Someone who shall remain nameless (*cough Rufus cough*) has an issue with personal space.
Someone who shall remain nameless (*cough Rufus cough*) has an issue with personal space.
Every now and then, I come across a story that absolutely blows my mind. While I shouldn’t be surprised by some people’s tendency to do things that make no sense, some things just get to me in an extra special “are you freakin’ kidding me” kind of way. I recently heard about one of those very things.
When I think of animal welfare groups and farm animal sanctuaries, a very specific image forms in my mind. I picture groups of people with an unrivaled passion for the protection of animals ranging from the casual to the devoutly committed to the downright radical. Fanatics aside, I can’t help but admire the conviction one must have to make an issue such a large part of their lives. Unfortunately, however, there seems to be hypocrites everywhere these days.
What do I mean? So glad you asked! And remember, you asked. This rant is on you.
Well, a certain farm animal sanctuary (which will remain unnamed) decided to hold a fundraising event with some very interesting food options on the menu – meat. All kinds of meat. I’m going to repeat that for the people in the back. This farm animal sanctuary served meat at a fundraising event for the protection of farm animals. Meat. To fundraise for farm animals. You know, the animals who usually end up as… MEAT. This is a true story. I’m not kidding.
This makes literally no sense to me and, frankly, pisses me off. You could probably tell by my excessive use of bold lettering in the previous paragraph. But seriously – how can you, in good conscious, serve steak, let’s say, at an event raising funds towards the protection of cows… the very same animals now sitting, medium-rare, on the potential donors’ plates? Well, not the very same animals, different cows, but still cows. One would think that this choice directly contradicts the non-profit’s so-called mission. I mean, of course it does.
To make things even worse, this farm animal sanctuary had the audacity to get combative and defensive when questioned about their choices! And not by me, either. Apparently, there were quite a few others raising their eyebrows before I ever got into the conversation. Their reasons behind this bold dining choice made no sense either. They claimed that to NOT serve meat would be confrontational and antagonistic to the meat eaters who might attend, and they felt that they should show them by example that animals matter… that they would take the opportunity to educate, rather than argue. Presumably this example-showing and education would occur on the tour of their animal residents who are, you know, farm animals… cows, pigs, goats, chickens, and the like. I’m sorry, but I have to call bullshit here.
I will agree with them on one thing; fundraising events are a great way to educate the general public. It’s an opportunity to showcase the organization’s mission and encourage support from donors by offering them new perspectives on the issues at hand. However, what this particular farm animal sanctuary (I cringe to even call them a “farm animal sanctuary”) failed to do was offer such an opportunity. What exactly did they do to educate the attendees? “Oh, this animal here was worthy of our protection. The one on your plate, well, not so much.” How is that showing by example?
I mean, I’m not one to say, hey, you can’t eat meat because I don’t. You do you and I’ll do me (food, people, I’m talking food here). But at the same time, I don’t think that serving vegetarian or vegan dishes at a FARM ANIMAL SANCTUARY fundraiser would be thumbing my nose at the meat-eating attendees. On the contrary, wouldn’t you think it would be a given? Wouldn’t you expect it? Not to mention, if their objective is to educate people on why farm animals such as cows and pigs shouldn’t be in the food chain, they blew a prime opportunity to showcase just how delicious vegetarian and vegan dishes can be. I’m genuinely confused by their choices.
Let me climb up on my soap box a little higher to say that non-profit organizations should be held to higher expectations than members of the general public… ethically, morally, and through their financial stewardship. One should expect transparency and moreover, one should expect consistency and an adherence to the mission statement of the organization in question. Especially the latter and especially when it comes to fundraising. Honestly, they should have anticipated the backlash and to double down by getting argumentative when questioned makes it all the worse.
I can’t even begin to understand what this group was thinking. Their entire program hinges on the concept that ALL animal lives matter and they all deserve to live a full and happy life. How do they fundraise to support this mission? By serving the very animals they’re fundraising to save. Tell me how that makes any kind of sense at all? I guess some animal lives just don’t matter after all.
Shaylee has no time for this “National Pet Day” nonsense.
Feed me, human!
Oh my gosh, guys. Did you see “A Dog’s Purpose?” Wasn’t it great?
