This may be how it all started 40000 years ago.
h/t to Susan for this one:
Now that's an ape that has a more evolved sense of cross species empathy than some human primates.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
The story of his best days
The dog walks along the sidewalk of the garbage strewn road and stops, sniffs and eats a half wrapped, half eaten chicken sharwarma. A car whizzes by and the guy on the passenger side chucks out a crumpled bag of four empty cardboard hamburger cartons, two flattened French fry containers, some used and unused condiment packs and several used and unused paper napkins and the girl in the back seat throws out her half finished, litre cup of root beer. The drink splashes right by the dog's feet and the dog, having just finished the sharwarma, turns around and licks at the soda but it's still too fizzy and makes him sneeze so he just eats the ice cubes.
The scavenging has been amazing these last couple of weeks. For the first time in his life, the dog has tasted marshmallow spread on a graham cracker, buffalo chicken wing flavoured potato chips, quattro formaggio pizza made with artisanal cheeses. Much of the found food has been a few days old, possibly a few days too old but the dog has had no complaints. He's one of the lucky ones born with a gut that quite readily handles variety and each new digestive challenge with a loud and exuberant cry of "Give me more".
Just two night ago he had come across in his salvaging, a crunchy sounding plastic bag which held a few precious nuggets of chocolate covered raisins. The dog had come across the scent of these two delicacies before but each and every time his provider of most things had tapped him on the nose and said, No, and pulled that mysterious foodstuff away and out of reach. Well, mysterious no longer, the dog had gobbled up the found nuggets quickly and surreptitiously and quite frankly, he didn't know why it was such a big deal. It was too sweet and made his teeth sing and it also felt kind of waxy, like those crayons he ate when he was a pup.
The breeze changes direction slightly and now it brings to the dog the scent of something that immediately makes him start to drool. The smell is luxuriant. The main body of the aroma is a combination of beef on bone still bloody and oregano laced tomato sauce. Secondary to that is the allure of overly ripened mango and burst blueberries and pork in barbecue sauce. There are strong overtones of peanut butter and mayonnaise and mustard. Also cucumber peel and burnt potatoes in aluminum foil. With the whole buffet splattered with wine infused gravy. And all of this is pungently soured from four days in the sun, the first two within a hot, steamy black plastic garbage bag, the next two spilled out onto the sidewalk, freed by the neighbourhood raccoon family of five, and then later, spread out by various birds and squirrels.
Now, at its perfect bouquet, the perfume of the scrap pile drives the dog delirious. He forgets all else and runs to the newly discovered manna, ignoring the chicken bones along the way and the frosted flakes and the unclean jar of honey. But it is not just the thrill of discovery that drives him. There is also a sense of urgency. He must get there before all else. He must get there and partake of its gloriousness before he is found out. He must get there before the provider of most things and the taker of everything else stops him.
And then, "Hey!"
The dog hears the sound from the provider/taker but it is still far away. It is like a mere gnat, barely a nuisance, nothing yet that needs to be attended to especially now that the dog actually sees the treasure he is seeking. He runs and he runs and he even breaks the rule of not crossing the street and then there is honking and someone yelling and then someone else yelling back and then more yelling but none of that matters now because the only thing on the whole planet that is of any significance right now is getting a mouthful of that most succulent tastebud party paradise into his mouth.
"Hey, Tyler! Leave it! I said, Leave it!"
He hears it but today is not the day to obey small minded provider/takers. Today is the day to dumpster dive into destiny. He opens his mouth the widest he's ever done and he scoops up his treasure.
"Noooooo!"
The tomato sauce beef blood pork cucumber peanut butter gravy mango juice slathered all over his tongue and the inside of his mouth is beyond his best imaginings. He allows himself one chew and then another and now for the grand finale when it all slides ecstatically into his tummy ...
"Dammit, Tyler, you almost got yourself killed running across the street like that and you are not going to eat that gross ..." and the provider/taker grabs Tyler's muzzle, one hand on top and one on the bottom and pulls open Tyler's mouth and tilts Tyler's head down and shakes it. Out falls masticated bone, mash-up of fruit and vege, chunks of meat and brownish, slimy drool gravy. "Jeezus, Tyler, that's disgusting. What's wrong with you?"
Tyler looks down at his lost treasure. Only ... six ... inches ... away.
"Alright, that's it. You're staying on leash until this garbage strike is over."
And thus ends the best days of Tyler's life ... well, at least until Thanksgiving.
The scavenging has been amazing these last couple of weeks. For the first time in his life, the dog has tasted marshmallow spread on a graham cracker, buffalo chicken wing flavoured potato chips, quattro formaggio pizza made with artisanal cheeses. Much of the found food has been a few days old, possibly a few days too old but the dog has had no complaints. He's one of the lucky ones born with a gut that quite readily handles variety and each new digestive challenge with a loud and exuberant cry of "Give me more".
