Know Your Own Power 

By: Laurie-Beth Robbins

I turned 42 last month, adopted a rescue dog, and devoured as many green olives stuffed with sundried tomatoes (my favorite “charcuterie item” or snack, in the world) as a grand and righteous birthday week could fit in.

During that interval too however, I walked across my living room floor and reached for my relatively new cell phone. I had messages to check, or so I convinced myself on one morning. But instead of retrieving voicemails, I very readily experienced, and on just my approach, a little static electricity “shock,” (in a nanosecond, if even that), which in turn wiped out, that’s right – kaput, dead, zapped, gone – my phone’s functionality entirely.

Stranger things have happened of course, but really? Is my energy THAT powerful? And worthy of slaying electronic devices even? A static shock? Like when the socks and blankets come out of the dryer? Come on now! Couldn’t the phone simply pause and then reboot or something? Long story shorter, it couldn’t.

Even after removing the battery, moving my wall charger to a different outlet, turning the device on and off; (or trying but to no avail) AND calling Sprint, (which only got me the number of a local dealer), I was praying and hoping for ANYTHING that I could do, to remedy my ridiculous and yet incredulously real situation.

I paced, I stressed, and I kept punching the power button on my phone. “Let me FIX this silly and unbelievable fluke, let me figure this out…”

That cell phones were non-existent at one time, and not too long ago at that, doesn’t matter during those all too frustrating moments. As society has conditioned us to become quite dependent on these little toys, and to use them for our modes of communication more than any face to face compassionate and articulate sit down or personal exchange.

As a beautiful cousin of mine often asks, and aloud from our great world, “Is there weird voodoo or something that I can do to fix this funky scenario? Because I’ll totally do it!”

Suddenly I was beyond stressed, about some mere appliance or gadget even, (Tsk, tsk), and in turn losing sight of something far more important (and furry) that sat at my feet.

With my husband graciously babysitting our dogs, I found myself driving, and for the first time in years without a cell phone, to a nearby Sprint repair shop avec my broken device. And while I felt like a real raving lunatic, walking into the phone store, and telling my story which I couldn’t rightfully believe fully myself; the charming young man at the desk (age 18 perhaps, or maybe 22) knew that drill and quite well.

“I used to work at Staples,” the seemingly boy informed me very quickly, “and we always had to touch a metal pole, and wear special bracelets and such, as to discharge that potential or possibility of a static electricity shock, when turning on a computer or anything like that.”

Skipping physics class all those years in school (as to go to the art room and paint) may have been authentically good for my soul. But suddenly, I was a grown up woman who didn’t even know that “static cling” (or this kind of thing) had more power than the vast garlic induced flatulence in my house even. Who knew?

Pilots are taught that they should connect a ground wire to their plane before filling their tank, to prevent a spark jumping from the fueling hose to the open gas tank nozzle. (And hence the whole package blowing up to Armageddon).

Professionals in the fuel handling business know this sacred law as well.

But the poor schmuck getting gas at the local quick stop may not have a clue, (admittedly I didn’t), that he/she should touch metal before filling up their trusty car.

“You ALWAYS want to be certain to touch something metal before going near your phone,” the Sprint rep continued, “or near any device; as to completely DISSIPATE any damaging energy.”

And it was right then, standing in the Sprint store on the seacoast of New Hampshire, when a light went off in my ambulatory mind, and one that shed so much insight, and helped me tremendously with the dealings of my precious dear DOGS nonetheless!

That’s right, Jews touch and kiss a mezuzah (decorative symbolic and holy ornament affixed to the doorway of their home) when coming or leaving their house. Catholics may bless themselves with holy water, while pantomiming the sign of the cross, whenever entering a church. The superstitious throw salt over one shoulder. The geriatric set (and the highly dysfunctional lot of individuals out there too) munch down a “little blue pill” before sex. The president of the United States even, immediately, upon exiting his helicopter after each land, very distinctly assumes the position, and then aptly “salutes!”

But the young techies at Staples? They touch metal. Lesson learned.

