval, and if she is displeased, we know it. She gives warnings by knocking things down. If her warnings are ignored, the situation is escalated to “pee outside the litter box” status. I only missed that signal once. Never ignore strike two. The consequences are dire. The one time we made her really angry (it involved fostering a puppy that annoyed her), she pooped on the bed. She got her point across. We have not made the same mistake again. If Luna ain’t happy, nobody’s happy.

Of course, it’s not all strict rules about visitors, food, and poop. Luna also is incredibly affectionate on her own terms. Probably due to being bottle fed, she is very attached to humans. She loves meeting new people and sitting in their laps. Some people are made to love cats, and cats know who they are on sight. Luna may love me, but she knows I’m not a cat person. Cat people are special. My brother in law is a cat person. Luna adores him.

Luna has shown me that love can show up in the most unexpected ways. Watching her grow from tiny runt to queen of the house has been a joy. I am honored to be owned by a mini panther.

Presently, Luna has leaped onto the arm of the couch and is reminding me that it’s bedtime. She wants to snuggle under the heated blanket. I plan to oblige.

“Rehoming” Pets: The Guilt-Free Euphemism Plaguing the Nation

All too often, I encounter humans “rehoming” their pets.

Let’s be honest about the word “rehoming:” it means that someone is giving away or selling their pet instead of providing a forever home. I am not a fan of renaming something to make someone feel less guilty about their actions.

A euphemism is “the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant,” according to Merriam-Webster.

Giving away or selling (the term “rehoming fee” isn’t fooling anyone) an animal that was supposed to be a pet is something that used to be met with some degree of guilt or shame. The root of “rehoming” is the pleasant “home,” which serves to make the euphemism seem less harsh than “getting rid of my family member.” Does my tone sound harsh? I hope it does. These humans need a wake-up call. Giving away animals can place them in an unsafe home. Charging a “rehoming fee” does not mean that the animal will not be neglected or abused, contrary to a popular social media delusion. The best way to ensure your pet is never abused is to keep it and care for it for its entire natural life. Like you promised to do. When you adopted it.

I am not complaining about people who foster animals. Foster homes are an important way animal shelters reduce their kill rates or increase their intake and adoption rates. There’s a difference between agreeing to hold a pet until it can find a home and adopting a pet. Foster pet parents are doing a hard job. Kudos to them. I’ll write about them some day.

I am writing about humans who commit to care for an animal and then fail that animal. I see chronic “pet rehomers” who are constantly accepting free animals, then turning around and selling them. I know people who can’t commit to anything who constantly adopt puppies and give them away once they graduate the puppy stage. I see people who can’t take responsibility for their actions constantly changing their mind about which pet they want, at the expense of their previous pets.

People who are giving away their pets often have very similar reasons (hereafter referred to as “excuses”) for why “it just didn’t work out:”

  1. My significant other doesn’t like the pet
  2. We just don’t have enough time for them
  3. The pet got too large
  4. The pet is too dirty and/or not potty trained
  5. I suddenly have a medical excuse for giving away the pet that I miraculously did not have or completely ignored before I committed to caring for the pet
  6. The pet is destroying things
  7. The pet is a threat to my children’s safety

All these excuses are terrible for the following reasons:

  1. Their significant other was: A) okay with getting the pet, B) not properly involved in the pet adoption process, or C) preceded by the pet. In which case: A) they need to take responsibility for their choices, B) their relationship lacks communication and giving away their pet isn’t going to magically fix it; they have work to do and better start talking to each other instead of giving their pet away, or C) they’re better off getting rid of the significant other than the pet.
  2. They knew how much time they had when they got the pet. All future decisions that impact how much free time they have should be made with the knowledge that they are responsible for a pet.
  3. If they couldn’t predict the future size of a pet, a vet could have. If they neither did research nor took the pet to a veterinarian, they were being pretty bad owners.
  4. Pets are messy. Everyone should go into the pet adoption process with that knowledge. Dogs need to be potty trained. Cat and rabbit litter boxes needs to be cleaned. For other animals, the cage or aquarium will need to be cleaned.
  5. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen someone who is allergic to cats take in a cat, deal with the symptoms for a while, then “rehome” the cat. I’ve seen people do the same thing when they know their kid is allergic to dogs. I personally am allergic to dogs and cats. I own two dogs and a cat. I have very rarely, at any point in my life, not owned a critter. I have been hospitalized for pneumonia and bronchitis and sinus infections and asthma attacks that were probably all pet-related. I have never (not ONE time in my ENTIRE life) “rehomed” an animal I was allergic to. I knew I had the allergy when I got the pet, and it is my responsibility to take care of my health (take my meds, go to doctors, see allergy specialists) AND my pets. People with allergies should not get pets. As my dad would say, “if you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough.” I choose to be dumb, so I tough it out. (One day I’ll write a blog post about living with pets and allergies and give you all my advice on that subject.)
  6. Adopting a pet means taking responsibility for training that animal. Young pets, untrained pets, or pets in a new environment may be destructive. They need training, not to be yelled at, hit, and given away (to the next person who will yell at them, hit them, and give them away.)
  7. Don’t adopt a pet if it may put your child’s safety at risk. Don’t have a child if your animal will be a danger to that child. I’m gonna say this again, slowly: Adopting a pet… means taking responsibility… for training… that animal. Pets must be trained so that they don’t show aggression towards other animals, adult humans, or children. Even if an animal isn’t aggressive, they must be trained so that they won’t hurt other animals or humans. They must be trained not to bite. They must be trained not to jump. They must be trained not to scratch. They must be trained to not knock people over.