Just two night ago he had come across in his salvaging, a crunchy sounding plastic bag which held a few precious nuggets of chocolate covered raisins. The dog had come across the scent of these two delicacies before but each and every time his provider of most things had tapped him on the nose and said, No, and pulled that mysterious foodstuff away and out of reach. Well, mysterious no longer, the dog had gobbled up the found nuggets quickly and surreptitiously and quite frankly, he didn't know why it was such a big deal. It was too sweet and made his teeth sing and it also felt kind of waxy, like those crayons he ate when he was a pup.
The breeze changes direction slightly and now it brings to the dog the scent of something that immediately makes him start to drool. The smell is luxuriant. The main body of the aroma is a combination of beef on bone still bloody and oregano laced tomato sauce. Secondary to that is the allure of overly ripened mango and burst blueberries and pork in barbecue sauce. There are strong overtones of peanut butter and mayonnaise and mustard. Also cucumber peel and burnt potatoes in aluminum foil. With the whole buffet splattered with wine infused gravy. And all of this is pungently soured from four days in the sun, the first two within a hot, steamy black plastic garbage bag, the next two spilled out onto the sidewalk, freed by the neighbourhood raccoon family of five, and then later, spread out by various birds and squirrels.
Now, at its perfect bouquet, the perfume of the scrap pile drives the dog delirious. He forgets all else and runs to the newly discovered manna, ignoring the chicken bones along the way and the frosted flakes and the unclean jar of honey. But it is not just the thrill of discovery that drives him. There is also a sense of urgency. He must get there before all else. He must get there and partake of its gloriousness before he is found out. He must get there before the provider of most things and the taker of everything else stops him.
And then, "Hey!"
The dog hears the sound from the provider/taker but it is still far away. It is like a mere gnat, barely a nuisance, nothing yet that needs to be attended to especially now that the dog actually sees the treasure he is seeking. He runs and he runs and he even breaks the rule of not crossing the street and then there is honking and someone yelling and then someone else yelling back and then more yelling but none of that matters now because the only thing on the whole planet that is of any significance right now is getting a mouthful of that most succulent tastebud party paradise into his mouth.
"Hey, Tyler! Leave it! I said, Leave it!"
He hears it but today is not the day to obey small minded provider/takers. Today is the day to dumpster dive into destiny. He opens his mouth the widest he's ever done and he scoops up his treasure.
"Noooooo!"
The tomato sauce beef blood pork cucumber peanut butter gravy mango juice slathered all over his tongue and the inside of his mouth is beyond his best imaginings. He allows himself one chew and then another and now for the grand finale when it all slides ecstatically into his tummy ...
"Dammit, Tyler, you almost got yourself killed running across the street like that and you are not going to eat that gross ..." and the provider/taker grabs Tyler's muzzle, one hand on top and one on the bottom and pulls open Tyler's mouth and tilts Tyler's head down and shakes it. Out falls masticated bone, mash-up of fruit and vege, chunks of meat and brownish, slimy drool gravy. "Jeezus, Tyler, that's disgusting. What's wrong with you?"
Tyler looks down at his lost treasure. Only ... six ... inches ... away.
"Alright, that's it. You're staying on leash until this garbage strike is over."
And thus ends the best days of Tyler's life ... well, at least until Thanksgiving.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Somebody should hire me to write an advice column
Christie Blatchford writes in The Globe and Mail about how We'll go to extraordinary lengths to believe our dogs will never die. It's a thoughtful commentary but the most telling line is this one:
... most dogs, like some people, are so good they should live forever ...
which is a sentiment after my own heart - although we may be in disagreement over the exact ratio of most:some.
Because of this like-mindedness, and even though I am in no way affiliated with Ms. Blatchford or the Globe and Mail or any past, present or future respectable purveyor of news and information, I feel I am, nevertheless, in a position to respond to some of the comments posted about her column.
The majority of the comments were quite positive but as the wise saying goes, even the most beautiful people produce shit daily. And I'm sure that The Globe and Mail would never allow on their site to be posted any low brow responses to this fine sampling of superbly erudite opinions.
That's why I'm here.
David B: Yet another in an endless series of columns about her dog. Complete with the obligatory farting references, of course. Hard hitting journalism. Blatchford is a shoe-in for a Pulitzer for this one.
My response: Dear David B, shut the fuck up.
Steve French: I was raised ona farm, I do not tolerate animals in the house. Dogs, cats, hamsters (rats) birds, fish, monkey's, they belong outside. I am disgusted by people who sleep with their dogs (surrogate child).
i like my computer fish - don't have to feed them, flush them, or forget them.
Dear Steve French, I'm sorry to hear that your parents raised you in a pig pen forcing you to curl up in pig feces while their dogs snuggled with them in their bed. Your feelings of jealousy and inadequacy are thus understandable but, really, no one cares about how the sow assaulted you as a child so please shut the fuck up and go back to your stall.
Sask Resident: Most pet owners make their pets suffer when the get old, like keeping a parent on life support, drooling and peeing their pants, with no dignity. But rather than thinking of the pet, they are selfish and make to pet suffer to make themselves feel better. Pets are not humans and are not children, no matter how many times you tell yourself that they are the same.
Dear Sask Resident, it's good to know you've so thoughtfully put your parents out of their misery. After they realized what they'd done in creating you, I'm sure they welcomed it and I'm expecting you'll take the same steps on yourself as soon as you start drooling and pissing in your own pants. In the meanwhile, please consider changing your diapers and shut the fuck up.
