From "The Little Prince"

"Men have forgotten this truth. But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."
~Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Reisa Stone: Are You A "Pet Parent"?

I read a discussion about whether it's politically correct to call yourself a "pet parent," or to call your pets "fur babies" and the like. 

Here is my response.

One of the really fun things about my job as an Animal Communicator: I get to tell people how their pets view the relationship, and what they call their human companions.

This is quite diverse.

Some animals call humans "Mom" or "Dad." They may call only one person this endearment, while calling the other human their given name. This speaks to the closeness of the relationships. 

In families where a pet is deeply bonded to one person only, they may refer to the others only as "him" or "her." Occasionally with a touch of snark. I have a professional commitment to relay a pet's words verbatim, and struggle to relay this diplomatically. 

Some animals view us as their mates, even as marriage partners, though they're clearly aware that a sexual/reproductive relationship is not possible or even desirable. 

I was stunned when a battered, very old cat I rescued asked me to marry him, "Because you're the only person who's ever really loved me." 

My acceptance of his profoundly humble affection for me redefined my idea of what true love means. I found a room in my heart I hadn't known existed. This experience also led me to explore our past life together, and how it had manifested in the present. 

The latter helped me bear my own distress over his miserable condition when found. However, I'm still experiencing Internet bullying and harassment from his abusers. That's one of the risks with animal rescue.

Some pets view us as equal companions, and call us by our given names. 

Further to this: It's intriguing when I know a person by a shortened name such as Cindy, and their pet insists it's "Cynthia." There's a dignified formality to this.

I've also run across many animals who consider humans to be their babies. It's quite dissonant to hear a person talk about their "baby," when the dog calls the same person, "my daughter."

Again, size and species are irrelevant to this discussion. A Maltese may view you as their child, while an immense draft horse may view you as a parental figure, and a guinea pig, your soul mate and life companion.

Animals experience relationships first and foremost through their hearts. Without exception, their definition of the relationship carries a beautiful dignity within.

Animals are deeply loving, but not the least bit sentimental.
 
I find that disclosing these names gives a much greater clarity to the relationship. I prefer calling pet owners in general, "guardians."
 
I've never once heard an animal call themselves, "fur baby." Without exception, animals are far too rightly proud of the glorious asset humans lack, to infantilize it and themselves with such a phrase. 

How would you feel about being called "skin mother"? That would be......eeeeeeeeek.

 Even when pets view you as Mom or Dad, they don't see themselves as eternal babies. They're describing a familial connection. Again, it's dignified.

To me, fur baby is where pet naming steps over a line and becomes less about the animal, more about what's going on for the person.

Animals deserve our respect, not our projections.

I recommend sitting quietly with your pet, breathing in rhythm, and simply asking what they'd like to be called. You may receive an enlightening reply.

Kind regards,
Raisa Stone
                                                I'm Dr. Dolittle. Questions?
                                   www.reisastone.com 

Author: -Awaken the Gift of Animal Communication
                 -Sweet Kisses: Peaceful, Low Cost Dental   
                 Care for Your Pet 
                 -Heart to Heart with Animals 

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Reisa Stone: Another Day, Another Animal Rescue

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. 

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.