This week's crosspost photo is of Charlie and Maggie, two six month old, female Pomeranian Australian Shepherd mix pups at Loyal Rescue. They've got some eyesight issues but since dogs don't have to write legal briefs or do financial audits, they generally get along just fine with blurry vision.
Maggie is the bushy one on the right. Charlie is the one singing.
Pomeranian + Yorkie = Porkie. Getit?
I think there's some red fox thrown into the mix as well. This girl is a serious contender for most adorable dog of the year award.
From The Star:
It’s “cheaper to euthanize an animal than keep it in an animal shelter or find it a home.” And that’s why no municipality should consider contracting out shelters to for-profit companies, says Nicholas Gilman, Montreal SPCA executive director.
“I hope that people recognize in Toronto the terrible problem we have had here with for-profit pounds,’’ says Gilman. He is referring to fallout from a CBC Radio-Canada Enquête investigation earlier this year in which a hidden camera was used to document questionable euthanasia practices at a for-profit animal pound that handled more than 30,000 animals a year under its contract with the City of Montreal.
Unlike Montreal, which does not have a municipally run animal services facility, this city has Toronto Animal Services, which shelters and adopts animals, operates cat-sterilization clinics, responds to animal emergencies, issues licences and tags for dogs and cats, and more.
But for how long?
You can read the complete article here.
Wow. Saturday has totally disappeared in a blink of the eye. In one long blink of the eye. I spent the morning at TAS-South walking and photographing dogs and then came back home, ate four slices of fresh Ontario peach (no better peaches on the planet in my estimation) and then lay on the couch. Next thing I know, the light has faded and the house is frickin hot from baking in the afternoon heat and humidity.
I wander around aimlessly into the kitchen, look in the fridge, have a couple of olives, have a glass of water, wander upstairs.
The attic is even hotter so I turn the fan on. I could set up the A/C in the window but I'm still sleepheaded and can't be bothered. I'm going to try to remember this saturated heat feeling when February rolls around. There's some "Hot and Spicy Taste Sensation" tamarind balls on the desk beside the computer so I chew on one of those.
I'm not even sure how I got there now, but I find this online: Photo Booth, In Focus: Dogs, from the New Yorker.
(Fiction, repost from March 2009)
Here I am eating mouthfuls of candy 'n wondering what I would do if I was Jesus. Well, first of all I would burn down Mick Donhill's house cuz he's a prick. The whole family of Donhill's are pricks so I hope they're all home when I set match to gasoline although I suppose if I were Jesus, I wouldn't have to light a match, I could just get one of them Baptists to do it for me. I might warn lardo tardo Emily to stay away, I guess. She's their second daughter and even though she's too fat to get into the car and too stupid to ever get outta fourth grade, she ain't too bad. I mean she ain't mean like the rest of 'em.
She had that li'l dog for a while. It was a real fucked up li'l dog and it would run out their house and bark at you and if you did or if you didn't turn away it din matter, it'd take a nip out your shoes and if you weren't wearin' no shoes that'd be your ankle. I doan know how many times it came out charging at me even though I been cutting their lawn for years, since even before the dog ever got there anyway. It would come at me and yap and yap and it din matter I had the big mower going, it would just run aroun' it and bite my boot. I'd shake the sumbitch off and it'd just come back round and bite again, and harder and hold on harder and it would try to shake my boot to death even though my boot was connected to me and I ain't no lightweight neither. Damn fucking fucked up dog.
I doan know how many times I near run it over with the mower. Wanted to too sometimes and I probably would've if it weren't for Emily always rolling out off the front porch waving her hammy arms at us like the house was on fire, screaming at her dog to lay off me. I doan think she was necessarily worried about me. I jes think she din want dog choppy suey all over the front grass. The dog always gave me this look like it was saying, alright, you lucky this time but next time you better make sure you had all the kids you ever gonna want cuz there ain't gonna be no more chances after I get through with you.
One time after Emily got her dog to stop trying to slay me, she invited me inside to get outta the heat. I know what you're thinking, pervy, but it was nuthin like that. Emily's about as appealing as a truck in a dress - no offence to neither - 'n as for me, even if Emily's hooker parts had any juice flowing through 'em - which I doubt on account of her mental condition - I doubt a 63 year old man with eight fingers and most his teeth missing an no money cept for the money in my boot would be much a turn on.