TRL: Have you ever seen a pack of dogs outside the pampered pet context? They only appear civilized because they know who their master is and are provided with abundant food.
Dear TRL, appearing civilized is more than you'll ever be regardless of the reasons so do us all a favour and please stop rubbing your hairy rectum in the Kraft dinner you're about to gulp down and just shut the fuck up.
AllenJ: I'm with Steve French on this one. We tend to anthropomorphize our pets. They aren't surrogate humans. They are animals. They belong outdoors, not in our beds shedding and farting. Blatchford should get a life.
Dear AllenJ, I'm sorry for your baby goldfish sized penis. Kindly remove it from Steve French's mouth. Oh, and shut the fuck up.
Steve French: Yes, Blabsford needs to be put out of our misery. One more column gushing about her stupid dog and I'm gonna vomit.
Dear Steve French, I'm sorry but AllenJ still has his penis in your mouth which is probably why you feel like vomiting. Kindly remove it and then shut the fuck up.
Requiem: How banal. Dogs die. But more: people die, too. Write about something meaningful, for a change. Who cares about dogs? Yeah, they're cute, but I am so sick of selfish dog owners who don't use leashes (because they know that Fifi is soooo sweet), who don't pull their nosey dogs away from you while walking them, allow them to poop and pee all over the place, allow them to sit in laps in the car, and so on. Oh, and as a jogger, I've been repeatedly bitten by nervous dogs. Next time I'm going to hoof the dog in the nose and bite the owner.
Requiem: If you're repeatedly being bitten by dogs then either you're a pungent piece of bacon on two legs or a liar. Either way, shut the fuck up, liar.
... most dogs, like some people, are so good they should live forever ...
which is a sentiment after my own heart - although we may be in disagreement over the exact ratio of most:some.
Because of this like-mindedness, and even though I am in no way affiliated with Ms. Blatchford or the Globe and Mail or any past, present or future respectable purveyor of news and information, I feel I am, nevertheless, in a position to respond to some of the comments posted about her column.
The majority of the comments were quite positive but as the wise saying goes, even the most beautiful people produce shit daily. And I'm sure that The Globe and Mail would never allow on their site to be posted any low brow responses to this fine sampling of superbly erudite opinions.
That's why I'm here.
David B: Yet another in an endless series of columns about her dog. Complete with the obligatory farting references, of course. Hard hitting journalism. Blatchford is a shoe-in for a Pulitzer for this one.
My response: Dear David B, shut the fuck up.
Steve French: I was raised ona farm, I do not tolerate animals in the house. Dogs, cats, hamsters (rats) birds, fish, monkey's, they belong outside. I am disgusted by people who sleep with their dogs (surrogate child).
i like my computer fish - don't have to feed them, flush them, or forget them.
Dear Steve French, I'm sorry to hear that your parents raised you in a pig pen forcing you to curl up in pig feces while their dogs snuggled with them in their bed. Your feelings of jealousy and inadequacy are thus understandable but, really, no one cares about how the sow assaulted you as a child so please shut the fuck up and go back to your stall.
Sask Resident: Most pet owners make their pets suffer when the get old, like keeping a parent on life support, drooling and peeing their pants, with no dignity. But rather than thinking of the pet, they are selfish and make to pet suffer to make themselves feel better. Pets are not humans and are not children, no matter how many times you tell yourself that they are the same.
Dear Sask Resident, it's good to know you've so thoughtfully put your parents out of their misery. After they realized what they'd done in creating you, I'm sure they welcomed it and I'm expecting you'll take the same steps on yourself as soon as you start drooling and pissing in your own pants. In the meanwhile, please consider changing your diapers and shut the fuck up.
TRL: Have you ever seen a pack of dogs outside the pampered pet context? They only appear civilized because they know who their master is and are provided with abundant food.
Dear TRL, appearing civilized is more than you'll ever be regardless of the reasons so do us all a favour and please stop rubbing your hairy rectum in the Kraft dinner you're about to gulp down and just shut the fuck up.
AllenJ: I'm with Steve French on this one. We tend to anthropomorphize our pets. They aren't surrogate humans. They are animals. They belong outdoors, not in our beds shedding and farting. Blatchford should get a life.
Dear AllenJ, I'm sorry for your baby goldfish sized penis. Kindly remove it from Steve French's mouth. Oh, and shut the fuck up.
Steve French: Yes, Blabsford needs to be put out of our misery. One more column gushing about her stupid dog and I'm gonna vomit.
Dear Steve French, I'm sorry but AllenJ still has his penis in your mouth which is probably why you feel like vomiting. Kindly remove it and then shut the fuck up.
Requiem: How banal. Dogs die. But more: people die, too. Write about something meaningful, for a change. Who cares about dogs? Yeah, they're cute, but I am so sick of selfish dog owners who don't use leashes (because they know that Fifi is soooo sweet), who don't pull their nosey dogs away from you while walking them, allow them to poop and pee all over the place, allow them to sit in laps in the car, and so on. Oh, and as a jogger, I've been repeatedly bitten by nervous dogs. Next time I'm going to hoof the dog in the nose and bite the owner.