Well, I wouldn’t know. I refuse to watch it. I hate any story where the dog dies, so why would I see a movie where the dog dies fifteen times? I heard there is a sequel out now, “The Dog Dies Twenty More Times.”
“Marley and Me” traumatized me for life. I refuse to watch “War Horse,” and several scenes in “White Fang” haunt me to this day. Black Beauty still makes me cry, and yes, I remember Bambi’s mother (“Man is in the forest,” bang). In fact, Disney is famous for jerking animal lovers around. Disney isn’t alone in toying with my animal softened heart, though.
Those that know me realize that I love horror movies. I know all of the rules in horror movies:
Come on, I’m not alone here. Here is the plot of every horror movie ever written:
The happy family unpacks the car for a week in a waterfront cabin in the woods. They open the door to the station wagon and two adorable, bright eyed kids bounce out with any variety of toys from doll to teddy bear. Happy, panting, tail-wagging dog follows them out of the car, usually a yellow lab or golden retriever. His cuteness factor will play a part in the events to come.
Day one passes with camera angles hinting at a crazed killer in the woods. The dog runs out for his night time pee, and the audience inhales as he runs to the woods, barking. Not this time, though; dog runs back to the house unharmed. Audience visibly relaxes and lets out a collective sigh.
At some point the next day, the dog will disappear. Sometimes he runs away, and an off camera “yelp” tells us he has met the crazed killer. Other times, he is found in little bitty puppy bits and pieces. The cuter and more obedient he is, the worse his ending is.
I have missed endings to good horror movies because I get too pissed to watch any more from the minute I see the dog in the beginning of the movie. Don’t judge me, Mr. or Ms. “choked up at a Hallmark commercial.” The whole idea behind books and movies is to bring us in, get us emotionally invested in the character(s), to make us CARE.
Members of my book club show little sympathy for the “animal-affected” – those of us who are bothered by abuse to animals or “when the dog dies,” in stories. We’re constantly reminded by the better than thou folks that it’s “just a fictional dog” and we’re advised to “suck it up already.” Of course, these same people snort into boxes of Kleenex over the death of a human character (I’m looking at you Cedric Diggory, Fred Weasley, and Sirius Black!) and are inconsolably upset when the plot takes a sad turn.
On the edge of your seat over a thriller? Upbeat romance have you smiling? Horror movie got you looking over your shoulder? Is that tear-jerker causing real tears to well up? That’s the whole point!
As book readers and movie watchers, we’re SUPPOSED to get drawn into the story. We cry over fictional characters, laugh with fictional characters, get angry with fictional characters… why on earth wouldn’t we get upset over the death or mistreatment of a fictional animal? Consider my tears the highest praise, story tellers and movie makers. You managed to destroy me in one “yelp” or sad scene at the vet’s office. I know I’m not alone.
My friend was pissed that the dinosaurs didn’t win in Jurassic Park. I’m still wrecked over Cujo, and don’t get me started about Old Yeller. When I look for a book, I check to see if there are animals and whether those animals are in imminent danger. If they are, I pass.
Life’s already sad enough, isn’t it? I don’t need my realm of escapism to be sad too.
We all know that proud, overly-sharing parent, the one who is amazed their child can do perfectly ordinary things. “My daughter Marjorie can add up to ten!” Your daughter Marjorie is in college, Karen. “Look at little Timmy read this book!” It’s a picture book, Barbara.
If you’re like me, you want to back-end every car sporting a “My Kid is an Honor Roll Student” bumper sticker, and you snicker at the “My Kid Beat Up Your Honor Roll Student.” I have a new bumper sticker: My Super Smart Dog Bit Your Honor Roll Student.
If you ask me, there’s not enough focus on the truly smart animals in our lives. Anyone who thinks animals can’t count has never tried to give three biscuits to a dog who is used to getting four at a time. The internet abounds with videos of horses counting and even if it is a trick of clever training, the idea that a horse can be trained to appear to count is pretty freaking amazing.
Recently, a family member was gushing about her toddler who knew where the pretzels were kept in the house. She even went so far as to surreptitiously record her child in this endeavor to share with the audience. This tiny human marvel could even open the pantry door and get the pretzel jar, but the act of unscrewing the tightly closed lid thwarted her adorably chubby little hands.