And EVEN MORE POWERFUL than THAT lesson, (for me), was the wake up call then too, that we must always clear our negative energy and ilk as well, or discharge it somehow, before entering the personal space of any dog.

Despite how crummy we may feel, how insurmountable our external factors and obstacles may to us at any time seem, or how stressed and depressed we are about the little or the big that we encounter during any week; WE, (as compassionate dog owners and lovers), need to put that ball of fecal matter away.

Our dogs after all, as any expert in that field will reveal, serve as mirrors to our own colorful soul. They show us when we’re acting out of sorts, and they even make it easy (yet STILL we humans don’t always “get it”) as they merely imitate what they’re “picking up” from us, and they do such with impeccable precision. (Whether we’re ready to admit that or not).

Just like the cell phone, that quite unfathomably could instantly die, and from a static electricity shock passed through just one little finger, a dog will smell, absorb, emulate and compete with, whatever nutty behavior he is feeling from his master and his surroundings.

Perhaps one needs to cry in the shower, or drive to a friend’s house and just vent and get all of their heinous day “out.” Ripping up old phonebooks even, can do wonders for channeling stress, and in creative, cathartic, and clever directions!

Before we encounter our dear dogs therefore, it behooves us all tremendously to “get it right” or to calm entirely down, as just not to ignite something that’s quite out of control, and which leads to long lasting and unpleasant realms of behavior, spilling lucidly from all involved.

I will never forget when I was attending another individual’s birthday celebration, some years ago, at which the two dogs I had then were invited along. Once there however, I was not only mortified and ashamed by the erratic behavior that oozed from my canines and out of every pore, (despite each pup having been to that specific house and near those very people multiple times); but I was flabbergasted and puzzled as to why my sweet dogs were acting so very angrily and undeniably bad.

My youngest dog violently air snapped and growled horribly at a man who merely sat down on a seat somewhat near to him. My other dog ran up and literally pulled a generous baguette slice, (with hummus spread donning its top), right out of another man’s hand, and as the individual was raising the appetizer to his own mouth to eat. My pet then gulped the forespice down in one gluttonous bite – whole – and too, gutturally barked at the man, awaiting more.

Granted, I HAVE taught my dogs to sit in little chairs at the table, as we eat our family dinner. I have taught them also, to intentionally scrape the meat off of each and every artichoke leaf that I extend their way, and to then let me retrieve the leaf back, (to thus discard it), as they wait for a taste from the tender artichoke heart. I have taught them good food. They know, for example, to pull the olive pulp away from the center stone as I hold out an olive, and to then let me take that little pit back, and away from their plate.

But I have also taught them to silently wait, while I recite the daily blessing over our food, out of gratitude, and at every meal. To witness them behaving like corybantic pirates therefore, that had bludgeoned for mere sport or sick thrill, (on that day at someone’s home), just didn’t add up.

When driving home, my husband and I deliberated over, “What in all Hades had just happened.”

We both had thought ourselves to be in good spirits that day, and weren’t aware of any odd energy that we’d unintentionally carted along. We contemplated the people in the room – every single one – and we discussed at length, the days that led up to that gala. Our dogs had consistently seemed “well.”

The next day however, when calling our pals to say, “Thank you,” I apologized profusely about the insane and tricky to justify “terrible dog behavior” that we’d contributed to the party as well, and I remarked that, “Oddly, dogs seem to pick up OTHER PEOPLE’S energy, and yet all folk at yesterday’s gathering seemed so very much OK.”

My friend then readily confessed, and as if it were a relief in many ways too, that it was HE, (and his mate), who’d had the knocked down and dragged out fight the night before that soiree, and too, on the day of their company coming. And so that whole, “Let them eat cake” thing, (what kind of cake, how many people attending), and the stress, mess, and duress, or all that jazz that goes into planning “a little birthday celebration,” had gotten the best of them. Whether we knew it, or any human sensed a blessed thing, didn’t matter. Dogs operate on energy that is present. That’s just how it’s done.

