This road trip was never meant to involve a large transport and of course we regret that now. We wish we'd brought a transport trailer with us.

Six dogs come home with us. Chip and Charlie, the white Bull Terrier, a ten year old Lab mix, a Malamute, a Beagle pup.


We were supposed to take the older Beagle female who'd been left in a pit in the woods but the owner of the dog turned up and asked for her back. In exchange, he gave the shelter owner one of the female's pups and the shelter owner gave us the pup at the last minute, too late for us to pick out another dog. We didn't want to bring back any pups. We wanted to give the older dogs a chance. But, here we are bringing back a pup.

Of course, it's adorable.


All six dogs are now safely at the Toronto Humane Society, warm, well fed, being looked after and cooed over. They are all great dogs, the kind of dogs you want to hold on to, and barring any ailments, will no doubt be in good homes soon enough.

On our trip, we have been to Berger Blanc, SPCA Valleyfield, SPCA Montreal, SPCA Lanaudiere, HSI's Paws R Us rescue facility and Animatch Rescue. I would be more than willing to let my dogs stay at the most excellent Animatch Rescue but on the other hand I would euthanize them before turning them over to Berger Blanc.

The trip didn't reveal anything unexpected. I'd seen or heard about the conditions in Quebec long before. I understood what I'd be walking into. We saw the tail end of the HSI rescue mission but I can't write about it because of on-going legal concerns over the Paws R Us court case. The SPCAs we toured are struggling and one in particular is not doing well at all. Each SPCA shelter, independent from one another, is run by people with varying degrees of animal welfare and business expertise, varying degrees of empathy, and it shows in the living conditions of the dogs.

There were no surprises (well, expect for being shit and puked on - I wasn't expecting that). Still, there is something in me which is exhausted, darkened, dull. It's like the only way to climb out of my own pit is to hit something, or do drugs or sleep for a week until the feeling fades.

I think about my own dog, Smitten, who is a Quebec dog, and the thought that she spent any time at all in any of the more wretched places we visited makes me sick. She was once one of those dogs, shit and piss covered, matted, diseased, discarded, pleading with her eyes, whining or barking for a moment of compassion from anyone who walked by her cage door and bothered to look in her direction. And where would she be now if someone hadn't picked her out over the doomed dog in the next pen or the next, like we picked out our six dogs to bring back with us.

All these perfectly good dogs which people created only to let suffer their lives away. All these perfectly good dogs who are overlooked by the majority of dog owners who chose instead to buy "well bred" dogs from backyard breeders and puppy millers. All these perfectly good dogs who were once owned by the fickle and selfish and thrown away.

I should end this final road trip post on an upbeat but I can't. Maybe after I sleep for a week.


Much thanks to Marcie (second from left) for being a great travel partner and to Johanne (second from right) for arranging everything.

Two to remember.

This little one at SPCA Montreal who will probably have a better chance of finding a home than many of the others we saw:

And this one at SPCA Lanaudiere whose chances are dwindling:



We couldn't bring these guys back even if we had room in the van because of the Pit Bull ban in Ontario. Please help stop the killing of Pit Bulls in Ontario by supporting Hershey's Bill (or for more detailed information on Hershey's Bill, go here).

There is one place which offers us a reprieve. It's a rescue called Animatch. Helen, who runs the rescue, greets us as we step out of the car. There is a broad smile on her face. She cradles one of the dogs we're bringing to her even though it's obviously filthy.

She takes us inside the facility/her house. Inside is clean. The dogs are loose but well behaved. They are clean too. And friendly. They look us in the eyes, relaxed with no hesitation, unlike many of the other dogs we've seen that day.

When Johanne first started helping Helen with Animatch, they were adopting out a few dozen a year. Now they're adopting out hundreds with a 95% placement rate.

That matters but what matters more right now is that we've arrived at little dog play time.