I am not advocating for shaming humans who tried and failed at pet parenting. Some humans are just not cut out for pet ownership. Others face truly drastic circumstances. What I am calling for is education before adoption. Too many people are lulled into a false sense of confidence and go into pet adoption completely unprepared. This results in “rehoming” and is bad for pets, humans, and society as a whole.

Humans should do their research before adopting a pet, and the people who allow the adoption should hold them to that. Animal shelters, rescues, and pet stores should not make pet ownership out to be easy. We must stop the idea that anyone can own a dog. We must fight against the idea that every home should have a pet. We must accept the fact that not all humans are capable of providing loving homes to animals. We must screen possible adopters before they become “rehomers.”

If we want to see less pets being given away or sold over silly excuses, we must educate people on the reality of pet ownership. We must do a better job of getting pets into their “furever homes.” We can’t settle for placing a pet with anyone willing to open their home. We need to have honest conversations with possible adopters. We need to ask them their experience with this breed. We need to ask them how much time they can devote to training the dog. We need to ask them if they’re allergic to cats, or if their children are allergic to them. Finally, if we know a human has a history of giving away and selling animals they adopted, we need to stop giving them animals. Sometimes humans have really good intentions, but their lifestyle just isn’t conducive to pet ownership.

If you’re thinking about adopting a pet, that’s great! I invite you to research the type of pet you think you’re interested in. Are you ready to potty train a puppy? Are you prepared for the vet bill that will come after your new cat is spayed? Do you know what to feed a rabbit, and how often? Do you know what species of bird will best fit the dynamic of your home? The internet is one way to find answers, but some of the best information will come from veterinarians, trainers, or other pet owners.

Education isn’t a foolproof way to ensure that no more pets are given away, but I think it’s a great place to start.

Edit: I wrote about pet allergies, as promised: https://pets.poetry.blog/2019/01/26/living-with-pet-allergies/

Saving one animal won’t change the world…

We’ve all heard the saying: saving one animal won’t change the world, but for that animal, the world is changed.

Millions of dogs and cats go through animal shelters each year. According to the ASPCA’s estimates, about 1.5 million shelter animals are euthanized each year. For those who work closely with shelters, or even for those simply paying attention, the numbers can be overwhelming.

Surely, adopting one shelter dog is statistically insignificant. Why, then, do we rescue or adopt one pet, if they’re only a drop in the bucket?

Part of the answer, is, of course, the other half of the saying. Everyone who has adopted a shelter pet knows that the pet’s world is changed forever. It is a beautiful transformation. The cat who wouldn’t come out of the cage becomes ruler of the house. The dog who quivered in fear at an arm raised a bit too high becomes an outgoing lover of fetch. Fur grows in thick and shiny. Bellies fill out and ribs don’t look so prominent after only a few weeks in a loving home.

The rescue animal is not the only one changed by adoption. The human who adopts the shelter pet may find themselves more patient, kind, and gentle than before. They smile more, laugh at little things, and have more energy. Some studies have proven that dog owners live longer, healthier lives, and that children who grow up in homes with dogs have fewer allergies and a decreased risk of asthma. Dog owners also react better to stress.

Saving one animal can change both the adopted and the adopter. Could it also change the world? Maybe not, but it may have positive impacts beyond what is expected. Slowly, perceptions about pet adoption are changing. More animals are being adopted now than in 2011, according to the ASPCA. California has changed their laws to ban the sale of animals that aren’t rescues. This may reduce the number of puppy mills and in turn reduce the number of unwanted dogs euthanized in shelters.

Adopting one animal won’t change the world overnight, but the world is being changed because of rescue advocates. Every saved pet is a story that can be shared. Every story has the potential to change hearts and minds. Every changed heart and mind has the potential to cause policy change.

It may be time to update the saying: saving one animal is the first step to changing the world for all animals.

Resources

https://www.aspca.org/animal-homelessness/shelter-intake-and-surrender/pet-statistics

https://www.nature.com/articles/s41598-017-16118-6

https://www.today.com/pets/california-puppy-mill-ban-will-require-pet-stores-sell-rescue-t117511

Welcome to Pets & Poetry

I’m a high school teacher owned by two dogs and a cat.

Luna, the mini panther, runs things around here. All furniture is arranged to her liking. All decor must be approved by her highness. Of course, all guests must be screened before admittance.

Mason is the prankster. At 105 pounds, this German Shepherd/Akita hybrid is the prime suspect in all crimes. It may have looked innocent, but he knew exactly what would happen when he left that squeaky toy right outside the bedroom last night.

Belle is the resident baby. This pitbull/hound mix is a sight to behold. She knows her commands, alright, she just doesn’t always like people to know that. Super smart but super hyper, Belle just wishes it were playtime all the time.