Save jumping tricks (in reward for cookies or bones perhaps) for a pup’s amusement, but don’t think for two minutes that you can trick or aptly fool the sensory perception of a dog. You cannot convince your beloved furry pal that all is so beautifully “well,” when it’s not. Go dissipate that nasty stuff, and before you even dare to enter their dwelling!

I was amazed at that moment, in that to a dog, one’s smile or one “pulling it together,” while ready to explode, cannot lie or be masqueraded as something else. The dog smells it, senses it, and takes it on full throttle even! And all while no mortals in the room have but a clue.

It’s downright fascinating and eerie, albeit enlightening to witness, how our four legged friends can so astutely apply that “6^th sense,” and when we all may miss such a vibe, or wave of energy that’s floating about. So be it.

Make no mistake however, as if you do not go “fix” that seething attitude or suppressed resentment or ‘tinder box waiting to blow’ mentality that you are schlepping around, then your DOG is going to show you, and quite possibly in vast out of control ways, that you not only “Should have had a V8,” but that you have GOT to learn, how to chill.

There are two morals of this story, as I do see it, and in the best “Aesop’s Fables” sort of way. And those are to always touch metal before going near any electronic device, and to also touch MENTAL metal, before going within the parameters of any dog.

I suppose too, that if a young buck at The Sprint Store, expresses that, “You should never underestimate your own power,” (and on the week of your forty-second birthday nonetheless), then that’s a pretty good ‘something to be grateful about’ as well.

And so here’s to appreciating those special snuggly creatures that surely ignite such light and electricity in our lives, and to swiftly getting rid of any sparks that could harm them at all!

And here’s to possessing the wisdom, (and instinctive reflexes), to know, and to smoothly act out, the difference between the two. Therein lies the finesse.

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*Laurie-Beth Robbins is a writer, a passionate “Foodie-Wineaux” chick, and a dogaholic. She contributes a column to Dog House Diaries on the first of each month, and lives on the New Hampshire seacoast, with her husband and four dogs: Caviar, Tabouli, Voss, and Steak Tartare.

admin | Articles | 04 30th, 2012 | No Comments »

Before procuring my first dog, (a cocker spaniel), a pal of mine brought a Portuguese Water Dog to a party that my husband and I hosted. Within seconds, it became clear that the pup was more polite than some of our routine dinner guests. That solved it therefore, regarding breeds, on that day. Off we went, into a dizzying frenzy of Google searches, the perusing of several “puppy find” sites, and so it goes!

We became ensconced in a bevy of e-mails, phone calls and cyberspace “tag.” Eventually the overtly affected owners of these “PWD’s” (we were quickly brought up to speed with their preferred code phrase or inner club name) returned my calls. And OY-YOY-YOY, did the looniness quite righteously begin!

Not only were the puppies being sold (nearly all of them paid for and reserved before they were born even) for $2,500. per dog, or more, depending on breeders and their set-up, but somewhere, on the other end of a multistate spanning telephone line, chirped a woman who proceeded to give me the inquisition, about aspects of my life which I’m not sure an onslaught of psychiatrists would even question.

She would need to see a photograph of every single room in our home – possibly multiple pictures and angles of certain rooms – (if the one photo of each didn’t meet her criteria or reveal enough of what she needed to see, via every square footage of space). Did this mean we had to break down and alas buy a Polaroid?

We’d need to sign a 41-page contract, (according to her law), in which we’d agree to transport the dog back to her for a visit, every year, after the purchase. Really? Even in-laws are much easier to avoid!

But a full examination and approval of whether we were doing a “proper” job of raising, feeding, and caring for the animal would be determined during that annual hookup. This breeder even had the ability to “repossess” the dog, (according to her contract) if we were not meeting routine needs of hers, which included feeding the dog a specific diet, to be procured solely from links that she’d provide.

