It's A Wild Life & Unfortunately It's Ours

Where's The Best Place To Travel For Cuisine?

2014-03-19T10:36:00.001-07:00

Where's The Best Place To Travel For Cuisine?

2013-12-19T09:57:00.001-08:00

This week's #AdoptMeThursday dog Tank is a sweet 1.5 yr old Pit Bull mix currently under the care of @CSlateCRescue. pic.twitter.com/NyuRW7wfT3
— Cesar Millan (@cesarmillan) December 19, 2013

Tank will be featured on Cesar Millan's FB page!

2013-12-18T12:02:00.000-08:00

Tank will be featured tomorrow (12/19/13) on Cesar Millan's Facebook page for their #AdoptMeThursday. So check... http://t.co/Hnvy93QJ90
— Clean Slate Rescue (@CSlateCRescue) December 18, 2013

Officials play pass the buck while dogs at Olympic Animal Sanctuary suffer | Seattle Dog Spot

2013-12-13T10:06:00.001-08:00

Officials play pass the buck while dogs at Olympic Animal Sanctuary suffer | Seattle Dog Spot

My welcome at the Olympic Animal | Seattle Dog Spot

2013-12-11T12:46:00.001-08:00

My welcome at the Olympic Animal | Seattle Dog Spot

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil 'Possums

2013-10-21T11:34:00.002-07:00

Last week, as I walked out in to the back yard to close things up for the night, Mazzy the dog-wolf was insistent that she needed to stay out by the kennel. Usually that means their is some kind of critter out there. I found I was right when she strolled over with a baby possum in her mouth. She dropped it in the long grass by the never used BBQ (not even once this year).

I stopped long ago going out to check out the "dead thing". Sometimes they are not dead. And I'm not picking it up, not in a million lifetimes. I leave a note for the hubster to shovel it up and catapult it into the vacant lot behind ours. The hubster is convinced that having dead, rotting rodents around the perimeter of the yard will deter future critters from committing the same transgressions as their predecessors. Like the old head on a pike routine in the middle ages. I don't think it works but the hubby is not convinced.

Mazzy is now almost 12 years old now, with bad hips and arthritis, but back in the day, she would get sometimes two or three critters every night. Nutria originally had come to raid the apples and plums that had fallen on the ground, but as winter sets in more, the 'possums are far more troublesome than the veggie eating nutria. The 'possums come for the chickens.

Sorry, I digress. Where was I? Oh, the "dead thing". The Husband came home from work, ans I told him about the "dead thing" and where it should be. He went out there, and no possum. Not unusual. Mazzy has a weird way of killing things. She doesn't tear anything up. She just squeezes it with her massive jaw until it stops squeaking or whatever other noise it's making, then she leaves it on the ground. since 'possums, well, "play 'possum" it's hard to tell sometimes.

Meanwhile last night the man decided to traipse about the yard, looking for a place to pee. (He also thinks that if he pees around the perimeter of the yard, the pesky rodents will stay away. That theory was disproved and recorded in this post.) While tromping out to the fence line, he came upon the possum that he couldn't find the other night. Then he looked over to his right and saw another one. Then another one. I seriously think I need to mow the yard, because these things looked as if they had been their a few days unnoticed by myself or the other dogs.

In total, their were three young 'possums dead in my backyard jungle (er; GRASS). Good job, Mazzy!

Now if I could only trust her with the chickens, I could set her to guarding the hen house. The husband and myself spent the better part of an hour getting a very big and fat adult possum out of the nesting box in the coop late the other night. Johnny Cash, our big Cochin rooster was absolutely no help. He flew the coop before his ladies even had a chance to squawk.

I actually didn't do a whole lot that night to help either. Oh, I was there. I gave good advice on how to hold the shovel my husband was wielding. But other than that I just stood back and giggled to myself while watching him in his headlamp, mock-jabbing at it, while loudly yelling "hiya hiya, GIT!". It eventually "git"ed, and all was calm again. For a while at least.

Life of a traditional person

2013-04-28T07:22:00.001-07:00

When The Going Gets Tough . . .

2013-03-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Average Pet Owner:

Thank you for contacting us animal rescuers, shelter volunteers, and foster-homes about your inability to keep your pet. We receive an extremely high volume of inquiries and requests to accept surrendered animals (and none of us is getting paid, OK?). To help us expedite your problem as quickly as possible, please observe the following guidelines:

1. Do not say that you are "CONSIDERING finding a good home" for your pet, or that you, "feel you MIGHT be forced to," or that you "really THINK it would be better if" you unloaded the poor beast. Ninety-five percent of you have already got your minds stone-cold made up that the animal WILL be out of your life by the weekend at the latest. Say so. If you don't, I'm going to waste a lot of time giving you common-sense, easy solutions for very fixable problems, and you're going to waste a lot of time coming up with fanciful reasons why the solution couldn't possibly work for you. For instance, you say the cat claws the furniture, and I tell you about nail-clipping and scratching posts and aversion training, and then you go into a long harangue about how your husband won't let you put a scratching post in the family room, and your ADHD daughter cries if you use a squirt bottle on the cat, and your congenital thumb abnormalities prevent you from using nail scissors and etc., etc. Just say you're getting rid of the cat.