Requiem: If you're repeatedly being bitten by dogs then either you're a pungent piece of bacon on two legs or a liar. Either way, shut the fuck up, liar.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
... and Hamilton/Burlington SPCA
Continued from here.
I like the ride over to Hamilton on my motorcycle. Going over the QEW Burlington Skyway is always exhilerating and especially so on a blue sky day. The cartoon perfect white clouds hanging over the lake are somewhat mesmerizing and I have to force myself to keep my eyes on the road.
I'm in a pretty good mood by the time I get to the Hamilton/Burlington SPCA. It's location certainly doesn't disappoint. It sits off a country road on a well manicured plot of land. There are open areas and tree shaded areas. There are gardens and rock benches and even a pet memorial site built on a patch of grass surrounded by a ring of shrubs for privacy.
There's also a decent sized dog park on one side of the lot, complete with agility course and at first, not knowing any better, I actually think the two dozen or so dogs in the park are shelter dogs until I realize they are pets out with their owners.
Inside the shelter, it's bustling. It's been a long time since I've been inside a real shelter and I've forgotten just how noisy and crowded they can be. Toronto Animal Services South is technically not a shelter, of course, and so to compare isn't exactly fair but if I were a dog awaiting adoption, I'd have to say I'd rather be waiting around at TAS South. I know the mandate at HBSPCA is to save as many lives as possible and the way to do that efficiently is to pack in many animals so as to be able to show them to the public and move them through. Still, I'm not used to the constant waves of barking and the cages of dogs lining the hallways and all the dogs in display windows which reminds me of a pet store.
The energy in the place feels good, though. It's sad to see so many dogs caged up but they're on display for a good reason and there are many potential adopters walking around checking them out. One young guy is very impressed by a Rottie that was just brought in. He's going to adopt her but has to wait until Tuesday after she's gotten all her shots and paperwork done. Another older couple, who arrived on a Harley, spend a good part of the afternoon with a little Schnauzer/Terrier type dog. I wonder if they're going to somehow take the dog home on the bike with them but at the end of the day they leave the guy behind. I'm hoping they'll return for him later with their car.
The staff at HBSPCA are typically young. They look a bit harried but they are helpful and friendly and very keen about the animals. No one looks like they are just doing time. As I'm standing there, absorbing and adjusting to the environment, someone approaches me and asks if he can help me with something. I explain that I'm looking for three dogs: Olga, Dakota and Keenan. He takes me to see Olga and Dakota right off and then after a bit of searching, finds Keenan as well. Dakota and Olga are in glass display cases and Keenan is in a cage.
Keenan at 0:20. Olga at 0:45 and 2:10. Dakota at 1:51
I immediately feel bad for them. I know they have a much better chance of being adopted here than they would at TAS North with that facility's limited hours due to the strike but still, seeing them here in their cramped quarters surrounded by a constant cacophony is sad. TAS South was like the Four Seasons comparatively.
I take Keenan out first. The environment is too stress inducing and he's completely forgotten how to sit in his crate while the door is being opened. On the way out, he's beserkers as we walk through the crowded main entrance way, pulling towards other dogs, cats, people. And his hackles are up so I have to be careful not to let him get too close to other excited dogs.
Once outside, it takes him a few minutes to calm down and then he's back to his old self again, alternating between sniffing around and returning for attention. We walk the perimeter of the grounds, going around to the other side of the property where Hamilton Animal Control is located but I see no activity from that part of the building. I find a shady spot and sit with Keenan just to let him decompress for a bit in the outdoor calm. I spend half an hour with him and then bring him back in.
I take Dakota out next.
Dakota's a bit more relaxed and we end up in an area where there's a volunteer standing around with a raggedly terrier/poodle looking dog. She seems like a suburban grandmother so I'm a little surprised when she tells me that her favorite dogs are Pit Bulls. Her last had just died a while ago at 15 and she hasn't found a replacement yet so she's getting her dog fix volunteering at the HBSPCA. I ask her how many dogs they have in there and she says she doesn't know but there are a lot. They've got a large capacity for dogs. She tells me that they sometimes get shipments of up to a hundred Louisianna dogs, the continuing fallout from the dogs abandoned during Katrina. And now I understand why the crowded, cage lined hallways. Better that than death by gas chamber in some high kill pound in the south.
On the way out with Olga, she's hackling the whole time and as we pass by a woman with her Boxer, she snaps at him and he at her but leashes keep them back from one another. It takes Olga a few minutes to destress outside and then she's doing her favourite thing rolling in the grass. I take her around the property and then find a shady spot in the trees. By the time I get her back inside, it's past five and the shelter is closing.
I give Olga to one of the staff to put back in her display case and then go visit Keenan one last time in his cage. He wags his tail when he sees me, happy and expectant, but I say goodbye to him, pat him through the cage and then leave.
It's for the best and the people there will look out for them but still, I'll be checking their adoption site daily and I'll be a lot happier once Keenan, Olga and Dakota are homed.