The list of where we were to buy the dog’s food, AND grooming toiletries, would be given to us, once the said contract was signed, and she would readily be following up with those sources, to assure that we’d stuck closely to that regimen and bought the goods loyally from the places she instructed. (And yes, this was all still in the United States of America, where our individual freedoms are supposedly paramount). Tsk, tsk, tsk.

HOWEVER, as this seemingly combative woman clearly expressed it all, she was “Not even considering whether she’d consider considering” (her exact quote) us buying one of her dogs yet. And that process would be something she’d “mull over for a very long time,” before conducting at least four more - hour long each – telephone interviews with us, regarding this choice.

She asked me too, and in the most condescending manner fathomable, as to what kind of “exercise” I was prepared and willing to give this said dog.

“Would walking him work?” I was asking, instinctively, in all seriousness.

Apparently however, my quick wit and/or legitimate response to her question (and her tone that intimated we were sloths) wasn’t good enough.

She followed my answer up with, “Do you have any idea how much exercise this breed needs, or anything about the breed really?”

I thought better, and informed her that upon bringing her/my puppy home, I would enroll him immediately in extensive Zumba, Spinning, Pilates, and Kickboxing classes. (And that depending on how he did in such competitive and contact sports or “social settings,” I’d consider interviewing candidates to serve as his personal trainer). The woman hung up the phone.

Did she not think that was funny? What did she mean with, “What are you prepared to DO, to exercise the dog?” What does every person do? Gymnastic class? Hike Mount Everest? Sign the dog up to travel and train with Cirque du Soleil?

I mean, as far as MY OWN regimen is concerned, I have Winston Churchill’s approach in that, “Anytime I get the urge to exercise, I go lay down for a while, until it passes.” But I WOULD HAVE walked the dog, for goodness sake! I would have!!!! Really!!! Oy.

Seven PWD breeders later, from Connecticut, to Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, and then some; each individual was more meshugenah than the next.

Let me not leave out the irate diatribe one PWD’s husband engaged in, as he deliberated and dictated to me the details of protocol, as to why I would need to have the dog groomed with what’s known amongst the breed as the “lion” haircut, versus the other mere basic styles of haircuts for this dog. (In the obscure event that he and his wife did agree to sell us one of their PWD’s that is).

Alas! I learned that a litter of these highly coveted creatures, existed much closer to home!  Hoping this odd cult of crackpots merely dwelled outside of our state; I exhaustedly called the breeder who lived closer to us, once again reaching only a voicemail for approximately two weeks.

I explained that we were ready and looking to buy one of their dogs. I said too, that we’d sincerely hoped that we had reached a breeder excited to find loving homes for their puppies, and of course devoid of any 41-page contract to sign, and/or ridiculous medieval rules to strictly follow.

(I mean, The Witness Protection Program didn’t even make my prior dates and suitors sign that kind of bulk before taking me out! Though that may have fallen right on the cusp of their new recycling wave and efforts. Granted. So be it). Nonetheless, water boarding even, is a far less interrogating process than what one must endure when liaising with Portuguese Water Dog breeders. Did Obama have to go through all of this to get his pet dog? I’m writing to my President!

Nonetheless it was just days later when that somewhat local source sent a scathing e-mail to the contact info I’d left on her phone. She vented and lamented that she did not sell to “impulse buyers,” and that the sale and placement of PWD’s could take a VERY long time. She provided a book list, detailed quite specifically, sighting 14 publications and approximately 17 additional articles, (which could presumably be found in library archives), that I was to read before contacting her ever again. (At which point there’d be a quiz – as to assure I hadn’t skipped and/or lied about completing the assignment).

There was no doubt about it, in that adopting a small child in Namibia or Uzbekistan would have been a much faster and easier process for us than entering the “PWD circle” of such an über and “highly allocated,” elite pedigree of dog.

Sadly, each and every single breeder of the PWD’s appeared to have more flavors of dysfunction than the next. Due to column space and respect for the limited time which so many of us have in one day to devote to reading, I shall refrain from sharing more on THAT process; but can assure you that when you “rescue” a dog instead, you deal with folk who actually prioritize finding lovable, warm, safe, and amazing homes for mistreated dogs.

