Once again we are begging for help. We are overloaded and have waaaay too much on our plates right now. I know all of us in rescue are in the same boat:(
STAR is in deep financial trouble. We have too many dogs. Medical costs are horrible.
Paypal to sdcreasap@roadrunner.com or use ChipIn’s on STAR Petfinder page to help financially. You can also make checks out to STAR, a 501c3 non profit, and mail to STAR c/o Julia Sharp, 164 East Main Street, Morehead, KY 40351 This is also the mailing address for supply donations.
We desperately need Frontline SPRAY. We have yet another litter of lice puppies:( Frontline Spray works great on lice. Dogs have been full of fleas lately. We can also use Capstar.
We need collars, dewormers, leashes, vaccines, HW prevention, money, gas cards, food, blankets, dog beds…..the list is endless for Santa
HINGHAM — An English mastiff dog that bit two customers at a Hingham art gallery, including the wife of a Boston Red Sox [team stats] pitcher, has been ordered euthanized.
The Hingham Board of Selectman on Tuesday night unanimously voted to accept the recommendation of the town’s animal control officer and order the 8-year-old female dog named Gabriella put down.
Before the vote, the board heard testimony from the victims, including 37-year-old Stacey Wakefield, the wife of Red Sox pitcher Tim Wakefield [stats]. Wakefield was bitten inside the Hingham Square Gallery in June 2008. The other woman was bitten last June.
The dog and another mastiff are owned by gallery owners Robert and Megan Ullman, who were called “irresponsible” by town officials.
The Ullmans say their dog is not vicious and they will appeal in court.
They can be eccentric, slow afoot, even grouchy. But dogs live out their final days, says The Washington Post’s Gene Weingarten, with a humility and grace we all could learn from.
Friday, October 17, 2008
They can be eccentric, slow afoot, even grouchy. But dogs live out their final days, says The Washington Post’s Gene Weingarten, with a humility and grace we all could learn from.
Not long before his death, Harry and I headed out for a walk that proved eventful. He was nearly 13, old for a big dog. Walks were no longer the slap-happy Iditarods of his youth, frenzies of purposeless pulling in which we would cast madly off in all directions, fighting for command. Nor were they the exuberant archaeological expeditions of his middle years, when every other tree or hydrant or blade of grass held tantalizing secrets about his neighbors. In his old age, Harry had transformed his walk into a simple process of elimination—a dutiful, utilitarian, head-down trudge. When finished, he would shuffle home to his ratty old bed, which graced our living room because Harry could no longer ascend the stairs. On these walks, Harry seemed oblivious to his surroundings, absorbed in the arduous responsibility of placing foot before foot before foot before foot. But this time, on the edge of a small urban park, he stopped to watch something. A man was throwing a Frisbee to his dog. The dog, about Harry’s size, was tracking the flight expertly, as Harry had once done, anticipating hooks and slices by watching the pitch and roll and yaw of the disc, as Harry had done, then catching it with a joyful, punctuating leap, as Harry had once done, too.
Harry sat. For 10 minutes, he watched the fling and catch, fling and catch, his face contented, his eyes alight, his tail a-twitch. Our walk
home was almost … jaunty.
Some years ago, The Washington Post invited readers to come up with a midlife list of goals for an underachiever. The first-runner-up prize went to: “Win the admiration of my dog.”
It’s no big deal to love a dog; they make it so easy for you. They find you brilliant, even if you are a witling. You fascinate them, even if you are as dull as a butter knife. They are fond of you, even if you are a genocidal maniac. Hitler loved his dogs, and they loved him.
Puppies are incomparably cute and incomparably entertaining, and, best of all, they smell exactly like puppies. At middle age, a dog has settled into the knuckleheaded matrix of behavior we find so appealing—his unquestioning loyalty, his irrepressible willingness to please, his infectious happiness. But it is not until a dog gets old that his most important virtues ripen and coalesce. Old dogs can be cloudy-eyed and grouchy, gray of muzzle, graceless of gait, odd of habit, hard of hearing, pimply, wheezy, lazy, and lumpy. But to anyone who has ever known an old dog, these flaws are of little consequence. Old dogs are vulnerable. They show exorbitant gratitude and limitless trust. They are without artifice. They are funny in new and unexpected ways. But, above all, they seem at peace.