That would be the first and only time I ever gone inside the Donghill's big house. Everything looked all hard and shiny. There was no carpeting or rugs or anything and all the furniture was all hard plastic or metal or wood. There was some leather coverings on the sofas and armchairs but even they looked hard, like they'd never been set in. The floors were like ice, not that I ever seen ice cept on tv but that's what it looked like, like maybe you could skate on it if you had skates and knew how to skate. It was all pearly cept where I was standing because I had brought in some dirt and grass on my boots.
Emily went and got me some lemonade while her attack dog stood and watched over me. It just stood there and didn't move and I made some funny faces at it and it did this funny thing with its head like it was studying me or something. "Cmere boy," I said to it but it still didn't move so I patted my legs and made some animal noises until it finally walked over and gave me a sniff. Then it just sat there on my boot.
Emily came back with two glasses and she was spilling lemonade all over the place like a drunkard and the dog ran over and lapped it up, following her as she kept spilling the stuff. I never knew no dogs that liked lemonade but I guess some dogs'll eat anything. Anyway, I figured that was why maybe there was no rugs.
She handed me a glass barely half full of lemonade and I drank it and said thanks and left. I din even sit down or anything. Jus stood in the hallway cuz Emily never invited me to take a seat. I doan think it was cuz she was rude or anything. I think she jus din have the common sense to ask.
The last time I was over there which was a week later, I was jus workin on the front rose beds when Mick the ball-less prick came runnin outa the front door. He waved at me and said he wanted to talk to me about something.
"Last time you were here, did the dog bite you?"
"Not sure what you're talking about there," I said.
"Emily told us that last week the dog ran out and bit you. Did it?"
"Oh yeah, that. It was no big deal. It just got its teeth 'round my boot is all. It's done that lots a times."
"It's done that before?"
"Oh yeah, but no big deal. It's just ..."
"It never broke skin, though?"
"Broke skin? What's ..."
"It never made you bleed?"
"Oh no, nothin' like that. Like I was saying ..."
"Alright, well, would you mind doing me a favor? Would you mind signing this?"
Mick took some paper outta his pocket and stuck a pen in my face and I was already annoyed he was cutting me off all the time when I was trying to speak so I really wanted to do was whack the pen out of his hand but instead I breathed like my doctor suggested and asked him what was the paper about.
"It's just to say that our dog didn't injure you."
"I already told you it din."
"I know but if you could sign this then it would really help us."
"Help you what? I already told you it din bite."
"Yes, I know. I heard you the first time. This document is just to protect us. You understand, right?"
"No, why don't you tell me?"
"It's to protect us from liability."
"What? You mean like a lawsuit? You mean you want me to sign that so that I don't sue you? That's ridiculous."
"Look, I'm willing to throw in a little signing bonus. Say, $200."
I never respected Micky much and when he offered me the money whatever tiny amount of respect I had disappeared down the shithole although looking back on it now, if I'd known what he was going to do next, I should've made him gimme a thousand and then given him some spit in his face in return.
"Alright, I doan know what you're on about but I'll sign it and you can keep your money. It's unchristian to be accepting bribes," I said, not because I'm a angel or anything but just because I wanted Dunghill to know that I knew he was being a slimy toad. It din have much effect on him, though.
I gave him the pen and paper back.
As soon as he put the paper back in his pocket he said, "Thanks for your signature but I wish you'd take the money because I'm afraid we can't keep you on anymore."
At that point, I was too awestruck with the surprise of it all to have words come outta my mouth.
"You went into our house last week. You went into our house alone with Emily when we weren't around."
"But she invited me in. I din do anything. I jus had lemonade. I din even sit."
"I'm sorry but you know what the rules are. You agreed to them when you took this job."
"She invited me in for fuck's sake!"
"Well, if you're going to talk like that then there's no point in talking about this. Get your things and leave immediately," and then the fuckin deceivious bastard turned round and walked away.
I tell you, if this was even 5 years ago, that cocksucker wouldn't have walked far.
I threw the shovel down into the roses. I wanted to tear up all the flowers I planted but they looked so pathetic anyway I just left them and went into the backyard to get my jacket and lunch which I hadn't eaten yet. The whole time I just was just thinking about coming back later, at night, and burning down the whole place. How's that for liability, you prick?
When I got to the backyard, I saw oversized Emily sitting on one of those reclining lawn chairs cept she was so heavy the whole thing sagged in the middle and almost touched the ground. She was bawling like a baby.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked.