In other words, the rescue lot gives a damn, about the things that are truly important – reminding a precious creature that life, indeed, is quite good again - wasting no time on such bupkiss as “lion haircuts,” your home décor, and whether you’ll jump through vast poodle hoops, as to reassure and confirm that they, as human breeders/sellers are hugely important.

Three dogs, and a whole lot of soul growth (thanks to my sweet canine cuties) later, I was committed to adopting a RESCUE dog.

Inherently fearful, that if buying a very pricy dog could be so genuinely difficult to do, (let’s face it, my money wasn’t “good” there, with the pack of PWD folk, not on any account, and regardless of currency), then the process of ADOPTING a semi-homeless animal, would probably require swat teams and a full on four year investigation, phone tapping, and so forth, just to happen.

Au contraire.

All of this waxing poetic to say, (albeit true life occurrences I will admit), that a little back page was necessary in my mind, just to bring some proper contrast as to what’s involved, or moreover who is involved, when you “rescue” a dog instead of buying a puppy.

Rescue organizations and shelters have websites. Listed on those websites are dogs (and cats, birds, or other animals depending on location) that are available for adoption. Included in their mention, is a blurb of information about them (and MORE mind you, then you will get from many affected breeders who should be so lucky, for your interest, concern, your questions, and your coin).

Specified too, on these sites, is a fee. That’s right, there is no such thing as a free lunch in this world, because the dog you get most likely needed to be transported, cleaned, possibly neutered or spayed, and too, treated for the atrocities that he/she endured along its journey, en route to you. Let the record state however, that your fee could be $100 or your fee may be $400 or it may range from a bit less to a bit more, but it will NOT be analogous to anything which some of the breeders are requesting, for their advertised pack. The money component involved with rescuing is considerably less.

And don’t get me wrong, as I am not knocking breeders for THEIR passion, as dog owners and salespeople. Nor am I negating the fact that their little newborn puppies need good homes to move into as well. I’m simply stating that ironically, the rescue task, that one would think would be very tenuous and painful to approach, is a far more peaceful, harmonious, happy, healthy, and wonderfully communicative experience to embrace (in my opinion) than dealing with a group of people who are just plain silly.

Once you’ve contacted a rescue organization and established whether your desired dog is still available, what his/her required fee is, and what condition he or she comes with or without; you have the patriotic freedom to either walk away, or to complete an application (most of which are “downloadable” off their site) and express your sincere interest in adopting that dog.

And the paperwork or designated form? It asks you important, thoughtful, and REAL questions. (Do you have other animals in your home, and if so what are they, their breeds, and their ages? Do you have children? Do you currently go to a vet, and may we contact them as a reference? Do you own a home or do you rent, and may we contact your landlord if you are renting)? Finally, someone who gets it! Hoorah!

While every organization and thus application form, is a little bit different, rest assured that respectable questions, assuring that you are allowed to have a dog, that you have a pattern and/or plan and place to get care for that dog, and “things that matter” are what you’ll deal with.

Your references will be called, and you too will get “that phone call” that brings entire new waves of news, and a new way of living, into your world! You suddenly will recognize that whatever perfect “costume” or package or ‘way’ that you’d envisioned your dog purchase going, you will not get that “thing” that you so thought you unyieldingly wanted.

BUT, you will get the dog that you need, (as experts and dog specialists so very astutely do say), and you will get the dog that of course too, needs you.

I thus was downright shocked, when the stray dog that pulled at my heartstrings via a rescue organization’s write-up online, was multiple hours away in another state; and yet the director of that establishment, even offered to help with the transport, if it meant that we were a good match for each other – the dog and me. What?

After being water boarded by people who wanted a near three thousand dollars for a puppy, and who asked about EVERYTHING except how loving, safe and healthful our environment and doings would be for their pup; I was sincerely humbled, delighted, and very grateful to have alas connected with people who are about authentic placement of dogs. (And into warm, wonderful, and welcoming homes).