2. Do not waste time trying to convince me how nice and humane you are. Your co-worker recommended that you contact me because I am nice to animals, not because I am nice to people, and I don't like people who "get rid of" their animals. "Get rid of" is my least favorite phrase in any language. I hope someone "gets rid of" YOU someday. I am an animal advocate, not a people therapist. After all, for your ADHD daughter, you can get counselors, special teachers, doctors, social workers, etc. Your pet has only me, and people like me, to turn to in his or her need, and we are unpaid, overworked, stressed-out, and demoralized. So don't tell me this big long story about how, "We love this dog so much, and we even bought him a special bed that cost $50, and it is just KILLING us to part with him, but honestly, our maid is just awash in dog hair every time she cleans, and his breath sometimes just reeks of liver, so you can see how hard we've tried, and how dear he is to us, but we really just can't . . ." You are not nice,

and it is not killing you. It is, in all probability, literally killing your dog, but you're going to be just fine once the beast is out of your sight. Don't waste my time trying to make me like you or feel sorry for you in your plight.

3. Do not try to convince me that your pet is exceptional and deserves special treatment. I don't care if you taught him to sit. I don't care if she's a beautiful Persian. I have a waiting list of battered and/or whacked-out animals who need help, and I have no room to foster-house your pet. Do not send me long messages detailing how Fido just l-o-v-e-s blankies and carries his favorite blankie everywhere, and oh, when he gets all excited and happy, he spins around in circles, isn't that cute? He really is darling, so it wouldn't be any trouble at all for us to find him a good home. Listen, we can go down to the pound and count the darling, spinning, blankie-loving beasts on death row by the dozens, any day of the week. And, honey, Fido is a six-year-old Shepherd-Lab mix. I am not lying when I tell you that big, older, mixed-breed, garden-variety dogs are almost completely un-adoptable, and I don't care if they can whistle Dixie or send smoke-signals with their blankies. What you don't realize is that, though you're trying to lie to me, you're actually telling the truth: Your pet IS a special, wonderful, amazing creature. But this mean old world does not care. More importantly, YOU do not care, and I can't fix that problem.

All I can do is grieve for all the exceptional animals who live short, brutal, loveless lives and die without anyone ever recognizing that they were indeed very, very special.

4. Finally, just, for pity's sake, for the animal's sake, tell the truth, and the whole truth. Do you think that if you just mumble that your cat is "high-strung," I will say, "Okey-doke! No problemo!" and take it into foster care? No, I will start asking questions and uncover the truth, which is that your cat has not used a litter box in the last six months. Do not tell me that you "can't" crate your dog. I will ask what happens when you try to crate him, and you will either be forced to tell me the symptoms of full-blown, severe separation anxiety, or else you will resort to lying some more, wasting more of our time.

And, if you succeed in placing your pet in a shelter or foster care, do not tell yourself the biggest lie of all: "Those nice people will take him and find him a good home, and everything will be fine." Those nice people will indeed give the animal every possible chance, but if we discover serious health or behavior problems, if we find that your misguided attempts to train or discipline him have driven him over the edge, we will do what you are too immoral and cowardly to do: We will hold the animal in our arms, telling him truthfully that he is a good

dog or cat, telling him truthfully that we are sorry and we love him, while the vet ends his life.

How can we be so heartless as to kill your pet, you ask? Do not ever dare to judge us. At least we tried. At least we stuck with him to the end. At least we never abandoned him to strangers, as you certainly did, didn't you? In short, this little old rescuer/foster mamma has reached the point where she would prefer you pet owners to tell her stories like this:

"We went to Wal-Mart and picked up a free pet in the parking lot a couple of years ago. Now we don't want it anymore. We're lazier than we thought. We've got no patience either. We're starting to suspect the animal is really smarter than we are, which is giving us self-esteem issues. Clearly, we can't possibly keep it. Plus, it might be getting sick; it's acting kind of funny. And we don't want to spend our money on a vet. "

"We would like you to take it in eagerly, enthusiastically, and immediately."

"We hope you'll realize what a deal you're getting and not ask us for a donation to help defray your costs. After all, this is an (almost) pure-bred animal, and we'll send the leftover food along with it. We get the food at Wal-Mart too, and boy, it's a really good deal, price-wise".

"We are very irritated that you haven't shown pity on us in our great need and picked the animal up already. We thought you people were supposed to be humane! Come and get it today. No, we couldn't possibly bring it to you; the final episode of "Survivor" is on tonight."

Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Pet Owner, for your cooperation.

Sincerely, Your Pet's Future Foster Mom

Kimberly Cousteau and Her Side-Kick Rosie; Survivors of Shit Creek & Beyond

2013-03-10T13:45:00.003-07:00

I took all 4 dogs to the dog park yesterday. People think I'm crazy but it's all in a days work so to speak. Plus, I get to treat myself to a over-priced, gourmet coffee from the coffee-hut near the dog park. It's kind of like my payment to myself for cramming the dogs into the SUV and hauling us all down there. Buttercup, the chi mix is kind of a douche to other dogs no matter what their size, so I had to keep her on a leash. But every one had fun.