Kafka wrote that the meaning of life is that it ends. He meant that our lives are shaped and shaded by the existential terror of knowing that all is finite. This anxiety informs poetry, literature, the monuments we build, the wars we wage—all of it. Kafka was talking, of course, about people. Among animals, only humans are said to be self-aware enough to comprehend the passage of time and the grim truth of mortality. How, then, to explain old Harry at the edge of that park, gray and lame, just days from the end, experiencing what can only be called wistfulness and nostalgia? I have lived with eight dogs, watched six of them grow old and infirm with grace and dignity, and die with what seemed to be acceptance. I have seen old dogs grieve at the loss of their friends. I have come to believe that as they age, dogs comprehend the passage of time, and, if not the inevitability of death, certainly the relentlessness of the onset of their frailties. They understand that what’s gone is gone.
What dogs do not have is an abstract sense of fear, or a feeling of injustice or entitlement. They do not see themselves, as we do, as tragic heroes, battling ceaselessly against the merciless onslaught of time. Unlike us, old dogs lack the audacity to mythologize their lives. You’ve got to love them for that.
The product of a Kansas puppy mill, Harry was sold to us as a yellow Labrador retriever. I suppose it was technically true, but only in the sense that Tic Tacs are technically “food.” Harry’s lineage was suspect. He wasn’t the square-headed, elegant type of Labrador you can envision in the wilds of Canada hunting for ducks. He was the shape of a baked potato, with the color and luster of an interoffice envelope. You could envision him in the wilds of suburban Toledo, hunting for nuggets of dried food in a carpet.
His full name was Harry S Truman, and once he’d reached middle age, he had indeed developed the unassuming soul of a haberdasher. We sometimes called him Tru, which fit his loyalty but was in other ways a misnomer: Harry was a bit of an eccentric, a few bubbles off plumb. Though he had never experienced an electrical shock, whenever he encountered a wire on the floor—say, a power cord leading from a laptop to a wall socket—Harry would stop and refuse to proceed. To him, this barrier was as impassable as the Himalayas. He’d stand there, waiting for someone to move it. Also, he was afraid of wind.
While Harry lacked the wiliness and cunning of some dogs, I did watch one day as he figured out a basic principle of physics. He was playing with a water bottle in our backyard—it was one of those 5-gallon cylindrical plastic jugs from the top of a water cooler. At one point, it rolled down a hill, which surprised and delighted him. He retrieved it, brought it back up and tried to make it go down again. It wouldn’t. I watched him nudge it around until he discovered that for the bottle to roll, its long axis had to be perpendicular to the slope of the hill. You could see the understanding dawn on his face; it was Archimedes in his bath, Helen Keller at the water spigot.
That was probably the intellectual achievement of Harry’s life, tarnished only slightly by the fact that he spent the next two hours insipidly entranced, rolling the bottle down and hauling it back up. He did not come inside until it grew too dark for him to see.
I believe I know exactly when Harry became an old dog. He was about 9 years old. It happened at 10:15 on the evening of June 21, 2001, the day my family moved from the suburbs to the city. The move took longer than we’d anticipated. Inexcusably, Harry had been left alone in the vacated house—eerie, echoing, empty of furniture and of all belongings except Harry and his bed—for eight hours. When I arrived to pick him up, he was beyond frantic.
He met me at the door and embraced me around the waist in a way that is not immediately reconcilable with the musculature and skeleton of a dog’s front legs. I could not extricate myself from his grasp. We walked out of that house like a slow-dancing couple, and Harry did not let go until I opened the car door.
He wasn’t barking at me in reprimand, as he once might have done. He hadn’t fouled the house in spite. That night, Harry was simply scared and vulnerable, impossibly sweet and needy and grateful. He had lost something of himself, but he had gained something more touching and more valuable. He had entered old age.