My fourth dog thus joined my husband and I, and our three canine boys, who were here prior to this rescue. (Yes, I tried very hard to have just one dog, and four husbands, but somehow couldn’t even land a Reality TV show for that, and so for now I will leave things just as they are). But when I met my now so precious pet, (a Tibetan Terrier), and the very incredible rescue organization leader who so thoughtfully drove him to the “half way” driving point, between their home and mine, I was re-linked, all over again, to heartfelt loyalty, connectivity and authenticity – abounding full throttle when you rescue a dog.

The expression, (on bumper stickers, refrigerator magnets, and the like) about “Who Rescued Whom,” could not be more accurate when it comes to human events and to the gift that we mortals are given, when a rescue dog bravely enters our world. And the process, to get there, is one of heart, joy, and real deal living. I’d feel quite cheated actually, if never having lived it.

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By: Laurie-Beth Robbins

*Laurie-Beth Robbins is a writer, a passionate “Foodie-Wineaux” chick, and a dogaholic. She contributes a column to Dog House Diaries on the first of each month, and lives on the New Hampshire seacoast, with her husband and four dogs: Caviar, Tabouli, Voss, and Steak Tartare.

admin | Articles | 04 17th, 2012 | No Comments »

Dog House Diaries would like to give an A+ to Mrs. Maureen O’Neill of Killingworth, CT for her generous donation of 19 books of “Rescued in L.A.” to her grandson Jayson’s class. Jayson attends Mrs. Scrivano kindergarten class at Valley View School in Portland, CT.  “Rescued in L.A.” is one of Jayson’s favorites!

Thank you Maureen & Jayson, we appreciate your support!! Woof! Woof!

admin | Articles | 03 6th, 2012 | 1 Comment »

On Thanksgiving 2011 I was contacted regarding two pitbulls in PA that were in need of rescue, and that one may have a little trouble walking.  I contacted the owner and the following day I went to see the dogs, only intending to meet them and take pictures to try to place them with rescues.  I asked to meet the pup first, who I was told was 9 months old and had trouble walking.  I was not prepared for what I saw.  One of the owner’s children carried a dog down the stairs, named Crysis, and sat her on the floor at my feet.  For a moment I was going to say “I thought she was a pitbull”, because at first glance she looked more like an emaciated greyhound, but then I realized she was one.  She just sat at my feet, barely moving, hind legs sticking straight out, looking like a skeleton with skin, and had a blank stare on her.  She didn’t move her head to look at us, didn’t take treats, nothing . . Nothing the average 9 month old puppy would do to greet visitors.  I knew the second I saw her that I would be taking her, and told the owner to have her ready for me at 7:30am the next morning.  I don’t remember much else from the visit because I was almost in a state of shock.  I left, got in my car, and cried hysterically for the rest of the night, almost positive I would taking her to the vet the following morning to be euthanized.  I also called the one person I knew could help, and tell me what needed to be done, Kim Barnett.  She of course says what she normally does in a situation like this “just get the dog”.

Charlotte is recovering slowly and surely, but still is in need of an operation, if you wish to donate, please send to : Camp Papillion, P.O.Box 332, Stroudsburg, PA 18360, Please notate on the envelope and check for Charlotte, or go on line and visit their website at www.camppapillon.org. We will keep you posted on Charlotte’s progress here in CT.  Dog House Diaries has donated to Charlotte’s recovery, we hope you will also!

admin | Articles | 03 1st, 2012 | No Comments »

As a college student living on your own with close friends you assume responsibilities you’ve most likely never had to account for. Sometimes you can never fully uncover the consequences of a decision until you’re in too far and the lesson has been learned. I say this because I know first hand what it’s like to make a decision that alters your life in major ways. When was my life thrown off course, you wonder? When I made the decision to adopt a dog. 

I moved into an apartment with my best friend, we’ll call her Sally. We always talked about getting a pet and we both agreed that we would get a dog together because we considered ourselves dog people. We reassured ourselves that we would be great pet owners and that although we knew our parents forbid us, of what they said was a very poor decision; we knew they’d eventually come around.

