[Trigger warning for animal cruelty.]
Reno-Tahoe International Airport baggage handler Lynn Jones refused to load an evidently abused and neglected hunting dog onto an airplane, believing that the dog would not survive the flight. For her compassion, she was fired.
Her (former) employer, Airport Terminal Services Inc., is, per a statement on its website, "reviewing the actions of all employees involved to determine if the appropriate action was taken."
Mega-grumble.
As for Jones, she says: "I wouldn't have traded that job for anything. I wouldn't have risked it for anything. But I just couldn't turn my back on that dog ... My supervisor said it wasn't my concern, but animal abuse is everyone's concern who sees it."
Showing posts with label animal rescue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label animal rescue. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
The Shelter Pet Project
Beagle, sitting in the living room of a home, 'speaking' in male voiceover as white woman walks around in background collecting scattered dog toys and putting them in basket: So, I'm kinda new here, but I've noticed a trend. My human does this funny thing where she goes around and gets all my toys, and then she hides them in that basket by the door. Y'know, but it's always the same basket, and it's always in the same place! [Chuckles.] And then she acts so surprised when I find them, but, y'know, she's putting them in the same basket! Again! It's like, hello! That's where you put it last time! You are the WORST at hide and go seek!The Humane Society of the United States, in conjunction with Maddie's Fund and the Ad Council, has launched a public service campaign called The Shelter Pet Project to encourage people to adopt a shelter pet (or a pet at a rescue) instead of buying one. Since the project launched in 2009, the percentage of pets in US homes that were adopted from animal shelters and rescue groups has increased from 27% to 29%, and euthanasia has decreased by 10% from 3 million to 2.7 million.
Text Onscreen: A Person Is the Best Thing to Happen to a Shelter Pet. Be That Person. Adopt. theshelterpetproject.org
The second phase of the campaign is being rolled out now, including a series of new ads (like the one above), and The Shelter Pet Project could really use the support of people interested in animal rescue to help raise awareness.
In addition to writing about the campaign to spread the word, you can: Like the Shelter Pet Project on Facebook, follow the Shelter Pet Project on Twitter, and share your shelter pet's story here.
"Choosing to adopt is game-changing for you and life-saving for an animal. Pets end up in shelters through no fault of their own—they are often victims of circumstance. If enough people in our nation choose adoption, we can eliminate the euthanasia of healthy and treatable pets in our country."—Wayne Pacelle, president and CEO of The Humane Society of the United States.
Please feel welcome and encouraged to leave pictures of your shelter or rescue pet in comments.
[Related Reading: Sophie Comes to Shakes Manor; Dudley Comes to Shakes Manor; Zelda Comes to Shakes Manor.]
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Mutual Rescue
by Shaker BrianWS
I've always wanted a greyhound for as long as I can remember. When I was finishing college at Portland State University in Oregon, I volunteered time with a greyhound rescue group there, but I wasn't ready for a dog at that point in my life. After several years of winding my way around the country, and finally settling back in the Chicago area, I knew I was ready for a dog.
I met Dudley for the first time when I went to visit Liss for a lazy afternoon last spring, and I can confirm that, at that point, it was ALL over for me being without a dog. I work at home in a job that leaves my summer really busy (and frequently takes me to work events outside of the home) and my winter/spring the complete opposite where I'm home all the time—so the transition period of fall was the perfect time to bring home a canine companion. Near the end of my busy season of work, I went to the annual picnic for American Greyhound with Liss, the rescue from which she and Iain had adopted Dudz, so I could meet the dogs available for adoption.
I had my heart set on getting a black female greyhound. Doing research on the website before the picnic (i.e. endlessly mooning over dog pictures), I fell in love with a black female greyhound. I checked her page daily to see if she had been adopted yet, and, much to my dismay (for me) and happiness (for her), she was soon adopted. But I was just SURE that I wanted to bring a black female greyhound home with me. I even had this brilliant plan to name my new female dog Paget (after Paget Brewster from Criminal Minds). I kept checking the website.
About three weeks before the picnic, I saw this picture posted for a fawn male named "Adam."
I fell in love immediately. He looked like such a lovable and happy dog, but there was something about the expression on his face and in his eyes that just overwhelmed me and made me feel like he needed a forever home so badly.
At the picnic I met several dogs, all of whom were great and friendly, including "Adam" who seemed exceedingly disinterested in me. Then, right as we were about to leave, his foster family was getting ready to take their gaggle of dogs out for a walk, and they asked if I wanted to walk him and get to know him. As I wandered with him around the grounds, they told me all about him. Their stories about his quirks and personality made my heart warm. After a short walk, I knew—this was my dog.