However, apparently Rosie wasn't finished with her adventure. When we got home, I was unloading the dogs from the rig and I *thought* I had all the leashes in hand.

Rosie thought, "Hm, I feel no tension on the leash. I wonder what would happen if I step this way?" Step, step step, "I'm FREE! LATER LOSERS! WOO HOO!" As she tears off down the road and follows her nose straight to my neighbors place.

When she got bored looking for my neighbor's Labrador, she followed her nose to the nutria infested , nasty-ass slough that leads a mile down the way to a log pond. Lovely.

The only way for me personally to get back there was to backtrack to the gate, then backtrack again to the only opening in the wall of blackberry vines that I could get through without gouging my eyes out. Meanwhile Rosie is happily bounding through the knee deep "water" like a deer. Back and forth, back and forth. Boing-splash, Boing-splash, leap up, splash, boing.

As I stood on the bank of this lovely-smelling goop stream, Rosie would come within 5 feet of me, then bound happily away, dog-smiling the whole time. Back and forth, back and forth.

I finally decided enough was enough. The last time she tangled with a nutria she got beat up pretty bad and has the scars to prove it. I wasn't going to let her get hurt again; no matter how stupid she can be sometimes.

I was extremely thankful I had my BOGS on, as I then found a long metal pole thing that was laying around, for my balance, because the last thing I wanted was to fall up to my neck in this shit. Literally, shit too. I actually saw nutria poop floating by. {{SHUDDER}}

I gingerly stepped into the water and received the awesome experience of feeling my boots fill up with cold, slimy "water". Using my pole as a depth checker and also to fight off any rabid nutria that might decide that my ankle looked tasty, a proceeded to try to follow Rosie as she bounded down the quagmire.

I cannot begin to describe the smell of this liquid, shit filled stream I was walking through. Let me just say that I almost horked. Seriously. Shawshank Redemption ain't got nothin' on this stinky, stanky, sticky, shit.

After about 15 minutes of me following her, calling her and cursing the demon gods of dogs that make them think every thing is a game, I decided that although I wanted to keep an eye on her, I also was going to need help and I did not have my phone.

I waded as fast as I could, about 25 yards from where I was, to the opening in the brambles and climbed up the bank with watery, goo filled boots that probably weighed 15 pounds a piece. After emptying my boots as well as I could, I ran-squished my way to the only gate out of three that was open, and then back-tracked a block and a half to my house to get my cell phone.

After a panic filled call to my husband at work and a neighbor, I was off to go back after Rosie. I needn't have worried about not being able to re-locate her, I just headed towards the area where all the pissed off geese and ducks were coming from.

The neighbor, her husband and son came to help; thank goodness. They didn't have to bother with going around fences, they went over them. Barbed wire be damned.

I made it back to where they had jumped over the fence, slogging through the muck and mire and discovering a whole mess of wild roses that I had no other choice put to plow through. By then the splashing noises had stopped and the water fowl had stopped bitching. As we re-grouped, it came upon me all of a sudden like.

My four-shot fancy-dancy coffee had kicked in. Have you ever seen an almost 40-year-old woman run through a shit filled stream wearing shit-stream-water filled boots, clamber up an embankment and run a block and a half to a toilet while trying not to crap her pants? My neighbors have. And now you can imagine it. Your welcome.

Anyway I digress, after narrowly escaping that embarrassment, I was back to the water, dredging back up to where I had last left off. Meanwhile the neighbor guys had tracked her to the pond, where she turned down another slough and made it to the street behind mine. Instead of following in Rosie's footsteps I decided the best course of action was to trudge back to my street and try and meet up with them.

Before I was even half way to the embankment to get out of the water, the neighbors called and reported that they had her. After chasing her into their own yard and all over a field near their house, she finally was just too tired to play any more.

Gee I wonder why she was so tired. She had only been running all over the dog park for an hour and then sloshing through the nasty Nutria River for three hours.

So, all is well now. We got baths, food, and naps. And Rosie has a meet and greet today with a potential adopter. Thank St. Rocke.

If animals ate fast food.

2013-03-05T18:01:00.001-08:00

Oregon Humane Society | News | More Than 100 Rescued Dogs Come to OHS

2013-01-14T15:19:00.001-08:00

Oregon Humane Society | News | More Than 100 Rescued Dogs Come to OHS

2013-01-12T08:13:00.001-08:00

Sobriety

2013-01-09T12:40:00.002-08:00

Six days sober.

I'm not preachy. Well, I guess I sort of am, but not about this.

I have yet to share my story at a meeting, but when I do, ya'll be the next to hear (read) it.

I just wanted to at least put this much out there.

My name is Kimberly and I am an alcoholic.

Peace.

11 of the Funniest Stories Told by Comedians

2012-12-29T17:42:00.001-08:00

11 of the Funniest Stories Told by Comedians I'm cheating on my blog post today. However, I do believe that you will laugh your heads off at this shit I am sharing. It's audio and each one is 5 minutes or less. Enjoy!

Merry Christmas From The Christmas Turd!

2012-12-25T12:17:00.001-08:00

~ Hey Lifers! I'm gonna take a break today, nut in the mean time, I wanna hear about any funny story's from your Christmas morning. I will definitely need a good laugh in the morning, I'm sure.