We found Harry on Craigslist.  The title was “Re-homing My Loving Amstaff Lab Mix” and when we saw his pictures, it was love at first sight. He didn’t look sickly or beaten, his coat was a beautiful blue color, and he didn’t look like he’d be too much to handle.

Harry’s owner claimed she had rescued him when he was found as a bait dog. In the terrible world of dog fighting for sport, a bait dog is tied up or confined for the game dogs to attack and most of the time kill as entertainment. The owner said she was trying to place Harry in a new home because she was overwhelmed with being a full time worker/ student and having to take care of both Harry and her other dog.  It was to our understanding that Harry was up to date on all of his shots, medicines for heart worm, flees, and ticks, he was neutered, and had a microchip just in case he ever ran away. All of these things made the decision that much easier to make, because everything was already done for us.  All that was left to do was to give Harry the love he deserved and a home where he’d be a happy dog.

The morning of Harry’s arrival came so quickly, he ran up our porch stairs into the house like a race horse. The reason I’m comparing Harry’s entrance to a race horse is because he was literally the size of a baby horse and his speed and agility made me second-guess whether or not we were adopting a dog or Seabiscuit. Harry warmed up to Sally and me so quickly that his owner decided we were the ones she wanted to leave Harry with. A quick signature on the dotted line on the bottom of a contract and Harry was all ours.

There was one thing that stuck out, and that was how much Harry looked like a pit-bull. After doing some research and looking through his medical records I realized that the “Amstaff “  was short for American Staffordshire Terrier which is also the old, outdated name for Pit-bull. I knew that pit-bulls come with a bad name, but Harry didn’t come close to a stereotypical pit-bull, so I wasn’t bothered by the misleading information.

Sally agreed to take Harry back to her hometown for the summer because I would be working 40 hours a week.  Another reason is because my mother’s cats were dog treats in Harry’s eyes. Three days before Sally went home, she told me she was no longer able to bring Harry home for the summer. I didn’t argue, because I knew my parents would help me out.  My parents refused to let Harry live home for the summer so I was forced to remain in my house at school. I didn’t mind because I knew Harry was my responsibility and if I had to live alone all summer with my dog, then that’s what I would have to do. I soon began to realize that this humble act was easier said than done. I had to commute to work at 4:30a.m.; instead of being able to have dinner with my parents and hang out with my friends, I had to go home to Harry. 

 I had an emotional break down.  I realized what I had to do.  I was going to have to re-home Harry, in order for him to get the most attention and the best home that he deserved. I thought this would fix everything but re-homing a dog is one of the most time consuming processes in the world. I thought I’d be able to bring him to a no kill shelter without a problem, but I soon realized that I would have to be on waiting lists because no kill shelters are over populated with pit-bulls and since the dogs stay until they are adopted, all spots were filled; no room at the inn for him. I was devastated. 

Things began to turn around when a very good family friend of mine, let’s call her Anje decided to take matters into her own hands and did everything in her power to find a home for Harry. It didn’t happen over night, but she found the perfect place for him where he’d have large spaces to run, socialize with other dogs, learn some manners, and most importantly have the opportunity to be adopted by a qualified individual or family. 

 Looking back at this entire situation I have a completely different view. I’m a college student who decided it was necessary to adopt a dog to show I could be responsible. I also realized that my parents both work very hard and wouldn’t be able to help me out with Harry. I shouldn’t have adopted a dog without being completely confident that I was going to be able to do this.  It continues to blow my mind to think that one decision I made to adopt a dog, when I wasn’t ready to decide what I wanted for lunch at the dining commons, changed my life this dramatically.

If there’s one thing I can leave with whomever is reading my story it’s that adopting or rescuing a dog may seem like you’re doing the right thing, but if you’re not ready to take care of a dog you might actually be doing the wrong thing; don’t be selfish, be selfless.