I like the ride over to Hamilton on my motorcycle. Going over the QEW Burlington Skyway is always exhilerating and especially so on a blue sky day. The cartoon perfect white clouds hanging over the lake are somewhat mesmerizing and I have to force myself to keep my eyes on the road.
I'm in a pretty good mood by the time I get to the Hamilton/Burlington SPCA. It's location certainly doesn't disappoint. It sits off a country road on a well manicured plot of land. There are open areas and tree shaded areas. There are gardens and rock benches and even a pet memorial site built on a patch of grass surrounded by a ring of shrubs for privacy.
There's also a decent sized dog park on one side of the lot, complete with agility course and at first, not knowing any better, I actually think the two dozen or so dogs in the park are shelter dogs until I realize they are pets out with their owners.
Inside the shelter, it's bustling. It's been a long time since I've been inside a real shelter and I've forgotten just how noisy and crowded they can be. Toronto Animal Services South is technically not a shelter, of course, and so to compare isn't exactly fair but if I were a dog awaiting adoption, I'd have to say I'd rather be waiting around at TAS South. I know the mandate at HBSPCA is to save as many lives as possible and the way to do that efficiently is to pack in many animals so as to be able to show them to the public and move them through. Still, I'm not used to the constant waves of barking and the cages of dogs lining the hallways and all the dogs in display windows which reminds me of a pet store.
The energy in the place feels good, though. It's sad to see so many dogs caged up but they're on display for a good reason and there are many potential adopters walking around checking them out. One young guy is very impressed by a Rottie that was just brought in. He's going to adopt her but has to wait until Tuesday after she's gotten all her shots and paperwork done. Another older couple, who arrived on a Harley, spend a good part of the afternoon with a little Schnauzer/Terrier type dog. I wonder if they're going to somehow take the dog home on the bike with them but at the end of the day they leave the guy behind. I'm hoping they'll return for him later with their car.
The staff at HBSPCA are typically young. They look a bit harried but they are helpful and friendly and very keen about the animals. No one looks like they are just doing time. As I'm standing there, absorbing and adjusting to the environment, someone approaches me and asks if he can help me with something. I explain that I'm looking for three dogs: Olga, Dakota and Keenan. He takes me to see Olga and Dakota right off and then after a bit of searching, finds Keenan as well. Dakota and Olga are in glass display cases and Keenan is in a cage.
Keenan at 0:20. Olga at 0:45 and 2:10. Dakota at 1:51
I immediately feel bad for them. I know they have a much better chance of being adopted here than they would at TAS North with that facility's limited hours due to the strike but still, seeing them here in their cramped quarters surrounded by a constant cacophony is sad. TAS South was like the Four Seasons comparatively.
I take Keenan out first. The environment is too stress inducing and he's completely forgotten how to sit in his crate while the door is being opened. On the way out, he's beserkers as we walk through the crowded main entrance way, pulling towards other dogs, cats, people. And his hackles are up so I have to be careful not to let him get too close to other excited dogs.
Once outside, it takes him a few minutes to calm down and then he's back to his old self again, alternating between sniffing around and returning for attention. We walk the perimeter of the grounds, going around to the other side of the property where Hamilton Animal Control is located but I see no activity from that part of the building. I find a shady spot and sit with Keenan just to let him decompress for a bit in the outdoor calm. I spend half an hour with him and then bring him back in.
I take Dakota out next.
Dakota's a bit more relaxed and we end up in an area where there's a volunteer standing around with a raggedly terrier/poodle looking dog. She seems like a suburban grandmother so I'm a little surprised when she tells me that her favorite dogs are Pit Bulls. Her last had just died a while ago at 15 and she hasn't found a replacement yet so she's getting her dog fix volunteering at the HBSPCA. I ask her how many dogs they have in there and she says she doesn't know but there are a lot. They've got a large capacity for dogs. She tells me that they sometimes get shipments of up to a hundred Louisianna dogs, the continuing fallout from the dogs abandoned during Katrina. And now I understand why the crowded, cage lined hallways. Better that than death by gas chamber in some high kill pound in the south.
On the way out with Olga, she's hackling the whole time and as we pass by a woman with her Boxer, she snaps at him and he at her but leashes keep them back from one another. It takes Olga a few minutes to destress outside and then she's doing her favourite thing rolling in the grass. I take her around the property and then find a shady spot in the trees. By the time I get her back inside, it's past five and the shelter is closing.
I give Olga to one of the staff to put back in her display case and then go visit Keenan one last time in his cage. He wags his tail when he sees me, happy and expectant, but I say goodbye to him, pat him through the cage and then leave.
It's for the best and the people there will look out for them but still, I'll be checking their adoption site daily and I'll be a lot happier once Keenan, Olga and Dakota are homed.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Daytrip to Toronto Animal Services North ...
I have to admit, it felt a bit strange going up to Toronto Animal Services North. First of all, it's at Sheppard and Keele and for someone who rarely goes north of Bloor, that's way way up there for me. When I finally find the place and walk through the main entrance, I get that feeling I used to get whenever I started at a new school or a new job: a touch of nerves, a touch of excitement. Weird.