Every year at my Mother's house, myself, my 2 sisters, 5 brothers and all of our kids and all of their kid's (Sometimes I can't believe I'm not even 40 yet.) open presents. For the past several years we've done "2nd Hand Christmas". Basically we give gifts that are either from our own house, a 2nd hand store/garage sale, or homemade. Sometimes we get good shit, sometimes not so much.

But the best present is the "special un-marked present". Who ever is playing "Santa" usually saves it for last and nonchalantly say's, "This one's not marked. I don't know who's it is." Then the greediest little fuckers fight over it, someone "wins", opens it and lo' and behold, it's a fake turd! Every year we do this. Every year someone falls for it, and every year it never gets any less funny. My family is slightly messed up. :-)

Military vs Skanks

2012-12-16T10:00:00.002-08:00

Chicken Lifestyles of the Rich and Fabulous

2012-12-02T09:24:00.000-08:00

I know that some people think that I talk about my chickens too much. Yes, I name them. Yes, I can tell them apart. Yes, I watch them through my big front window like I'm watching "As The Hen House Turns". When you only have a few, it's easy to see the story behind their actions. And there is always a story if you look hard enough and have a good imagination.

Don't get me wrong; they are incredibly stupid. They rely on their tiny brains, that have the memory span of about two days. I have three especially brain-handicapped hens. "Fucking-New-Chicken" likes to be in the tree. "Betty White" is in love with F.N.C. and "Snow White", Betty's sister, won't leave Betty's side. (Told ya there is always a story.) They decided back in the summer that it was better to sleep in the apple trees. I decided last night was their last night of doing that. The night before we had winds gusting upwards of 30 mph with rain. Snow was blown into the rose bushes and got stuck. Ergo the wet, nighttime, ninja-style, head-lamp toting, ladder climbing excitement did commence to get them into the new coop that none of the other chickens want to be in.

But I digress. What I really wanted to tell you about is this obnoxious hen house from Neiman Marcus. I'll let you check it out and think about it on your own. Like Neiman Marcus reps say, "You too can be a gentleman farmer." (For only, $100,000. $3000 of which will "generously" go to American Livestock Breeds Conservancy .)

Check out this short commercial video if you don't believe me on how asinine this is.

'Twas the Night of Thanksgiving, Braveheart Style, With Mice

2012-11-23T12:45:00.002-08:00

'Twas the night after Thanksgiving, when all through the house

all the creatures were stirring, trying to find that darn mouse.

The traps were set by the mouse-hole with care,

in the hopes that "Wee Dick" soon would be there.

The dogs should be nestled all snug in their beds,

with visions of chew toys dancing in their heads.

With me in my braids, and hubby in his cap,

With all that turkey, all we wanted was a nice, long nap.

When out in the foyer, there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Out of the bedroom, I raced in a snap,

Tripping over shoes, clothes and misc. crap.

The nightlight on the flat of the newly painted wall,

gave the shadows of nighttime to everything and all,

when what to my barely open eyes should appear,

but a miniature horse with mouse rider, all very queer.

With the little mouse rider, so strange and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be Wee Dick.

More rapid than bumblebees, his followers they came,

and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

"Now Collin! Now Allister!

Now, Angus and Bonnie!

Oh, Kenna! Oh, Gregor!

Oh, Donald! Oh, McCall!

To the top of the table!

To the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away!

Dash away all!

As dog hair that before the old vacuum fly,

when they meet with an obstacle, they look to the sky,

so up to the table-top the mouse army flew,

with paw-fulls of weapons, and Wee Dick too.

And then in a twinkling, I heard a dog woof

and the army was suddenly gone in a poof.

As I put the dogs out and was turning around,

back to the table the mini-army did bound.

He was grey, all his fur, from his head to his feet

And his tiny, mouse clothes were all oddly, complete.

A bundle of arrows he had flung on his back,

He also carried a tiny ax to protect from attack.

His eyes--how they glowed! His whiskers, so scary!

His cheeks were blue, his nose twitching with weary!

His gnarly, little mouth was drawn up in a sneer,

and the hair on his chin was crusted in mouse-beer.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his cheek,

and the stench of it encircled him like a wreath.

He had a pointed face and a little furry belly,

that moved oddly when he rode, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was grubby and plump, a gross, little mouse,

I screamed a bit when I saw him, in spite of myself.

With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head

soon gave me to know I had something to dread.

He spoke not but mouse words, and put his team straight to work.

he filled all his bags, then turned with a jerk.

Glaring at his army, there was no time to dwell

and giving them a nod, they began to fill their sacks as well.

He then sprang to his ride, to his army gave a big roar;

And away they ran, where there are crumbs, there are always more

And I heard him exclaim, as they rode back to their wall kingdom,

"They may take our lives, but they will never take our FREEDOMM!

Ducks, Animal Control & Suspicious Activity

2012-11-23T09:31:00.000-08:00

Early this afternoon I forced myself to go out and run some errands. Quickie bank run, post office, the normal shit that I put off.