CEL, From the Berkshires, MA                                            

admin | Articles | 12 2nd, 2011 | No Comments »

The life of every shelter dog is important. Each homeless face begs to be given a second chance in the refuge of a forever home (as those in rescue refer to adopters) but every so often a shelter photo tugs at the heart strings in a way that cannot be passed by and compels us to step up. Such was the case with the pathetic little figure of a four month old stray puppy named Jonny, crouched in discomfort and clearly suffering in the Brooklyn shelter in NYC.

Jonny's shelter photo

Thanks to a network of dedicated animal lovers on Facebook, the four month old pup was noticed by Camp Papillon, a PA based all breed rescue. Due to the severity of Jonny’s health; she was suffering from Demodectic mange, severe bacterial and fungal skin infections and a cough which was later to threaten her with pneumonia, the puppy wasn’t available for adoption to the public and was destined for euthanasia after just five days at the shelter. The rescue organization knew this puppy needed help fast and immediately contacted the shelter to place a hold on her, which is the first step in the process of a rescue organization taking a dog from the NYC shelter system. Within twenty four hours she had arrived in a foster home in CT courtesy of The Mayor’s Alliance, a charitable transport service that delivers dogs to their receiving rescues. 

Katie arrives in Connecticut

When the doors were opened on the van, the sight that met her foster parents took their breath away.  A look of total despair confronted them.  The puppy was in such pain and distress that she could barely move.  Every inch of her skin was covered with infected open sores and she had to be wrapped in a towel just to be held.  To make matters worse she was running a high temperature.  Fortunately a veterinary nurse was standing by to administer some much needed care and Jonny who was soon to be renamed Katie began her long journey to recovery.

Katie fights against the odds

Thanks to the generosity of Dr Michele Walters at The Children’s hospital in Boston, Katie’s medical needs were all taken care of and she was able to receive the best care from Dr John Oullette and his team at the Madison Veterinary hospital in CT.

Finally Showing progress

During her five months with her foster family, Katie learned to enjoy good food, comfort and the companionship of other dogs and people; she came alive and learned how to be a puppy. What she taught those who were touched by her story was that every living being is worthy of our caring and compassion, and that together we really do make a difference. Katie was adopted at 9 months old by a family in Fairfield, CT and is now living the life she deserves with her humans, two cats and another former shelter dog.

Katie at home relaxing

By Kim Barnett,

Foster parent to Katie
training services for people
who love dogs
www.kimbarnett.co.uk
203-522-7124

admin | Articles | 11 9th, 2011 | No Comments »

  

We had the pleasure of meeting Molly and her Grandma Mabel at Hammonasset State Park.  They were enjoying a leisurely bike ride in the sunshine and stopped for a break where we were setting up to shoot the Rescued in L.A. commercial.  When we showed them the book, their eyes lit up and they decided to purchase one and take it home to read.

After reading the book with her granddaughters later that evening, Mabel wrote to us, “The most special part of a special day with Molly at Hammonasset State Park was our happenstance meeting with Paul, Nikki, and Annie and being able to get a signed copy of “Rescued in L.A.”  It is beautifully written and illustrated and has a special message for both little and big persons.  I look forward to getting the whole series for my granddaughters.”

Molly also remarked,  “I love it, Nana!  It is the best book I have.  I think it is amazing.”

admin | Articles | 11 4th, 2011 | 4 Comments »

There are many ways of practicing mindfulness. This is a new one for me.

I never thought I’d be walking up this hill with a dog. And a deaf dog at that. My daughter had wanted a dog for some time and so despite all the advice to the contrary and accompanied by all the support to the affirmative, we adopted Lilly a few weeks back….

To read full article go to: practicing-mindfulness.html

admin | Articles | 10 17th, 2011 | No Comments »

We’re so excited to welcome you to our new blog! Please check back soon for updates on news and events happening at Dog House Diaries! Our Rescued in L.A. book signing is coming up, too! We will be sure to keep you posted….

Rescued in L.A. by Dog House Diaries

admin | Rescued in L.A. | 09 28th, 2011 | No Comments »