I'm up in Downsview to see Bach. The plan is to check out his new digs at TAS North and then swing way over to Hamilton to visit the Hamilton/Burlington SPCA and see how they're treating our dogs from TAS South, Keenan, Olga and Dakota. I mean, they're not our dogs. They're no one's dogs - and that's the problem - but still, there's a sense of, I guess, responsibility, although it's not even that. It's more that they were in our care, under our roof, and like with guests, friends, whatever you want to call them, it's only right to see them off, to make sure they are safe, delivered into good hands.
I'm pleasantly surprised by TAS North. They've got it good up there. Built in the well-moneyed Mel Lastman years of North York, they sit on a nice chunk of land. The outdoor dog runs are more like grassy fields. Well, actually, they're not like grassy fields. They are grassy fields. I wish we had the land at TAS South for something that splendid. Then it wouldn't be so much like a shelter as it would be like going to a dog park.
The only thing strange about all that space, though, is that there are no dogs out there running around in those nice fields. That may have something to do with TAS North being short staffed because of the city strike so I'll have to go up there again when things are back to normal and see how well used they are. I'm told there aren't any volunteers up at the north shelter so the fenced in fields are used all time by the staff to let the dogs run around leash free.
The indoor facilities are pretty nice too. Well, the dog kennels and cat cages are nothing to brag about - but then when are they ever - but much of the space is natural sunlight bright and open. And the cat room is the best cat room I've ever seen.
It's like it was once a multi-stepped auditorium refurbished into a cat lounge with loads of cat beds and scratching posts and toys and, of course, several friendly cats.
The busy staff are pretty accomodating as well. Since the regular staff are on strike, everyone working there is probably a manager of some sort doing someone else's job but they seemed to be pulling it off well enough. Granted, some of them are working twelve hour days, six days a week, so it can't be easy. They are probably hoping for this strike to be over more than anyone else.
The most important thing, though, is that it looked like Bach is doing well. He's been started on his heartworm meds so his time in the shelter isn't being wasted. People are looking out for him up there and that's good to hear.
They bring him to meet me in an internal courtyard, open to the blue sky above. We're surrounded on two sides by the cat lounge and the cats seem to be as curious about Bach as he is about them. Between belly scratches, Bach gets up and watches the cats who are pawing at the glass wall separating them.
Yeah, he seems okay there. I'm sure he spends most of his days in his kennel and that can't be pleasant but on the heartworm meds, he can't be allowed to physically exert himself anyway. While it may not be the best situation for him to be in, it may be the safest.
Just before I go, I ask about the lack of dogs up for adoption on the TAS site and I'm told that last week around thirty dogs were transferred to Hamilton/Burlington SPCA and thirty dogs, in all likelihood, cleaned out all the TAS adoption dogs. Doing the adoptions on top of everything else must have been too much for the skeleton crews to handle.
I give Bach one last ear scratch and then it's time to head to Hamilton.
Continued here.
I'm up in Downsview to see Bach. The plan is to check out his new digs at TAS North and then swing way over to Hamilton to visit the Hamilton/Burlington SPCA and see how they're treating our dogs from TAS South, Keenan, Olga and Dakota. I mean, they're not our dogs. They're no one's dogs - and that's the problem - but still, there's a sense of, I guess, responsibility, although it's not even that. It's more that they were in our care, under our roof, and like with guests, friends, whatever you want to call them, it's only right to see them off, to make sure they are safe, delivered into good hands.
I'm pleasantly surprised by TAS North. They've got it good up there. Built in the well-moneyed Mel Lastman years of North York, they sit on a nice chunk of land. The outdoor dog runs are more like grassy fields. Well, actually, they're not like grassy fields. They are grassy fields. I wish we had the land at TAS South for something that splendid. Then it wouldn't be so much like a shelter as it would be like going to a dog park.
The only thing strange about all that space, though, is that there are no dogs out there running around in those nice fields. That may have something to do with TAS North being short staffed because of the city strike so I'll have to go up there again when things are back to normal and see how well used they are. I'm told there aren't any volunteers up at the north shelter so the fenced in fields are used all time by the staff to let the dogs run around leash free.
The indoor facilities are pretty nice too. Well, the dog kennels and cat cages are nothing to brag about - but then when are they ever - but much of the space is natural sunlight bright and open. And the cat room is the best cat room I've ever seen.
It's like it was once a multi-stepped auditorium refurbished into a cat lounge with loads of cat beds and scratching posts and toys and, of course, several friendly cats.
The busy staff are pretty accomodating as well. Since the regular staff are on strike, everyone working there is probably a manager of some sort doing someone else's job but they seemed to be pulling it off well enough. Granted, some of them are working twelve hour days, six days a week, so it can't be easy. They are probably hoping for this strike to be over more than anyone else.
The most important thing, though, is that it looked like Bach is doing well. He's been started on his heartworm meds so his time in the shelter isn't being wasted. People are looking out for him up there and that's good to hear.
They bring him to meet me in an internal courtyard, open to the blue sky above. We're surrounded on two sides by the cat lounge and the cats seem to be as curious about Bach as he is about them. Between belly scratches, Bach gets up and watches the cats who are pawing at the glass wall separating them.