Johanne Tasse of CAACQ asked me what I was interested in doing in Montreal and I told her and she pretty well organized this trip for us. We have supper with her the first night we're in town. She picks us up from the Novotel and we drive to a Lebanese joint, Johanne taking us through u-turns and parking lots to get there. We get out of the car and by the time we get to the table, she's already said hello to three or four people in the place.

If anyone's going to transform Quebec's animal welfare practices, it's going to be Johanne Tasse. She doesn't get her hands dirty. The dog walking, the poop scooping - that's not her thing. Her thing is getting into the heads of the people who make the money decisions, the politicians and business owners. She started out by helping a local rescue with their adoptions. Take a big leap from there and she's recently just secured an animal welfare contract for Laval, Quebec's third largest city. She's going to bring that city's shelter services up to date from the dreadful state it's in now. She talks about bringing up a mobile spay/neuter bus from New York, a $350,000 unit to show to the municipal and provincial powers that this is what is needed to solve the pet overpopulation problem in Quebec.

She drives us on this tour of the region's pounds. She knows the route. She points out all the dogs tied up in backyards, the breeders, the pet store/pound/shelters. She talks about the vets' infighting, the petty politicians, the politicians with foresight, the crazy animal people, the best animal people.

"You have to know who to have in your inner circle," she says. "I don't have to love you. I have to know you can bring something to the organization."

She takes us on this tour of the region and we visit centers of suffering and centers of reprieve. We see dogs who are alive but there is only death in their eyes, dogs who are brand new and don't understand yet, dogs who are still waiting for an outstretched hand. At one place there are two buildings. In one building there are the presentable dogs. In the other building, which is the size of a small cottage, which we're not allowed into, there are 75 dogs in cages and there is a virus, something unknown, something which will remain undetermined because the place has no money for a vet, barely any money for food and who knows what will happen to those dogs.

Marcie's in the front passenger seat. She's got one dog in her lap. There are three dogs in the back cargo area, two in crates, one free. I've got one dog with me in the backseat. I'm holding a plastic bag up against its butt because it's taking its second crap in the car. The first one I missed and had to wipe up but it wasn't too bad (considering) because it was fairly solid. I tell Johanne, who owns the car, you'll be happy I'm catching this one before it hits the seat, because this one is a mess. Yellow porridge. They're groaning at the smell up front. I tie up the bag, put it on the floor.

The pooper dog, a little Schnauzer Terrier mix, who is covered in shit and piss cuddles up against me and then lies down on my lap. It's trembling.

"How much longer?" I ask up front.

"25 minutes if the traffic's good," Johanne replies.

I'm concerned about what else might come out of him but then I'm saying, "Well how much worse can it get? His bowels must be empty by now".

"There's always puke," Johanne says.

Ten minutes later, the little guy has puked up his morning meal on the backseat. Pea soup. He starts heaving again for a second round. I try to catch it with the plastic bag, get most of it but it still gets all over the bag, inside, outside, down the dog's chin, legs, on my jacket, my pants. And the first puke is roiling on the seat with the remnants from the first shit.

"My husband's going to kill me," Johanne says.

I'd push the dog away from me but then it would be stepping in the waste so I let it come back over to me. The dog, covered in filth, trembling somewhat subsided, lies down on my lap. I breathe through my mouth.

The Bull Terrier above is coming back with us. It has shut down in that place.

Also coming, a Beagle which was found in a hole in the woods. It couldn't get out. The guy who runs the pound thinks it was dumped after it gave birth to four puppies which were also eventually turned in when the breeder couldn't sell them.

All the other dogs we leave behind.

The highways are clear and we make good time. We cross the Ontario Quebec border at around 4:30 and into Valleyfield just as it's getting dark. The GPS tells us to do a U-turn which seems odd at first but we discover later that this is pretty standard driving procedure for the area. We see the painted sign, big blue letters on a plain white background: SPCA Salaberry-de-Valleyfield. We pull into the lot. From the outside, the building looks like a non-descript mid-sized warehouse.