"They took Benson away," she said. I immediately figured Benson was the dog. What a stupid name for a dog. Benson's a butler's name.
"Why'd they do that?" I asked.
"Mama said he bit the mailman and the mailman's gonna get a lot of money from us unless we got rid of Benson so they took Benson away and they took him to the pound."
Looking at the pathetic child, I actually felt kinda sorry for her. As far as I could tell, that dog was probably the girl's only friend. I mean what other kid would want to be her friend? Kids are assholes. I kinda felt sorry for the dog too. It was a vicious little fucker but I guess it was like me when I was a kid. It was just trying to protect what it thought was its own and not being appreciated for it.
"That's too bad," I said. "Okay, see you later." I mean, what did you expect me to do?
Anyway, the candy's all done now so I guess I'm going to stop writing and go to the store and get some more. Maybe pick up a can of gasoline and some matches along the way.
Ah fuck, I been thinkin about this for 2 weeks now and I guess I was never really going to burn down that prick's house. He just really pissed me off so much but writing out all this shit has kind of taken the edge off. I gotta go feed the dog anyway.
Yeah, that's right. I went round to the pound the day after I got fired and got Benson outta there. They wanted me to pay for him but screw them I just took the dog out for a test walk and never went back. As if I'm going to pay for a used dog.
I never even thought I'd like having a dog round the house but it's good cuz it gives me something to look forward to. Every night after Benson finishes taking his crap, I pick up the shit and we go for a drive to Donhill's and as we pass by the property, I throw it on their front lawn. Fuck 'em.
I should give Emily a call.
Some pics of Tula, that irresistible Husky pup, in her new home. The first picture was taken a week after the adoption. The other two are recent.
(Fiction, reposted from Dec. 2008)
Brown Dog is of the earth and he is digging a hole in the semi-frozen ground, mining after a barely there odor of rancid flesh and bone, something possibly edible, possibly delicious, though what edible thing wouldn't be the most succulent manna in his present state of protruding ribs starvation? He's been hungry for weeks now and thirsty too but the thirst has been kept in check by licking the dew off grass or lapping stagnant oil laced puddles or drinking carefully of rusty rain water in open tin cans. His hunger, though, cannot be satiated from eating grass or chewing the leather on a thrown away boot or gnawing on an old rubber tire that had a scent of blood on it. His hunger is a beast within and if he does not feed it, it will devour him instead.
The prize he receives for his digging efforts is a partial earthworm which he eats along with a mouthful of damp, icy dirt and though he is deathly ravenous, he knows that eating frozen dirt with flecks of worm flesh will not save him and so he moves on.
White Dog is of the moon and she travels alongside Brown Dog as he makes his way through the late night in search of food. He cannot see her but as sure as there are invisible scents in the air, he knows that she is there beside him. He hadn't sensed her until a few weeks ago when the hunger became a living thing in his belly but once he realized she was there, he understood that she had always been close and wondered why he had never perceived her presence before. She is like something at the other end of a leash but she doesn't pull at him to go faster or slower. Instead, she keeps pace with him, stopping whenever he stops, running whenever he runs. Sometimes, he turns his head and barks at her but she remains silent.
Brown Dog has been foraging well into the night and the balance between exhaustion and hunger is tipping in favour of exhaustion so he lies down to rest beneath some bushes still holding onto their dead, almost grey leaves. He sniffs the leaves and eats a couple of them but they taste bitter and mean. He licks up some of the snow that has begun to accumulate on the ground and then he gives in to his tired body and lies still, curled up with his nose buried in his tail. His eyes slowly shut then open, then shut, each time bringing him closer to a sleep from which he's not sure he'll awaken. Just before he finally closes his eyes completely, he thinks he sees the White Dog beside him but when he raises his head to look, the shimmer is gone. With the snow falling harder now, Brown Dog surrenders himself to sleep.
He dreams of his former life.