Yeah, he seems okay there. I'm sure he spends most of his days in his kennel and that can't be pleasant but on the heartworm meds, he can't be allowed to physically exert himself anyway. While it may not be the best situation for him to be in, it may be the safest.
Just before I go, I ask about the lack of dogs up for adoption on the TAS site and I'm told that last week around thirty dogs were transferred to Hamilton/Burlington SPCA and thirty dogs, in all likelihood, cleaned out all the TAS adoption dogs. Doing the adoptions on top of everything else must have been too much for the skeleton crews to handle.
I give Bach one last ear scratch and then it's time to head to Hamilton.
Continued here.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Update on T'Loup
T'Loup had some unforeseen problems initially but it looks like everything's worked out for him now:
Letter 1:
Hi Joanne,
I want to let you know that little T'Loup went to his "furever" home today and it was a match made in heaven. Lorne & Audrey - a recently retired couple with a backyard, a couple of cats and lots of love and time have adopted him. To top it off, his new Daddy speaks French.
I brought him for an initial visit with them (and their 2 cats) on Tuesday and it went very well. So today, they came to take him home. Truly, I've never seen T'Loup so happy. When it was time to leave, he practically dragged his new owners down my driveway, his chubby little body and tail were just a'waggin, he couldn't get into their vehicle fast enough.
They called about an hour ago to tell me that on the drive home, T'Loup hopped into the front seat, onto her lap and licked her face all the way home. They are so happy to have him, they said it feels like Christmas (no surprise given the amount of things they bought for him - toys, treats. bed, a special harness that is also a seat belt, etc.,)
I would sincerely like to thank you for all you've done. Because of you, T'Loup now has a home to call his own and people who love him. You did a very good deed helping this little lost soul find a new and happy beginning.
Bless you, and Merci from T'Loup.
Please pass along this good news to Ruth, and also heartfelt thanks.
Letter 2:
When Ruth checked T'Loup's back and behind he was fine (and I'm sure he is), but not with me. Even today, he grumbled when I tried to clean his feet. The little devil...
You can't imagine the change that can over T'Loup after he met this couple (at their place) on Tuesday. Later that night when we were back home, he climbed onto my lap and starting licking me. I was shocked, the only time he sat on my lap and licked me was in Ruth's office, simply because he didn't want me to leave him there. The little devil...
Anyway, a couple of minutes after that, the phone rang but I was too busy to answer it, except T'Loup started crying when I didn't (and he had never cried before) so I did and it was Lorne & Audrey telling me they had decided to adopt him !!
This morning (for the 1st time ever ) he groaned and grunted at the bottom of my bed to get me up. I think he knew they were coming for him.
I took him for a walk and when we came in, he stood looking out the front door. Well, when he saw them coming up my drive, his tail and chubby little body were just a shaking and wagging all over. It was a beautiful to see.
When it was time for them to leave with him, I was sitting on the floor and he came over and licked and licked me. Then went over to Audrey, rolled onto her feet and then rolled over on his back and started squirming like a worm. I think he knew he found his home and was staking his claim :-))
The little devil...
Letter 1:
Hi Joanne,
I want to let you know that little T'Loup went to his "furever" home today and it was a match made in heaven. Lorne & Audrey - a recently retired couple with a backyard, a couple of cats and lots of love and time have adopted him. To top it off, his new Daddy speaks French.
I brought him for an initial visit with them (and their 2 cats) on Tuesday and it went very well. So today, they came to take him home. Truly, I've never seen T'Loup so happy. When it was time to leave, he practically dragged his new owners down my driveway, his chubby little body and tail were just a'waggin, he couldn't get into their vehicle fast enough.
They called about an hour ago to tell me that on the drive home, T'Loup hopped into the front seat, onto her lap and licked her face all the way home. They are so happy to have him, they said it feels like Christmas (no surprise given the amount of things they bought for him - toys, treats. bed, a special harness that is also a seat belt, etc.,)
I would sincerely like to thank you for all you've done. Because of you, T'Loup now has a home to call his own and people who love him. You did a very good deed helping this little lost soul find a new and happy beginning.
Bless you, and Merci from T'Loup.
Please pass along this good news to Ruth, and also heartfelt thanks.
Letter 2:
When Ruth checked T'Loup's back and behind he was fine (and I'm sure he is), but not with me. Even today, he grumbled when I tried to clean his feet. The little devil...
You can't imagine the change that can over T'Loup after he met this couple (at their place) on Tuesday. Later that night when we were back home, he climbed onto my lap and starting licking me. I was shocked, the only time he sat on my lap and licked me was in Ruth's office, simply because he didn't want me to leave him there. The little devil...
Anyway, a couple of minutes after that, the phone rang but I was too busy to answer it, except T'Loup started crying when I didn't (and he had never cried before) so I did and it was Lorne & Audrey telling me they had decided to adopt him !!
This morning (for the 1st time ever ) he groaned and grunted at the bottom of my bed to get me up. I think he knew they were coming for him.