(I had, however, been so set on my vision of a black female named Paget after Paget Brewster for so long, that during one of my regular phone calls with Liss, rambling about dogs and boys—like always!—I said something to the effect of, "Liss, I HAVE to bring a female home or I can't name her Paget! I wouldn't even know what to name a boy!" To which she replied: "What about Brewster?" End. Of. Story.)
Between the picnic and the time I actually adopted, I was in touch with the rescue organization, and whether my perception was right or wrong, I got the feeling that they were trying to steer me toward another dog in which I had shown interest—a five-year old black female named "Heather." Though that was all I ever wanted earlier, I had fallen for "Adam," and knew that I wanted to bring him home instead.
In conversations with Liss about feeling pressured toward another dog, she gave me some of the best advice about adopting my dog (because she's basically a dog whisperer...seriously). She told me: "Make sure you get the dog YOU want. When something goes wrong—and it will—you don't want to wonder if you got the right dog. You want to be sure that's YOUR dog, without a doubt, because it is just going to make all the difference when zie pees on the carpet."
I took that to heart, and I applied to adopt "Adam," and that advice couldn't have turned out any better.
I made sure that I got MY dog, and, yes, I knew he was going to make mistakes, fuck things up, pee in places I didn't want him to, and he has—starting with Liss' living room rug about a half hour after I adopted him! (Portly was visiting and immediately cleaned it up, since Liss was then immobile, over my profuse apologies and embarrassment.) But it spoke strongly to the words that were stuck in my head. And because he's so my dog, I've never had a moment of doubt that rescuing him was the right decision.
Brewster came home with me just a bit more than a month ago, and he also peed in my apartment the first day he got here (though he's yet to do it again). And it's taken him plenty of time to get used to being an "only dog," as this is his first time without other dogs around in his entire life. He's been working through some pretty severe separation anxiety at being left alone in his crate when I leave the apartment, but we've been working hard on it and he's improved every day.
But the bigger point is that when he does things that he shouldn't do, when he's struggling at learning to live a brand new life in a world that's so much bigger than a crate at the dog track, I'm willing to be his partner on this journey, knowing the challenges will pay off down the road if I refuse to give up on him. Just like me, he fucks up sometimes. It's not malicious—and in his faults and occasional "bad behavior" I continue to learn lessons, about him and about myself.
Brewster isn't perfect. No dog is. But he's perfect for me.
On his first day home, after plenty of confusion and whining, he was kind enough to pose for this picture—it's cute, and he's handsome, but he wasn't the dog I knew he would become. It was easy to see on his face and in his body language that he wasn't entirely comfortable or at ease.
Several weeks later, he's a completely different dog. He greets me with more happiness every morning than I've ever experienced from a dog in my life. Some people may think that applying human emotions to animals is folly, but Brewster just seems thankful. He's warm, friendly, and will do anything if anyone is willing to pet his head or his ears. His war wounds from the track include a crooked tail and scars on the sides of his body and his legs—but that's just what they are, wounds from a past time in his life. One he never has to return to.
He's at ease and comfortable with his new home now. He's come to love the chaise portion of our sectional sofa where he likes to sleep, and roach, and roach while he sleeps.
Now when he looks up at me from the floor for a photo, his ears are perked, the emptiness in his incredibly expressive eyes is gone. He's at home and he knows it. And he's made both me and this home better because of it.
Just yesterday at the dog park, as all of the other dogs were running around playing, Brewster left the game of chase to come stand by me and get his ears pet. Another dog owner who had been asking about him earlier turned to me and said, "Your dog just loves you SO much."
And I him. Blub.
Brewster.
I've always wanted a greyhound for as long as I can remember. When I was finishing college at Portland State University in Oregon, I volunteered time with a greyhound rescue group there, but I wasn't ready for a dog at that point in my life. After several years of winding my way around the country, and finally settling back in the Chicago area, I knew I was ready for a dog.
I met Dudley for the first time when I went to visit Liss for a lazy afternoon last spring, and I can confirm that, at that point, it was ALL over for me being without a dog. I work at home in a job that leaves my summer really busy (and frequently takes me to work events outside of the home) and my winter/spring the complete opposite where I'm home all the time—so the transition period of fall was the perfect time to bring home a canine companion. Near the end of my busy season of work, I went to the annual picnic for American Greyhound with Liss, the rescue from which she and Iain had adopted Dudz, so I could meet the dogs available for adoption.