Pierre's been running this place for several months now. The animals are his life. It was originally set up by a group of three people who quickly realized they got in over their heads. And before them, local pound services were provided by a pet store owner who sold, bred, killed the dogs in no particular order. Whatever he did, he made money so it didn't much matter.

So, the SPCA is way better than it was. Pierre started out as a volunteer, doing handyman chores around the place under the original three. He got more involved, started spending more time there. Eventually, when it became obvious the place was getting out of control, Pierre offered to take it over and to his surprise, they agreed.

He tells us a lot more work still needs to be done on the place. The dog kennels are still rough but at least the dogs are no longer chained to the walls. The cats, though still too many of them, are well-fed, clean. There's heat in the place. The city is helping out now with supplies, money. Partnerships with other rescues are starting up. That's why we're here.


We'll be bringing Chip and Charlie, two brothers, 70 pound mutts, with us back to the Toronto Humane Society. They're uncivilized but they're happy, friendly with everything dogs. And they've got great cage presentation. They sit pretty, watching us calmly but with interest. They will be coming with us when we leave on Sunday but there are others there. A wonderful young black Lab with hip dysplasia who has been there for months. An older Lab mix who has tired eyes. Younger dogs full of life and hope. And all these other dogs we will be leaving behind because there are other shelters we will be visiting and other dogs we will be taking back with us. And more dogs we will be leaving behind.

We're walking dogs.

Me: My hands are fucken cold but I don't want to put my gloves on because then I'll get shit in my gloves.

Marcie: Yeah, I don't want to put my hands inside my pockets because then I'm going to have to tell the dry cleaner to wash out my coat pockets because I got shit off a Sharpei's dick in them.

Me: Sharpei dick shit.

Marcie: Yeah, got some Sharpei dick shit in my coat pocket ...

Me: You'll have to like ask the guy, Hey you got any of that special detergent to get out Sharpei dick shit?

Marcie: Fucken hate that.

We start laughing because there's nothing else to do. We're laughing because the whole situation is unprecedented. We're laughing semi-hysterically and then laugh even harder because we're laughing.

I've got tears streaming out of my eyes because I'm laughing so hard. I've never done this before. I want to wipe my eyes before the tears freeze but I can't because I've got shit on my hands.

The other volunteer walkers don't look at us in the way you don't look at the crazy person walking towards you on the sidewalk.


(For those of you who don't know Marcie Laking and are wondering who she is and why does the President of the Toronto Humane Society hang out with potty mouths like myself, I'd like to add a point of clarification.

Marcie Laking is awesome.

When it comes to animal welfare concerns, there aren't many people who have done as much as she has.

Marcie's been an animal rescuer/transporter/foster for years and continues to be. She is a proud owner of a Pit Bull Terrier, Ontario's scape goat of choice. She was integral to the dismantling of the previous regime at the Toronto Humane Society, saving that institution from an inglorious ruin. She ran and got elected to the THS Board of Directors. She was nominated by the departing President to be the new President and was given unanimous support by the board in this regard. Under her watch, the THS has reversed it's downward spiral and is on its way to becoming the animal welfare institution it was always meant to be. Pet food bank, spay neuter clinic, partnerships with rescues and other shelters, mending relationship with Toronto Animal Services, a clean and welcoming facility, better living conditions for the animals, better adoption practices for the animals.

No, of course she didn't do all this by herself. There are a ton of good volunteers and staff who contributed much, but if Marcie wasn't hands on every project, she at the very least helped make space to allow these projects to succeed - unlike the previous President before the regime change, unlike any previous President in the old THS.

Marcie is also a good part of the reason for why there is an ongoing transfer of dogs, from Quebec to the Toronto Humane Society and also why, on this particular trip about which I've been blogging, six dogs were saved who otherwise would likely still be shivering in their cages. The Quebec-THS transfers started several months ago over a discussion I had with Marcie and Mel (Marcie's sister) about the Quebec dogs who were coming in from Quebec to be rehomed by Toronto Animal Services South. They wanted to know how exactly those transfers took place. I passed along the information, helped with some introductions and a few weeks later, the first shipment of Quebec dogs arrived at the THS.