As I walked up to the ATM at the credit union I noticed something weird. A small black duck, just minding its own business, but definitely should not have been there. It didn't seem to mind the foot traffic in this strip mall, people walking into the bank and the Subway lunch-time traffic. I walked by with Buttercup (who didn't even notice) and the duck didn't even look up from its snack of potato chips someone gave it.

I cannot leave a domestic duck in a strip mall to fend for itself. I asked the security dude what he knew. It had been their since at least 6 am, when he arrived for work. In my experience ducks don't just wander off to Subway, so I figured someone dumped it. People are shitty.

So, I went home to get one my animal crates, put some straw in there and back to the strip mall I went. It's one of those things that I do not have a second thought about.

While I was there rounding up this duck, (took about 5 minutes), I thought it was interesting how many people stopped to watch but not one person asked how they could help. Remember, this duck has been here for at least 6 hours. One woman came over to hold the crate open after I caught the duck since both my hands were full of bird. Several people did choose to criticize my technique; telling me that I was stressing the bird. It's not like I was chasing it while wearing a hockey mask while waving a meat cleaver. Or while wearing an Elmer Fudd mask ("Duck season. Rabbit season. Duck Season!) Seriously? I don't think 5 minutes of me debating on how to catch this fucker is going to scar this duck for life. I did politely ask those people to shut the fuck up unless they were going to help. They left.

Without a safe place for this duck to hang out I had no choice but to take it to the humane society. I know that they keep a list of people willing to take funky animals that get turned in. I used to volunteer there.

The one thing I can honestly bitch about this place is that they are highly suspicious of people turning in animals. They question you on where you found it and all that. The problem at this shelter is that if it is found outside city limits (totally lame) they wont take it. And there is NO OTHER PLACE. And no matter how truthful I am, I always feel like I'm lying or trying to convince them of my sincerity. Irks me to no end. The kennel peeps asked me three times where I found it, probably because when they ran my address, they saw that I live in "county". It's funny how my house is "county" but my neighbors on either side are "city". Makes shit like this a pain in the ass. Makes it also hard for the po po to figure out who should come out if I need help. City cops or County sheriff? I'm pretty sure it would come down to rock, paper, scissors for them in the 911 dispatch room. But I digress.

Anyhow, the duck is safe, I posted a note on Craigslist about it, so I'm pretty sure it will find a home.

Welcome to my wild life. I can't even go to the bank without stepping on a duck.

My Dogs - Heartbeats At My Feet

2012-10-04T13:03:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about dogs and kids. At what age is it too early to have a kid? Are three dogs too many? How many is too many? Who has the right to judge? I'm not talking about 20 kids or hoarding 100 dogs, but 2 or 3 or 4 or 5 of either.

I came from a family of 8 children. I'm not going to get into the history of my childhood, but some said there were too many kids in my family. These statement were made by random people just stating their opinion based on their own values. Key words: THEIR. OWN.

I believe that if God had decided to make it possible for me to have more than 1 child I would have. I'm not known for my fondness of other people's children except my own nieces, nephews and other non-screaming kids, but I believe that I would have been a great mom to multiple kids. However, that never happened so I have dogs.

We've limited ourselves to three permanent dogs, however my heart is bigger than my pocketbook so I foster. When a dog comes to me through a rescue group, they pay for all incidentals and whatnot if I can't, while I am getting the pooch ready to be adopted by a forever family. I do this because it makes me feel good. Is that wrong?

Hazelnut (adopted)

Despite how others might judge me, I know that I have given my own dogs the best possible life they could have gotten. They are loved, well-fed, warm, and healthy. My foster dogs, have gotten the chance to live in a mellow home, learning from our family dogs.

My past foster dogs have learned patience, obedience and how to be calm when receiving affection from our dog, Harpo. Harpo taught me patience, and how to accept love unconditionally.

My past foster dogs have learned submissiveness, how to play friendly, and how to relax from my wonderful girl, Mazzy. Mazzy has also taught me patience, perseverance, and how it's okay to love no matter what others say.

My past foster dogs have learned how to play with smaller dogs, how the crate is not a bad thing, and how to share from my cutey pie, Buttercup. Buttercup has taught me to trust in my instincts, and how to be brave no matter how small I might feel.

Foster Stella (adopted)

I hope that some of the lessons that I, my own dogs and all my past foster dogs have learned from each other get passed on to others. Whether it be just a moment in time, or a lifetime of moments, we learn everyday of our lives from others.

Despite what some might think, I do not fill my "empty life" with "another animal" and yet "another animal". My life is not empty, because I know that I am helping these dogs find a new life that will benefit them.

Mazzy, Freaky-Kitty, Buttercup

My life is not "empty", because I have a loving husband who tells me that one of the things he loves about me is my compassion, and willingness to help others; dog or human. Why would I take that away? I don't "need" to "get another animal" to fulfill myself. I help animals because they need it. I help them because I have a love for creatures other than myself, creatures that cannot help themselves.

Ruby Begonia (adopted)

Despite any other stuff that might be going on between me, my son, or my husband, we always rally around when one of our dogs or foster dogs need us. And they are always here for us when we need some unconditional love.