In the year after our move, Harry began to age visibly, and he did it the way most dogs do. First his muzzle began to whiten, and then the white slowly crept backward to swallow his entire head. As he became more sedentary, he thickened a bit, too.
On walks, he would no longer bother to scout and circle for a place to relieve himself. He would simply do it in mid-plod, like a horse, leaving the difficult logistics of drive-by cleanup to me. Sometimes, while crossing a busy street, with cars whizzing by, he would plop down to scratch his ear. Sometimes, he would forget where he was and why he was there. To the amusement of passersby, I would have to hunker down beside him and say, “Harry, we’re on a walk, and we’re going home now. Home is this way, okay?” On these dutiful walks, Harry ignored almost everything he passed. The most notable exception was an old, barrel-chested female pit bull named Honey, whom he loved. This was surprising, both because other dogs had long ago ceased to interest Harry at all, and because even back when they did, Harry’s tastes were for the guys.
Still, when we met Honey on walks, Harry perked up. Honey was younger by five years and heartier by a mile, but she liked Harry and slowed her gait when he was around. They waddled together for blocks, eyes forward, hardly interacting but content in each other’s company. I will forever be grateful to Honey for sweetening Harry’s last days.
Some people who seem unmoved by the deaths of tens of thousands through war or natural disaster will nonetheless grieve inconsolably over the loss of the family dog. People who find this behavior distasteful are often the ones without pets. It is hard to understand, in the abstract, the degree to which a companion animal, particularly after a long life, becomes a part of you. I believe I’ve figured out what this is all about. It is not as noble as I’d like it to be, but it is not anything of which to be ashamed, either.
In our dogs, we see ourselves. Dogs exhibit almost all of our emotions; if you think a dog cannot register envy or pity or pride or melancholia, you have never lived with one for any length of time. What dogs lack is our ability to dissimulate. They wear their emotions nakedly, and so, in watching them, we see ourselves as we would be if we were stripped of posture and pretense. Their innocence is enormously appealing. When we watch a dog progress from puppyhood to old age, we are watching our own lives in microcosm. Our dogs become old, frail, crotchety, and vulnerable, just as Grandma did, just as we surely will, come the day. When we grieve for them, we grieve for ourselves.
As many of you know, I am on facebook pretty regularly. Well, not only am I interested in the social media aspect of finding old friends, keeping in touch with all of my MN and ND relatives, but I also share a tremendous interest in DOG RESCUE and the tremendous efforts and triumphs we experience, as volunteers.
Well, one of my facebook friends and avid animal activists Jennifer Lee Pryor [yes, Richard Pryor's widow and crusader of Pryor's Planet], was recently outraged by some comments made on the Jay Leno show. I’m going to post Jennifer’s letter and responses below, so that you can see Hollywood’s gross misrepresentation of canine compassion. Not only will Chris Rock’s publicist not retract any remarks, he is not remorseful. His information is as follows
Baker Winokur Ryder
Matthew Labov
9100 Wilshire Blvd.
6th Floor West
Beverly Hills, CA 90212
USA
Phone: 310-550-7776
Fax: 310-550-1701
And now, I give you Jennifer’s words along with her cursory response. Please make your voices heard for dogs and animal cruelty everywhere!! Those wih influence need to be cognizent of their words and actions.
Brenda
————–
Matthew Labov wrote:
Jennifer-
Thank you for your note.
He told a joke and millions of people laughed. It was just a joke, not meant to inflame you.
Thank you.
ML
**********
My [Jennifer’s] Reply:
Mathew:
I am not stupid, I have a great sense of humor…I married Richard Pryor twice, for hell’s sake… and worked with him on several projects…I KNOW WHAT’S FUNNY!
I knew that this would be the standard answer–doesn’t cut it!