Since then, dozens, if not hundreds, of Quebec dogs have been rescued and adopted out by the THS, again, not without the tremendous work and effort of many THS staff and volunteers, but it's something which never would have started if not for the support and initiative from Ms. Laking.

When I talk about Marcie's support and initiative, I mean she's loud and pushy, speaks her mind, and tends to get her way when it comes to saving animals. The THS was in a state of disrepair when Marcie first got elected onto its board and now that she's the President, there's still much work which needs to be done and it's not going to get done by someone who is meek and mild and only ever says polite things.

Marcie is not just a champagne sipping, glad handing, never-get-your-fingernails-dirty charity baller. She also walks dogs, she picks up after them, she picks them up when they need picking up even if they're covered in filth. On our Quebec trip, she gets down and cleans out soiled cage after soiled cage so the dogs don't have to lie in their own piss and shit for another night in a row. She's not the one standing around with a toothsome smile on her face, playing the elite while everyone else does the work. She does the work. And if that's not someone's image of what a THS President should be doing, then too bad because that's the sort of classist thinking which would make most people walk away from large corporate-mentality organizations. Who wants to volunteer for a place where the people at the top think they're too good to be doing the actual work of taking care of real animals? What does that say about what the executives think about the rest of us, the ones who clean and walk and feed and train the dogs?

And Marcie swears as well, as I've noted in this post. She wasn't giving a speech. She wasn't at some formal event. She was with me. She was spending the day amongst some of the worst victims of puppy mill animal abuse either of us had ever seen. She's allowed to swear. She's allowed to react in a unscripted, emotionally raw way because that's how most people with a heart would react upon being confronted by evidence of cruelty on such a massive scale. In fact, if someone didn't react, if someone remained totally composed and nonplussed, I'd question whether or not they actually cared about the animals.

I've only ever met a few people who have given animal welfare such a high priority in their lives that it defines a good part of who they are and what they've accomplished. Marcie Laking is one of those people. She has concerns about the state of animal welfare and she's got the balls to do something about those concerns. There should be more like her.)

Marcie Laking and I are driving to Montreal. There are empty dog crates in back. There are orange and white flashing lights on the roof. There is a logo on the side of the van which says: Toronto Humane Society Rescue.

Marcie is driving. She tells me she likes driving which is good because I don't.

The radio is on, Marcie flipping the stations. She seems to know every song and the lyrics of every song but favours rock and roll. Marcie was born in the Eighties, grew up in the Nineties but her father had the music on all the time at home and he preferred rock so that's what she grew up with.

Marcie just got laid off from her job. She says this'll give her more time to do volunteering. She says the few hours last week she spent volunteering again at the homeless shelter was the most satisfying thing she'd done in a long time. For a while there, she'd been too busy to go. Full time job, heavy involvement with the parent council of the aboriginal school her daughter is enrolled in, president of the Toronto Humane Society.

None of this life was planned. Marcie doesn't lead much of a planned life.

She opens her hand bag and pulls out a foil package of something. "My daughter asked me if I had a snack for my trip and then she put a Pop Tart in my purse."

Our talk is random. Marcie in sound bites:

I'm at the park and there's little girls with bras on. It's all those chemicals in meat making eight year olds grow tits. Kids getting sexed up way too young. It's like when I was twelve, if I saw a penis I'd be calling the cops. "Hey, cops, there's a penis outside." The only time I got the sex talk from my dad was some advice about dating: "If a guy tells you he loves you while he's trying to undo your pants, he's not telling the truth." Don't take any pictures of me walking out of a shelter bawling my eyes out.

This ain't over but I'm only writing as we go when I have a moment so bear with me. We're on this trip for the next four days.

No Pound Dogs post today. I've been out of town and haven't been in the shelter for a while and now I'm out of town again.

I've started another blog, though: The Prince Edward County Experience. I'll be posting intermittently, as in once every few months because that's about as often as I make it out there.

For now it's mostly photos.