He dreams of the dogs that passed him by on the sidewalk while he spent his days in a backyard chained to a broken swing set. He dreams of stale, dry kibble which tasted of dust and ash but which he would chew his tail off for now. He dreams of the hated twelve foot chain that kept him prisoner. He dreams of the squirrels and cats that ran by him, just out of reach. He dreams of sharp chicken bones and stale bread crusts. He dreams of the one time a stranger threw him a pizza crust through the chain link fence. He dreams of the box of dog biscuits he was given when he was a year old. He dreams of the red haired boy who spent a few minutes with him every day on the way to school, who gave him pieces of apples, bananas, ham and cheese sandwiches, cookies. He dreams of burnt potato skins in crumpled sheets of shrill-against-his-teeth aluminum foil. He dreams of the older kids who yelled at him and threw firecrackers at him and poked at him through the fence with pocket knives. He dreams of shriveled carrots and wilted celery. He dreams of the day the family moved out and left him behind. He dreams of soggy potato chips. He dreams of listening for the family's return, trying to get a hint of their scent, of waiting and waiting and eventually thirst and hunger taking over and barking and barking but still no one coming and then desperation. He dreams of licking spoons and soup bowls. He dreams of pulling so hard on his restraint that he choked himself and rubbed all the fur off the back of his neck and ears and then started to bleed and the blood welled up and made him slick and then he finally pulled free. He dreams of moldy cheese and melted ice cream and ketchup covered hot dog buns. He dreams of discarded leftovers thrown to him from Sunday barbeques and Thanksgiving dinners. He dreams of morsels from the hands of kind strangers and he would keep on dreaming but there is something on the periphery of his dreams which pulls him from his sleep. Something demands his wakeful attention. It's fuzzy at first but then he makes out a distant barking and then nearer, footsteps, and then nearer still, a warm breathe.
Brown Dog blinks open his eyes and exposes them to the sharp gnashing cold. It has stopped snowing and the clouds have thinned to the point where he can see the glow of the moon. He is covered in snow interspersed with a few leaves fallen from the bush. His joints and muscles still ache, even more so now with the cold. He could very easily slip back to sleep and avoid the full onslaught of his hunger but he doesn't because standing there in front of him is the White Dog.
She is like no dog he has seen before. She is there but not there. She is a perfect memory come to life. She fills up his lungs when he breathes. She is translucent, almost transparent, almost thinner than air but when she shows him her teeth, he knows she could easily kill him with one quick bite.
Brown Dog has no fight in him and slowly rolls over on his back, exposing his belly and his throat and he resigns himself to pain but instead White Dog growls at him and swipes him across the face with her paw for him to get up. He hesitates and this time she steps on his ear and digs a claw in which makes him yelp and he whips his head up and then rolls over upright and stands and shakes off the snow and leaves.
White Dog stares at him with her silver moonlit eyes but he dares not look back. He keeps his tail down and looks away from her into the clearing night. White Dog barks and steps in front of him and then barks again and takes several steps and looks back so Brown Dog, though still avoiding her gaze, starts to follow.
She leaves no tracks through the fallen snow but there is a scent or maybe just the memory of a scent, maybe that of his mother or maybe of his mother's mother or maybe something even older still and there are stretches of time, as he follows her through the last night of this life, when he is so tired that he closes his eyes and walks and stumbles and walks just following that scent.
It's near morning when they reach the house. It's the same size and shape as the dozens surrounding it but White Dog has lead him to this one. Brown Dog is near death so White Dog is gentler with him now and nuzzles him onto the front porch and then watches as he collapses and is still.
Yellow Dog is of the sun and just as the morning blooms and White Dog retreats, he descends and lies over Brown Dog and covers his body with life sustaining warmth and enters his dreams with golden light.
"Mom, Dad, hey wake up. Wake up!"
The man slowly looks over at his son then at the clock.
"Wake up, wake up!" The boy shakes his mom. "There's a dog outside. It's on the porch. There's a dog."
"What, honey?" asks the woman.
"Mom, there's a dog lying on our porch! There's a big brown dog on our porch."
The man and the woman get out of bed and grab their fleece robes. They rush downstairs and open the front door.
"Oh my God, it is a dog," the woman says.
"I think it's sleeping or frozen or something," the boy says.
"Is it alright?" asks the woman. "Is it alive?"
The man bends down and looks at it then touches it then puts his hand in front of the dog's nose.
"Yeah, it's still breathing but it must be suffering from hypothermia or something. It's hardly moving," the man says. The man looks back at his wife.
"Well, get him inside then. We'll have to wrap him up in something, then we'll call a vet," the woman says.
The man slowly helps the dog to its feet and half carries him inside the house.
"Will he be alright?" the boy asks.
The woman looks down at her son and gives him a smile.
"Dogs are pretty tough," she says as she tussles his red hair and then runs upstairs to get some towels.