Chris pounded his fists on the chair and asked: “what did Mike Vick do!” He went on to say: ‘Pit bulls aren’t even real dogs”…then of course, he went on to say it’s a ‘white thing…black people don’t like dogs, yadayada…’—and finished his highly unfunny, dated, routine!
Your patronizing comment, ” It was just a joke, not meant to inflame you.—”
is insult to injury! I assure you, many others are shocked and ‘INFLAMED’ as you put it, about this!
If you think this is damage control, you have fallen very short in your job.
One need only Google Chris Rock and Michael Vick to see just who else is disturbed by these comments.
“Millions of people laughing” doesn’t make it OK.
Apparently, it’s a black thing to defend Michael Vick…and bash Pit bulls!
Now, please understand my position: I am Director of a rescue organization established by Richard and myself and named after Richard, I cannot have anyone associated, with the Pryor name, who publicly defends a known animal abuser and feels this way about dogs in general.Therefore,Chris will not be associated with Richard Pryor and any project about Richard.
And if you have checked, to see if I have any ‘power’ to enforce this, I assure you I do.
As stated in my previous email, both my attorney and Bill Condon are aware of how strongly I feel and of my commitment to animal welfare.
And to repeat what I stated earlier, let the chips fall where they may.
You had an opportunity to try to repair this and you have chosen to patronize and minimize.
I know and love these special ladies in Morehead, KY!! They are several selfless women that try to save little lives every day and have saved over 500 dogs this past year!! Their hard work and our contributions, transport volunteers and donors, keep them in business. And believe me folks, it is a thankless job that is unending, in today’s economy!
Dog Blessed has personally contributed $200.00 and is BEGGING you to please contriute at least $10.00!! Every amount helps !! Vetting is so much more affordable for our southern dogs. And being the proud owner of one little southern belle named Annabella, I can say it’s worth every cent and more. For my dogs truly bless me, more than I have blessed them.
PLEASE FOLLOW THE LINK AND CONTRIBUTE~ DOG BLESS!!
“URGENT MESSAGE: September 20, 2009 – The members of STAR are taking a short break in order to catch up on bills and place all the dogs and puppies still in boarding or backyard kennels. We continue to need foster homes and funds. For the moment we are unfortunately not able to take in any more dogs until we catch up. Please consider taking in a dog for a week or two while we place them in rescues. We have worked very hard to keep all dogs alive and safe until they can get to a rescue or home. This has proved to be a labor of love but unfortunately we cannot keep up with the current intake level at the dog pound. All dogs are at risk. So if a dog takes your fancy please act quickly and call the dog pound at 606-784-4930. Please adopt a dog and spay/neuter your pets.
We are not the dog pound. We are a very small group of caring people who try to save dogs. Our goal is to get dogs out of the pound and to the safety of a rescue or a new home. Dogs that are at the pound are subject to walk-in adoptions that we cannot contol. They are also subject to being euthanized if the pound gets over capacity (this is a weekly occurrence). If you want to adopt a dog the adoption fee will include vet/boarding costs. When we foster a dog for more than a few days, another dog at the pound could die because we have no where to put it. We will only pull dogs from the pound that have a place to go.”
BILLERICA — Standing before selectmen last night, Glen Munson pulled up his shirt sleeve to reveal scars he’ll bear for the rest of his life.
On June 12, Munson was viciously attacked without provocation by a Rottweiler as he walked home from work about 7 p.m. The 33-year-old scientist was taken by ambulance to Saints Medical Center in Lowell where he was treated for deep bite marks to his right arm and left hand.
In a 3-1 vote last night, selectmen declared the dog dangerous and banished it from Billerica. The decision was handed down despite the owners’ insistence that their 3-year-old dog never acted aggressively before or after the attack on Munson.
The dog’s owners, Richard and Henryka Smejlik, of 20 Old Elm St., showed selectmen a series of photos of their pet appearing to interact calmly with very young children. Richard Smejlik also said his wife, who was handling the dog at the time of the attack, would no longer take the animal for walks.
“He’s not dangerous,” said Richard Smejlik, a Polish immigrant who speaks limited English. “He never makes trouble.”