Annabelle (adopted)

I am 39 years old. I can't have any more children. I had mine early, he's grown now. But if I were to compare myself to some my own age I would think: They are having babies. I have my dogs and the joy of helping other dogs. So are they having babies to "fill their empty life"? Or are they having babies because they want someone to love and cuddle and take of. Someone that they can shape into a good person, with good manners and a love for the joy of life? Well, some of my reasons for fostering dogs are the same.

Left to right: Buttercup, Mazzy, Harpo

2012-08-08T07:00:00.002-07:00

I know I haven't written anything in what seems like forever, and I apologize. I will soon, I promise. Just too, darn tired.

Borderline Incitement?

2012-07-12T11:48:00.001-07:00

So the hubby really, really, really likes watching Tosh.0. It's mainly about the thoughts and comments on videos that Daniel Tosh has. The hubby records his shows on the DVR and begs me to watch them with him. He also does stand up. I personally can't stand the guy. Oh sure, sometimes one or two things he says are mildly amusing, but for the most part I think he is an asshole. Anybody that makes jokes about raping people is more than an asshole. It's like making jokes about the Holocaust or some other tragedy that has absolutely no room for humor.

In case you hadn't heard "the story", here it is from one of the sources. Daniel Tosh Suggests Gang Raping a Girl Would Be Funny

So, after reading this what do you think?

I've been combing the 'net trying to find a suitable link to show his side. Just to be fair. But, frankly I can't get myself to re-post what I'm finding. I will let you appease your own curiosity about it if you feel the need to Google it. But I will say he did apologize in a back handed kinda way. Via Twitter. So sincere. I will share this though:

Katherine Hull, a spokesperson for the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN) was not amused.

“When will this 'funny man' realize that rape jokes aren’t funny? By suggesting that an audience member deserved to be gang raped, Tosh took his shtick to a new low. Applause is due to the woman who had the guts to vocalize what many in room were thinking,”

I think that some might need to stop and think about the fact that Daniel Tosh was responding to the woman (or heckler as he labeled her) in a very personal way. It was not a "comment" or a general response, it was a personal, verbal attack in response to what he interpreted as "heckling". According to the woman's account of the incident he made statements that could be described as threatening. Or as I see it, enticing a "bunch of guys [to] just rape[d] her". I wonder what his "tweet" would say if "like five guys" had left that show and raped someone. You know? Just to see if it is funny, like Daniel tosh suggested it would be.

It's sad that if he would have made a joke about molesting or raping kids, I think that the uproar would have been more than just this woman and her friend walking out of the show and then having her friend blog about it.* Gasp! I guess even he has a limit? Tosh made this comment via his twitter feed, "The point I was making before I was heckled is there are awful things in the world but you can still make jokes about them." Really Mr. Tosh? I am not the most politically correct, or whatever the hell you want to call it, person in the world, far from it; I piss people off all the time when I open my mouth. In fact, I've tried the comedy thing myself once or twice. However, when it comes to making people laugh, I don't think most comedians would jump in and start yapping about how funny it would be to rape, murder, molest, or whatever someone. Just my opinion.

Katherine Hull, a spokesperson for the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN) was not amused either: "When will this 'funny man' realize that rape jokes aren’t funny? By suggesting that an audience member deserved to be gang raped, Tosh took his shtick to a new low. Applause is due to the woman who had the guts to vocalize what many in room were thinking."

I agree with Ms. Hull. Words have power. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have kept this blog up for so many years. The words of Tosh had the power to scare this woman. They had the power to entice her to stand up for what is right. Her words had the power to make it known that she thinks that this was not right.

I wonder if Daniel Tosh jokes about anything that he might of experienced personally. I'm pretty sure even he would have a hard time finding anything funny about being gang raped if he had ever experienced even a moment of the terror and lifelong suffering that comes along with it after being raped. All I've ever heard out of his mouth are "jokes" making fun of people hurting themselves, hurting others, rape, racist jokes, jokes about other people's weight, height, looks, speech patterns, etc. Frankly, I don't think making fun at others' expense is funny at all.

A statement made by Ashley-Michelle Arnold, a site administrator of the non-profit message board After Silence, a collective chat space for rape and abuse survivors sums it up for me:

When your punch line comes from a horrific experience, there's nothing funny about it. Right now, defenders are spinning it that the woman wasn't really offended, as if that somehow makes it OK because she was the subject, after all. However, it doesn't work like that; humor that trivializes what is one of the most horrific experiences a human being can inflict [upon] another doesn't get a green pass simply because the intended target didn't gratify Tosh's disgusting punch line. Comedy should be used to entertain people, and to educate them. Jokes that turn violence into a caricature do neither and, in fact, contribute to the stigma which blame survivors for being victimized and downplay how severely it can impact a life.

And lastly, something else I wanted to share:

Those supporting Tosh are outraged that anyone would dare tell a comedian how to be funny. (There’s also been a lot of “if you can’t take the heat” sentiment aimed at this woman, given that she heckled Tosh.) Many of his defenders insist that his joke—and other jokes about rape—are simply edgy and controversial, which is what a comedian is supposed to be. But here’s the thing: threatening women with rape, making light of rape, and suggesting that women who speak up be raped is not edgy or controversial. It’s the norm. This is what women deal with every day. Maintaining the status quo around violence against women isn’t exactly revolutionary.

