Inspiration

The Gift

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Not long ago I received a gift. No, it wasn’t John Beresford Tipton with a check for a million dollars and my future security. It was a gift for my heart … two gifts, actually.
DeuceThe first was an e-mail from someone who adopted a rescue dog from me many years ago. Larry wrote that he and his wife Jeannie had searched me out on the web to tell me that Deuce had passed away and to thank me for “the best dog they ever had”. In quiet tears, I responded … to thank them for letting me know, and indeed, what a wonderful dog Deuce had been. I was so grateful that Larry and his family had adopted him.
It wasn’t but three weeks later that the second gift arrived … another e-mail. Jon and Diane also searched me out on the web to let me know that Spike had just passed away at 13, also to thank me for “the best dog they ever had”. Again, I responded in kind.
For ten years I ran a rescue for, I believe, the most difficult dog to place – the American Pit Bull Terrier. I placed Deuce and Spike well over 12 years ago when they were just youngsters, and before e-mail. Although we kept in touch, it wasn’t easy when one’s lives were consumed with multiple jobs and, in my case, a demanding rescue on top of it. But the best thing about placing Deuce, Spike, and all the other `pits’ I placed, was I never had to look back. I knew, through my extensive screening, breed education and adoption requirements, that these pups were now set for life. (Ask any of my adopters – they were grilled!)
SpikeRescuing `pits’ presented tremendous challenges – they are truly misunderstood dogs. Their history, their true temperament, their genuine love of people – what the public needed to know was not what they heard. Instead, they were slammed with horrific, isolated incidents where unstable and undoubtedly abused pit bull terriers attacked humans. As if there were no other news going on in the world.
Pit bull terriers were … and are … horribly abused, tortured, made insane and killed — for not being good enough fighters. Imagine the worst … they suffered much more. Some, still alive, were simply wrapped up in plastic bags and dropped in the garbage. Just not good enough.
My heart was broken more times than I can tell in saving these dogs’ lives. So many were, and are, stable, loving and kind dogs, euthanized nonetheless for simply being born the wrong breed and being bred to excess.
Yet, as a rescue, I received so many gifts. I was truly blessed with people who came forward to help me save this wonderful dog no one wanted. Vets, trainers, foster homes, experienced rescue people to guide me in effectively screening … all appeared. The pit bull terriers I had the fortune to know and help were themselves gifts I will never forget. But perhaps the greatest gifts, for both the dogs and me, were the truly caring and devoted people who took them in.
These rescue dogs lived long, healthy lives, and then I received one more gift.
An e-mail to let me know.

Note: This article was published in the July 2007 issue of The Animal Companion. Although I have not actively operated my APBT rescue for over 7 years, these wonderful people contacting me inspired me to write about one of my many experiences in rescue and with the breed.

 

Changing A Planet …

/ still a dreamer

Tonight, I share just one thought of my own, and one great quote.

I believe that we are each immensely powerful, and what we do in even the seemingly most unimportant way can affect others in so many positive ways. One of the most beneficial things we can do is simply to be our highest and best, and that is a way to change a whole planet.

“Every time a (person) stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others … he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest wall of oppression and resistance.” – Robert F. Kennedy

 

Does A Cricket Matter?

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

On a recent Wednesday night I came home rather late, but being as I wasn’t tired yet, decided to watch a Will and Grace rerun. Settled in to the TV room, I was aware of the usual summer evening sounds – tree frogs, katydids, crickets. One cricket in particular seemed quite loud, possibly on the porch roof right outside one of the windows. I went over to listen; it really was quite loud. Then I realized the sound was, in fact, coming from inside the room. The cricket had somehow managed to get up to the second floor and in the corner behind the kitty litter box. It was too dark for me to see him, so on and on he sang, while I wondered how I was going to get him back outside.
Trapping and releasing insects is not new for me, but I do like to have the advantage of seeing them first and ideally, not having them jump or crawl on me. Daylight would work better and I figured tomorrow would be soon enough to figure this out. I went to bed, listening to the cricket in the next room singing … singing for a mate despite the odds of finding her in the room of a house, singing for help, singing his last song … I couldn’t tell.
In the morning I moved things around and got a quick view of him – a good-sized black field cricket. But he jumped further back and was lost to me again. I didn’t want him to be mangled by the cats, nor to die without even some grass beneath him, but there didn’t seem any easy way to get him.
That evening, back in the room, it was totally quiet … had he died? Then I heard a quiet little chirp. I did whatever a human can do in reaching out to an insect … just opening myself to let him know I’d get him back to his home if he’d let me help him. Amazingly, not too much later, he appeared on the carpet in front of the TV … no big jumps, probably tired and dehydrated. Or maybe he knew his window of opportunity to get home had opened. I checked the cats and they weren’t noticing, so got a box lid and quickly covered him. Slid the piece of cardboard under him and ran downstairs – front porch lights on, and laid the makeshift rescue trap on the walk’s edge next to the grass.
I lifted the lid, but there he sat. I tapped the cardboard and yet he sat.
`C’mon, little guy – it’s your grass … go!’ and I tapped the cardboard again. This time he did a cricket sized leap into the dark, wet lawn. He made it.
Does a cricket’s life matter? It did to that one. And I’d say, by the quiet little grin that stuck itself on my face for the rest of the night, that little life mattered to me, too.

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