Ninety degrees yesterday, and I spot a little white Poodle cross panting in a
car. He is frantically nosing the bare inch of cracked window.
After asking what I'm doing, a woman in the parking lot says sarcastically, "Well, why don't you call the police, then?"
No doubt I live in the animal cruelty capital of Canada, where Animal Control from another city makes the 130 mile round trip to help with our overabundance of strays and dumped dogs. I have more rescue work here in one square mile than I can handle. I'm constantly buying food for other peoples' pets.
I smile at a-holes who keep their dogs chained 24/7, so I can legally enter their properties to play and give water. I cry for the rabbits who fry, freeze and starve to death in outdoor hutches.
After asking what I'm doing, a woman in the parking lot says sarcastically, "Well, why don't you call the police, then?"
No doubt I live in the animal cruelty capital of Canada, where Animal Control from another city makes the 130 mile round trip to help with our overabundance of strays and dumped dogs. I have more rescue work here in one square mile than I can handle. I'm constantly buying food for other peoples' pets.
I smile at a-holes who keep their dogs chained 24/7, so I can legally enter their properties to play and give water. I cry for the rabbits who fry, freeze and starve to death in outdoor hutches.
I inform snarly
people that no, you can't just throw a horse out in a field and expect him
to thrive. Hoof trimming, worming and even supplemental
feeding on a bare pasture is news to many.
I constantly peel animals off the road, both domestic and wild. It's clear hitting them with cars and repeating the process, is the undeclared local sport. Half the time, they're still alive. I dig through bloodied possum bodies to find if pouch pinkies survived. I gently place a blanket over a shattered but breathing baby raccoon while two little girls watch and sob.
The newspaper refuses to publish my well worded plea for motorists to stop when they've hit an animal.
I launched a campaign to find homes for two abandoned, badly matted cats who were being fed by the Nature Preserve people, and living hopefully under the bird feeders. I painfully lost the fledgling I scooped from the cats' claws.
In spring, Craigslist and bulletin boards are rife with kitten sales, and hundreds of citizens proudly parade malformed and sickly puppies clearly purchased from one of the local mills. I want to weep at the crooked skeletons, the runny eyes and painfully displaced joints.
We could always tell when we were getting a mill pup at the vet clinic, and knew the prognosis was much poorer than for a well bred animal. Their immune systems are weak.
These same puppies are dragged along carelessly on steaming pavement, their foot pads burning. As adults, they suffer in the back of pickups, though this practice is illegal under the Motor Vehicle Act.
In a region labeled The Green Heart, a popular tourist destination, I stand outside the rows of overwhelming factory farms, sending love and reassurance to thousands of suffering animals. Black and white faces peer mournfully from a barn door. Here, even dairy cows are not permitted outdoors. They stand on concrete 24/7, in the midst of lush grass they can't touch.
I go for a Nature walk, and find an illegally dumped pile of rotten carcasses. I pray for them through nausea.
My town has the most churches per capita than any other Canadian city. Also the most Rebel flags I've seen, and the first time I've witnessed swastikas carved into an upscale neighbourhood's public picnic tables. Annually, they have a combined church service that draws thousands to the sports arena. They push evangelizing the globe.
Imagine a world that looks like this town.
If their God at all approves of their treatment of animals, I never want to meet him.
Customer service is concerned, pages the car owner. She is MAD. She is IRRATIONAL, something about, "Me and my husband always sit in the car with the dog."
Well, they weren't when I found the little guy cooking to death.
I walk with her to the car, she clearly angry that I'm doing so. "Whatcha gonna do, give the police our license plate?" she spits.
"If necessary," I say calmly, and stand by as she takes the little guy out for a walk. He is OVERJOYED. He jumps out of that car like it's a hot oven---which it is. He dives for cool grass on the boulevard.
I drive by slowly and give the angry woman a thumbs up. She is a mass of thunderclouds. The little Poodle winks.
Raisa Stone
Expert Animal Communicator
www.reisastone.com
Copyright 2013 Raisa Stone. May be shared freely using social media buttons. Reprint requests considered, in writing. Must be reprinted in whole, with links intact.
I constantly peel animals off the road, both domestic and wild. It's clear hitting them with cars and repeating the process, is the undeclared local sport. Half the time, they're still alive. I dig through bloodied possum bodies to find if pouch pinkies survived. I gently place a blanket over a shattered but breathing baby raccoon while two little girls watch and sob.
The newspaper refuses to publish my well worded plea for motorists to stop when they've hit an animal.
I launched a campaign to find homes for two abandoned, badly matted cats who were being fed by the Nature Preserve people, and living hopefully under the bird feeders. I painfully lost the fledgling I scooped from the cats' claws.
In spring, Craigslist and bulletin boards are rife with kitten sales, and hundreds of citizens proudly parade malformed and sickly puppies clearly purchased from one of the local mills. I want to weep at the crooked skeletons, the runny eyes and painfully displaced joints.
We could always tell when we were getting a mill pup at the vet clinic, and knew the prognosis was much poorer than for a well bred animal. Their immune systems are weak.
These same puppies are dragged along carelessly on steaming pavement, their foot pads burning. As adults, they suffer in the back of pickups, though this practice is illegal under the Motor Vehicle Act.
In a region labeled The Green Heart, a popular tourist destination, I stand outside the rows of overwhelming factory farms, sending love and reassurance to thousands of suffering animals. Black and white faces peer mournfully from a barn door. Here, even dairy cows are not permitted outdoors. They stand on concrete 24/7, in the midst of lush grass they can't touch.
I go for a Nature walk, and find an illegally dumped pile of rotten carcasses. I pray for them through nausea.
My town has the most churches per capita than any other Canadian city. Also the most Rebel flags I've seen, and the first time I've witnessed swastikas carved into an upscale neighbourhood's public picnic tables. Annually, they have a combined church service that draws thousands to the sports arena. They push evangelizing the globe.
Imagine a world that looks like this town.
If their God at all approves of their treatment of animals, I never want to meet him.
Customer service is concerned, pages the car owner. She is MAD. She is IRRATIONAL, something about, "Me and my husband always sit in the car with the dog."
Well, they weren't when I found the little guy cooking to death.
I walk with her to the car, she clearly angry that I'm doing so. "Whatcha gonna do, give the police our license plate?" she spits.
"If necessary," I say calmly, and stand by as she takes the little guy out for a walk. He is OVERJOYED. He jumps out of that car like it's a hot oven---which it is. He dives for cool grass on the boulevard.
I drive by slowly and give the angry woman a thumbs up. She is a mass of thunderclouds. The little Poodle winks.
Raisa Stone
Expert Animal Communicator
www.reisastone.com
Copyright 2013 Raisa Stone. May be shared freely using social media buttons. Reprint requests considered, in writing. Must be reprinted in whole, with links intact.