It’s also telling that the vast majority of people defending Tosh’s comments are men. (And that they’re being incredibly sexist in their responses to boot.) I’d ask these guys why it is they’re so virulently fighting for the right to tell rape jokes. Why is it so important to them that Tosh be able to “joke” about a woman, who loudly criticized him, being gang raped? If you are this attached to jokes about raping women—if they mean this much to you—it’s time to look inward and think about why that is.

*oops ,I found this quote from 2005 True Stories I Made Up: "Anal sex is a lot like spinach: if you're forced to have it as a child, you won't enjoy it as an adult." I guess he did feel comfortable to joke about child molesting.

The Worst History Channel Acting Jobs

2012-07-08T08:27:00.000-07:00

As we move toward the end of 2012 and the end of the world, shit is very gradually hitting the fan. Like an intergalactic bag of poop just beginning to spark on Earth's doorstep.

It affects all aspects of our civilization. The world economy, geopolitical relations, the environment, and even television. "What, the Earth is coming to an end soon, you say? Screw it, let's roll out another show where desperate people eat animal penises for money."

But few people have it worse in these end times than character actors in dramatic TV portrayals and reenactments on the History Channel or the Discovery Channel (I'm talking the one hour of non-reality TV they show weekly). Here are people who have dedicated their lives to a craft that probably brings them a great deal of joy. Only to use it to portray people who represent the downfall of humanity or the end of days.

Hitler

This first one is easy. Hitler actors. Poor bastards. Sure they're hidden behind a Chaplin mustache, but they're also wearing a Hitler mustache. You're Hitler. You're going to be doing a lot of scenes in a dark bunker or hopped up on meth or standing in front of flaming backgrounds. No redeeming factors here. And as you sit at your studio apartment breakfast nook slash bathroom, wearing your Hitler mustache and remembering your days as Hamlet in theater school, you'll slowly deteriorate into a delusional frenzy. The train will pass by your dark, dank, studio bunker, shaking it like the bombs of the Allied forces. And then the landlord will bang on the door and demand that you pay up. Man, you are Hitler.

The Antichrist

The Antichrist, when not shown as Napoleon or Hitler, is usually portrayed as a good-looking man in a business suit, someone who will wow you with his charms as you voluntarily follow him toward the end of the world. As an actor, it's good news and bad news. The good news is you're a handsome man who is charming and dresses well. The bad news is you'll use that charm to drag the world toward the apocalypse and utter oblivion.

I mean, come on, the Antichrist will know how to dress, because I find many evil people spend large portions of their day dressing themselves. I've created a new fashion term called Antichrist chic. And as you sit in your high rise studio apartment, looking over the creation that you will soon destroy in a History Channel presentation about the end of the world, you'll realize that your birthday is at the opposite side of the calendar from Christ's. You'll realize that while Jesus' dad built houses as a carpenter, your dad took them down via his demolition business. And while Mary is touted as a pure, chaste virgin, word around town about your mom is just the opposite. My god, you are the Antichrist.

Nostradamus

Ah, the fortune teller who never predicts anything good. Why is it that the ethereal powers of the universe never showed Nostradamus positive glimpses of the future. War, death, destruction. Hitler, the Antichrist, etc. As an actor, Nostradamus is an easy role. Just strap on a beard and dress in some weird clothes because your average viewer doesn't know what people dressed in back then -- they could have worn parachute pants. And a strange hat, always a strange hat. Top it off with a small mystical pool of water to look into, which Nostradamus referred to as FutureVision. Sounds like a piece of cake.

And as you stare despondently into the leftover milk from your cereal bowl, wearing a onesie (that someone got you as a joke) and an ear-flapped winter hat, because you have no clean clothes, you'll begin to see things in the bowl. You're not sure what. Strange contraptions. Nations at war. The things you see you can't identify. Is it because you've been up for 48 hours straight or that you're seeing into the unrecognizable distant future? Jumpin' Jehosaphat... you are Nostradamus.

Neanderthals

You can't talk about the end of humanity without discussing the beginning of it. A special on evolution maybe? This is where your non-verbal acting skills will shine. That is, if anyone could recognize your face. They'll apply layers and layers of makeup, but not as much as your fellow actors. Is it because you have a face pretty close to a Neanderthal's already? "You don't need as much work as he does," the makeup artist says to you. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you a walking, bulbous frontal lobe?

As you finish the leftover chicken in your fridge, ripping the bone clean like an animal, you'll tell yourself your exceptional physique was the reason they cast you. Sure you have to shave a lot of hair off your body after you work out, but that doesn't mean anything. To hell with anyone who has something to say about it -- this could get you in at Geico! Dammit, you'll crush their skull in with a rock!

You get points if you know this guy.

OTHER NOTABLE HISTORY CHANNEL ROLES...