But in a key piece of testimony during the public hearing, police Officer Stephen Cogswell revealed that the dog, named Otis, was involved in a violent altercation with another dog last September.
Cogswell said police responded to Veterans Park on Sept. 6, 2008, after Richard Smejlik reported his dog was in a fight with an unleashed “yellow” dog. Smejlik said he was bitten in
the hand by the yellow dog as he tried to break up the altercation.
“I think this goes a way toward learning about the disposition of this dog,” said Selectman Mike Rosa, after hearing about the earlier incident.
Cogswell also told selectmen that Henryka Smejlik was carrying a muzzle at the time of the attack. Smejlik had difficulty controlling the dog after it bit Munson, said Cogswell, but was eventually able to place the muzzle she had with her on the dog’s mouth.
Selectmen Rosa, Bob Correnti and Bob Accomando voted to force the Smejliks to remove their dog from Billerica within 14 days. If the dog is relocated to another community, the Smejliks must notify authorities of the animal’s violent past.
Before the final vote was taken, Lombardo implored his colleagues to reconsider, saying he does not think the dog is a “killer.”
“I used to laugh when people said a dog is part of a family, but it’s no joke,” said Lombardo, who preferred sending the dog to obedience classes and having it checked on periodically by the town’s animal-control officer. “Maybe it’s because I have a dog, so I have more emotions. It’s really serious taking a dog away from a family.”
Rosa countered that if the dog had attacked a child, it could have resulted in death.
“We could be here under much more serious circumstances,” said Rosa. “If we don’t deal with our role to protect the public in Billerica, then we’re not doing our due diligence.”
Andrew Deslaurier recused himself from the hearing because he lives next door to the Smejliks. He said he did not want his presence to pose a conflict of interest.
In other action, selectmen appointed Town Accountant Paul Watson interim town manager while the town searches for a replacement for former Manager Bill Williams. Watson will receive a $700-per-week stipend for the job, which will last about three months.
Please send your comments to us at DogBlessed via our Contact Us page!!
Billerica, MA Animal Control Phone Number: 978-671-0909
*****YOUR VOICES COUNT*****
Billerica, MA Selectmen
Staff
Board Members
Marc T. Lombardo, Chairman
9 Eubar Circle
Billerica, MA 01821
(978) 362-3290
marctlombardo@comcast.netThis e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
Andrew Deslaurier, Vice Chairman
1 Wilson Street
North Billerica, MA 01862
(978) 262-1418
anewton77@hotmail.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
Michael S. Rosa, Secretary
29 Riverdale Road
Billerica, MA 01821
(978) 663-2834
Robert B. Accomando, Member
134 Treble Cove Road
Billerica, MA 01862
(978) 670-9832
accomando2008@comcast.netThis e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
Robert M. Correnti, Member
9 Francis Road
Billerica, MA 01821-3618
(978) 667-1411
bobcorrenti@comcast.netThis e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
Billerica Town Manager’s Office
Hours of Operation:
Monday – Friday: 8:30am – 4:00pm
Contact Information:
365 Boston Rd.
Billerica, Ma 01821
Office# 207
Phone: (978) 671-0942
Fax: (978) 671-0947
About:
The Town Manager is the senior appointed office of the Town and is responsible for the effective operation of the Town’s administration. The Town Manager directs the administration of departments, as well as various boards and commissions. The Town Manager attends all meetings of the Board of Selectmen and advises and recommends actions related to the needs of the Town.
That’s right!! Our friend Julia in Kentucky is going to help us with a new Spay & Neuter program!
Sadly, year after year, we see pups at the pound that resemble some of last year’s pups. There’s a rough economy out there and lots of dogs feeling the “pinch.” Not only are lots of beautiful house pets being dropped at the pound daily, but loads and loads of puppies!! The only way these little guys have a chance is by vaccination and spay/neuter.
We work hard to rehome these babies and continually need supplies, fosters, drivers, paid transports and donations.