I had my heart set on getting a black female greyhound. Doing research on the website before the picnic (i.e. endlessly mooning over dog pictures), I fell in love with a black female greyhound. I checked her page daily to see if she had been adopted yet, and, much to my dismay (for me) and happiness (for her), she was soon adopted. But I was just SURE that I wanted to bring a black female greyhound home with me. I even had this brilliant plan to name my new female dog Paget (after Paget Brewster from Criminal Minds). I kept checking the website.
About three weeks before the picnic, I saw this picture posted for a fawn male named "Adam."
I fell in love immediately. He looked like such a lovable and happy dog, but there was something about the expression on his face and in his eyes that just overwhelmed me and made me feel like he needed a forever home so badly.
At the picnic I met several dogs, all of whom were great and friendly, including "Adam" who seemed exceedingly disinterested in me. Then, right as we were about to leave, his foster family was getting ready to take their gaggle of dogs out for a walk, and they asked if I wanted to walk him and get to know him. As I wandered with him around the grounds, they told me all about him. Their stories about his quirks and personality made my heart warm. After a short walk, I knew—this was my dog.
(I had, however, been so set on my vision of a black female named Paget after Paget Brewster for so long, that during one of my regular phone calls with Liss, rambling about dogs and boys—like always!—I said something to the effect of, "Liss, I HAVE to bring a female home or I can't name her Paget! I wouldn't even know what to name a boy!" To which she replied: "What about Brewster?" End. Of. Story.)
Between the picnic and the time I actually adopted, I was in touch with the rescue organization, and whether my perception was right or wrong, I got the feeling that they were trying to steer me toward another dog in which I had shown interest—a five-year old black female named "Heather." Though that was all I ever wanted earlier, I had fallen for "Adam," and knew that I wanted to bring him home instead.
In conversations with Liss about feeling pressured toward another dog, she gave me some of the best advice about adopting my dog (because she's basically a dog whisperer...seriously). She told me: "Make sure you get the dog YOU want. When something goes wrong—and it will—you don't want to wonder if you got the right dog. You want to be sure that's YOUR dog, without a doubt, because it is just going to make all the difference when zie pees on the carpet."
I took that to heart, and I applied to adopt "Adam," and that advice couldn't have turned out any better.
I made sure that I got MY dog, and, yes, I knew he was going to make mistakes, fuck things up, pee in places I didn't want him to, and he has—starting with Liss' living room rug about a half hour after I adopted him! (Portly was visiting and immediately cleaned it up, since Liss was then immobile, over my profuse apologies and embarrassment.) But it spoke strongly to the words that were stuck in my head. And because he's so my dog, I've never had a moment of doubt that rescuing him was the right decision.
Brewster came home with me just a bit more than a month ago, and he also peed in my apartment the first day he got here (though he's yet to do it again). And it's taken him plenty of time to get used to being an "only dog," as this is his first time without other dogs around in his entire life. He's been working through some pretty severe separation anxiety at being left alone in his crate when I leave the apartment, but we've been working hard on it and he's improved every day.
But the bigger point is that when he does things that he shouldn't do, when he's struggling at learning to live a brand new life in a world that's so much bigger than a crate at the dog track, I'm willing to be his partner on this journey, knowing the challenges will pay off down the road if I refuse to give up on him. Just like me, he fucks up sometimes. It's not malicious—and in his faults and occasional "bad behavior" I continue to learn lessons, about him and about myself.
Brewster isn't perfect. No dog is. But he's perfect for me.
On his first day home, after plenty of confusion and whining, he was kind enough to pose for this picture—it's cute, and he's handsome, but he wasn't the dog I knew he would become. It was easy to see on his face and in his body language that he wasn't entirely comfortable or at ease.
Several weeks later, he's a completely different dog. He greets me with more happiness every morning than I've ever experienced from a dog in my life. Some people may think that applying human emotions to animals is folly, but Brewster just seems thankful. He's warm, friendly, and will do anything if anyone is willing to pet his head or his ears. His war wounds from the track include a crooked tail and scars on the sides of his body and his legs—but that's just what they are, wounds from a past time in his life. One he never has to return to.
He's at ease and comfortable with his new home now. He's come to love the chaise portion of our sectional sofa where he likes to sleep, and roach, and roach while he sleeps.
Now when he looks up at me from the floor for a photo, his ears are perked, the emptiness in his incredibly expressive eyes is gone. He's at home and he knows it. And he's made both me and this home better because of it.
Just yesterday at the dog park, as all of the other dogs were running around playing, Brewster left the game of chase to come stand by me and get his ears pet. Another dog owner who had been asking about him earlier turned to me and said, "Your dog just loves you SO much."
And I him. Blub.
Brewster.
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