Tool-wielding apes
Slaves hammering with chisels in foreground of digitally incomplete Great Pyramid
Ancient Egyptian architect comparing Great Pyramid with pyramid drawing on scroll and nodding favorably
Ancient Egyptian architect shaking hands with alien visitor as spaceship completes Great Pyramid in background
Wright brothers arguing over schematics
Torch-carrying Egyptian priests mummifying body
Body on stone slab in dimly lit room to be mummified
Apostles surprised by Jesus' empty tomb
Judas staring despondently at pieces of silver and length of rope
Shadow or silhouette of Roman senator stabbing shadow or silhouette of Caesar

***Re-print original by Andy McDonald

2/2 In Our House Last Night

2012-07-05T08:05:00.000-07:00

So here we are on this glorious day; the 5th of July. The holiday that all dogs dread has come and gone and we are thankful. We survived.

Mazzy the wolfy and Buttercup the chi-terrier were the heroes of the evening, helping old-man Harpo and floppy-eared Ruby stay calm during the worst of the fireworks. It was not as bad as most years though. I guess there is something to be said for the shitty economy on this one. Even the pro rodeo wasn't as bad as it has been in years past. Although from what understand, the rodeo gods have deemed it necessary to have their big finale' on Friday night. Lovely. Part two of the fireworks.

This year Harpo decided that is was safest in the bathroom, behind the door. Probably because his hips are too painful to be darting under the bed like he usually does. So we took a nice comfy blanket and made him a cushy safe-spot he could go to whenever he wanted. By 10 o'clock he was all camped in for what ended up to be only a couple of hours compared to past years 4 or 5 hour sessions of pointless booming from the neighbors.

Ruby has her crate that she is very fond of. It has her blankie and her toys that she hides in there. She also seemed to gain comfort from laying her entire body across my lap, arms, and any other part of my body that she could touch at the same time. At one point she tried to snuggle her 50 some odd pound body under my t-shirt for safety.

Buttercup mostly spent the evening following Mazzy as she went from Harpo to Ruby and back again, checking on them during the worst of it. She's not the Alpha dog just for her looks ya know. She has her duties and she does not take them lightly.

The man? Well, he walked down the street to a neighbors party with his now-famous chicken/cream cheese dip and a six-pack. I stayed home to rest and be the snuggler and safety zone for the dogs. I don't think I missed out on anything crucial.

Well, I hope everyone else had a great holiday and hopefully you are continuing it safely. We will be here hanging out in the yard chillaxin. Thinking about going fishing. Who knows? It's just a nice day.

Officially, No Longer My Baby

2012-06-11T10:23:00.000-07:00

My little boy that laughed readily, even at the tender age of 3 months, is 21 years old today.

If you are a mom who has grown children, you alone know what I am feeling today. I can't quite put my finger on it; there isn't really one word to describe it, but the feeling is still there.

I feel like I should be able to flip a switch, dial down a knob, or just wiggle my nose and have this sense of constantly protecting, forever worrying gone from my state of being.

Alas, things just don't work that way. I feel I should talk to my mother or other people who have grown children. How do you turn it off? Although my son still lives with us, I still feel like this is a huge mile-stone; not just for him, but for me as well.

Relatively speaking, I feel as if my anchor has given way. I know I am still a mom but at the same time, I feel like my job is just for show now.

He no longer has to do as I say. I can't ground him. I can't put him on restriction. I can't hug him, and shower him with fish-kisses anytime I want to.

He's the only one I have. I had no practice and sometimes it showed. Often times, it didn't though. It is a blessing to hear what a wonderful son I have, how polite he is, how much of a hard-worker he is. I sometimes wish that I could say that more often myself, but as with all children, they are on their best behavior for others and only you as their parent get to see "the dark side". Ha!

I look at him sometimes and my heart hurts I love him so much. I was 17 when I had him, and I thought, as only a 17-year-old girl does, that I couldn't love anyone more than myself. When I first saw him, after the doctor laid him on my chest, all slimy and screaming, I thought my heart would burst. And I knew, without a single doubt in my mind, that I would die for this squirming, screaming little boy. I would protect him with my life and try to teach him to be a good boy and eventually, a great man.

Sometimes, when I talk to my friends and relatives who are my age and they are just now having babies, I wonder how I ever did it so young. I guess it doesn't really matter now. Although, I do wish that I knew then what I know now. That would be the ultimate super-power to have, I think.

I wonder if I am the only one who remembers exactly what their baby looked like during those first few minutes of life outside the womb? I remember seeing the "wine-stain" birthmark on his fingers. I noticed over time that they darken when he is mad or upset. I remember seeing the birthmark on the back of his neck for the first time, that looks like three dots arranged in a pyramid. I remember his long, soft blond hair. I also distinctly remember the words, "Holy cow!" from the nurse that weighed him in at 8 lb 14.5 oz. I also remember that the layette set we brought for him to come home in was too small for him and the booties wouldn't fit on his newborn, size 2 feet.

Although, I missed a lot of time with him due to life and what sometimes goes along with it, I am very grateful for every single minute that he is here on this earth.

It staggers me to think of how I could of made this person. It is amazing to see pieces of his dad and myself in this other human being; this other person that I made.

My sisters have grandchildren now. I love those little babies, but I can only imagine what it would be like to see myself and my son's dad in another little child. To get all Game of Thrones on ya, "the blood of my blood" and all that. Very theatrical but there you have it.

Happy 21st Birthday Baby!!!