Luckily in Kentucky, these pups can have this procedure for a mere $70.00 This is certainly a bargain, compared to our New England fees!
Thanks for reading and thank you in advance for your support. Donations can be made on our CHIPIN page:
This link seems like an intersting one. Also, please feel free to check out my blog on here about the puppy mill puppies that were found in a truck by Webster Police. Puppymill pups always end up in pet stores. There are even mixed breeds! Please adopt and do not keep animal “sellers” in business!!
July 22: RaeLee saved the life of Christian Mason, 21, in Port Tampa, Fla.
PORT TAMPA, Fla. — Yolanda Segovia heard a knock on her door one morning, just before 8 a.m.
Her neighbor was on the porch, with a dog and a story.
Stacey Savige had found the little dog in front of an elementary school. He wasn’t very big, looked like some sort of terrier. Burrs clung to his belly. His honey fur was caked in mud.
He didn’t have a collar. Stacey had taken him to the vet and he didn’t have a chip, either.
Now Stacey had to go to work. Could Yolanda keep him?
Yolanda is 47. She’s a divorced mom with two boys. In recent years she has survived breast cancer and cervical cancer , lost her dark hair and eyelashes to chemo. A hairdresser, she hasn’t worked since 2006.
“You can leave the dog here,” Yolanda told Stacey. “But just for today.”
They took photos of the dog and made a FOUND flier. Stacey ran off 4,000 color copies. She and Yolanda stuffed mailboxes, put ads on Craigslist .
Yolanda took her boys to the dollar store and bought a collar, leash, ball and brown bed. Her 10-year-old, Azaiah, decided to call the dog RaeLee, pronounced “Riley.” He said he had heard it on TV. All afternoon, he walked the dog, threw the ball, laughed while the dog licked his face.
“Don’t fall in love with him,” Yolanda kept warning.
Her elder son, Christian, 21, watched through the window. Christian has Down syndrome and an array of other ailments. He has had heart surgery, a kidney transplant. He can’t speak or bathe himself.
That night, when the boys climbed into their bunk beds, the dog dragged his new bed from Yolanda’s living room, down the long hall, into their room.
——
Four days later, they still had the dog. He was starting to answer to his new name.
He loved roughhousing with Azaiah, knew to be gentle with Christian. He almost never barked.
On Saturday, Azaiah went to his dad’s house. Christian retreated to his room to watch a Barney video. The dog dozed beside him.
Yolanda had just stepped onto her porch to water the plants when the dog flung himself into the screen door, barking madly.
As she opened the door, the dog sprinted across the living room, into the boys’ room.
Yolanda screamed. Christian was slumped over, his body writhing in a seizure, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.
The dog ran to the boy, still yelping. But as soon as Yolanda bent to cradle her son, the dog went silent.
“If he hadn’t come to get me,” Yolanda told Stacey later, “the neurologist said Christian would have choked on his own blood and died.”
Since no one had claimed the dog, Yolanda decided to keep him.
——
Stacey got a call the next morning. A man named Randy had recognized his lost dog and called the number on the flier.
Stacey sobbed. She had been working so hard to find the dog’s owner. Now that he had found her, everything seemed wrong.
She quizzed the man to make sure the dog was really his: Is the dog fixed? What tricks does he do? The man answered things only an owner could. His name is Odie, the man said.
Randy Cliff, 34, is an unemployed plumber who lives six blocks from Yolanda with his wife, their four children and infant granddaughter. He said he had been searching for Odie for more than a week.
Stacey told him, “That dog saved my friend’s son.”
———
When the van pulled up outside Yolanda’s house, the dog raced out and jumped into Randy’s arms. Randy buried his face in his dog’s soft fur.
Azaiah stood on the porch, crying. “We’re going to miss you,” he called.
As Randy remembers it, he looked at the boy. He saw Christian’s frightened face in the window. “Is that your brother?” he asked. Azaiah nodded.
Randy set the dog by Azaiah’s feet.
“Maybe Odie was supposed to find you,” Randy said. “Maybe you should keep him.”