I took him for a walk and when we came in, he stood looking out the front door. Well, when he saw them coming up my drive, his tail and chubby little body were just a shaking and wagging all over. It was a beautiful to see.
When it was time for them to leave with him, I was sitting on the floor and he came over and licked and licked me. Then went over to Audrey, rolled onto her feet and then rolled over on his back and started squirming like a worm. I think he knew he found his home and was staking his claim :-))
The little devil...
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Footwork
If anyone's happened to look at the TAS website recently, you might have noticed that there are zero dogs up for adoption. Now if I were the world's bestest optimist, I might think that all the dogs have been adopted out but, well, I'm not. So, I decide to do some digging to find out where they all are or at least try to.
This turns out to be even more convoluted than the time I tried to get some information about my Roger's home phone bundle.
First I phone the main TAS line and ask for the telephone number of the north shelter. The guy tells me that since they're not answering the phones up there, he can't give me the number.
Okay, so what's with these public agencies not answering their phones? Last week, it was some office of the court. Now it's the north shelter. Did some memo go out to city employees who deal with the public that dealing with the public is no longer a job requirement? Or maybe it's me. Maybe they've got my name on a no-phone list. Everytime a name from the list shows up on a city line, the person is automatically transferred to the guy whose job is to say that the party the caller's trying to reach hasn't got a phone.
Anyway, the guy asks me if he can help so I explain to him that I'm trying to track down a few of the dogs who were originally at TAS South and who were subsequently transferred up to TAS North for the strike. He asks for their ID numbers, which I don't have but I give him their names instead. Then he asks for my contact info. Then he tells me he can try to track down these dogs but that it would take him a very long time. And then he emphasizes, A very very long time.
Uh huh.
Well, at least he's honest.
Never mind then, I say, I'll go up there myself on the weekend.
Oh but they might not be there, he says.
They've been adopted? I ask.
No, they might be in Hamilton, he says. He tells me that TAS has been shipping dogs out to Hamilton. He tells me that I should phone Hamilton and if I can't find what I'm looking for, I can call him back and he'll try to help me then.
But it'll still take you a very very long time? I ask.
I'm afraid so, he says.
I phone Hamilton Animal Control. I'm put on hold by a machine for 15 minutes and then I get a real live person. I explain my situation and get tranferred to another machine which puts me on hold for half and hour and then I hang up.
On their website, I notice that Hamilton Animal Control is in the same building as the Hamilton/Burlington SPCA so I click over to the HBSPCA site and start looking around. I find Keenan's pic and bio.
Good ol' Keenan looking like he's flipping out for the camera.
I search around some more and see Olga and Dakota listed as well but with no photos. I decide to call the HBSPCA to see if they've got any info about the Toronto dog transfers and how they're all doing.
First person picks up and then transfers me to a machine which makes me wait for a bit and then tells me to leave my phone number and someone will most definitely call back within 24 hours.
Whatever.
Looks like I'm going out to Hamilton this weekend.
This turns out to be even more convoluted than the time I tried to get some information about my Roger's home phone bundle.
First I phone the main TAS line and ask for the telephone number of the north shelter. The guy tells me that since they're not answering the phones up there, he can't give me the number.
Okay, so what's with these public agencies not answering their phones? Last week, it was some office of the court. Now it's the north shelter. Did some memo go out to city employees who deal with the public that dealing with the public is no longer a job requirement? Or maybe it's me. Maybe they've got my name on a no-phone list. Everytime a name from the list shows up on a city line, the person is automatically transferred to the guy whose job is to say that the party the caller's trying to reach hasn't got a phone.
Anyway, the guy asks me if he can help so I explain to him that I'm trying to track down a few of the dogs who were originally at TAS South and who were subsequently transferred up to TAS North for the strike. He asks for their ID numbers, which I don't have but I give him their names instead. Then he asks for my contact info. Then he tells me he can try to track down these dogs but that it would take him a very long time. And then he emphasizes, A very very long time.
Uh huh.
Well, at least he's honest.
Never mind then, I say, I'll go up there myself on the weekend.
Oh but they might not be there, he says.
They've been adopted? I ask.
No, they might be in Hamilton, he says. He tells me that TAS has been shipping dogs out to Hamilton. He tells me that I should phone Hamilton and if I can't find what I'm looking for, I can call him back and he'll try to help me then.
But it'll still take you a very very long time? I ask.
I'm afraid so, he says.
I phone Hamilton Animal Control. I'm put on hold by a machine for 15 minutes and then I get a real live person. I explain my situation and get tranferred to another machine which puts me on hold for half and hour and then I hang up.
On their website, I notice that Hamilton Animal Control is in the same building as the Hamilton/Burlington SPCA so I click over to the HBSPCA site and start looking around. I find Keenan's pic and bio.
Good ol' Keenan looking like he's flipping out for the camera.
I search around some more and see Olga and Dakota listed as well but with no photos. I decide to call the HBSPCA to see if they've got any info about the Toronto dog transfers and how they're all doing.
First person picks up and then transfers me to a machine which makes me wait for a bit and then tells me to leave my phone number and someone will most definitely call back within 24 hours.
Whatever.
Looks like I'm going out to Hamilton this weekend.
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