Awww, isn’t that cute.
My dog knows where the treats are. He opens the kitchen cabinet, gets his treats, opens the box, and eats his fill. I will admit, he hasn’t quite grasped the idea that cleaning up after himself might be to his advantage. At the least, as I keep explaining to him, it would buy him some time before being found out. I had to put childproof locks on drawers and doors and everything in between to foil my cat, the ne’er-do-well, who is apparently a master locksmith and can open any barrier placed in front of her. So long as she wants whatever is behind it, that is. My friend shakes her head sadly when telling me about her German Shepherd who can unlock door handles, open the door, and go into any room she likes. Baby gates? Pfftt. It’s like you’re not even trying. Cabinets and drawers and off-limit rooms are nothing to these animals, so while I think it’s adorable that your toddler can find the pretzels, I am holding my applause for now.
Don’t get me wrong, I know kids are smart. Heck, I’ve had two kids raise and train me perfectly. I just think it’s funny when over-effusive parents boast about ordinary milestones in a completely unironic way. “Look, she’s only 144 months old and she can recite the alphabet!”
Yeah, Lois, very nice. Can you hold the cat while I call the vet? She opened my locked bedroom door, climbed a ladder, cracked my wall safe, and got into the treats that I thought were for sure out of reach this time. And let me know if you’ve seen the dog, my car keys are missing, and I think he drove down the street to see that damn poodle. Again.
Don’t even get me started on that horse next door who keeps blowing the whistle on my trips to the refrigerator at night; I never should have gotten him binoculars for Christmas.
Someone, who shall remain nameless (*cough* Shaylee *cough cough*), seems to think that by being cute and kinda sorta not bitey for the few days before Christmas means Santa will forget everything that happened earlier this year.
Like the power cord that mysteriously chewed itself up, and the new power cord that chewed itself up in memory of the first one, or the dog who has bite marks on the top of his head … okay, well, that one was deserved. But what about the thumb drive that suddenly went missing because a certain four-legged someone likes to steal small, shiny things? What about that, I ask!? Or the broken hair dryer because someone just had to knock it off the sink because no-one would turn the water on?
Yeah, Santa indeed. You’ll be lucky if good ol’ Krampus doesn’t pay you a visit at this point.
Oh, who am I kidding? No-one can resist that face, even Santa.
I came across an article not too long ago that claimed that owning pets relieves stress. This isn’t a new idea – lots of experts have said the same thing. Some studies show that pets can decrease blood pressure, help maintain good mental health, and even extend life expectancy in many cases. According to South Boston Animal Hospital, among others, pets can actually increase your confidence and self-esteem, which seems like a tall order for a labradoodle, but okay.
Having had a pet in my home since, oh, I don’t know, forever, I feel like something of an authority on the subject or at least well-informed, we’ll say. And I just have to ask … have any of these pet experts ever actually owned pets? I wonder.
As most of you know, I have four pets currently: two dogs and two cats, all rescues. We’ve had three of them since they were mere babies (6 to 8 weeks old) with the youngest being about 9 years old now. The “new” addition to our home, Petra, was adopted as an older dog and we’ve had her a little over 4 years. Time does fly, as they say.
As an adult, I’ve never been without a dog and/or cat or two or three or five even, and as a kid growing up, there was always … but always … at least one dog in our family. My point is, I “get” the whole owning a pet thing. I wouldn’t give mine up for the world. They’re family.
It’s not that I don’t love the little assholes dears, it´s just that I wonder about this universally accepted claim that they relieve stress and extend one’s life. I mean, I’ve got one dog that has the bladder the size of a bean who requires a walk every freakin’ five minutes and another who, I swear, takes having a bowel movement as a competition and strives every day to hit the top score. Spoiler: he wins. Every day.
Life is not exactly restful in my house as I don’t actually get to rest for long in between all of these trips to the tree down the street. But hey, at least it’s at the tree down the street and not in the living room that I routinely traverse in the dark in my bare feet. I realize, things could be worse. I’m reminded of the story of the Roomba running over a pile of dog poop in the living room and carrying it all over the house. I’m sure you can imagine how low that pet owner’s blood pressure was when they walked in the door to that wonderful sight. I bet they set a record.
Did I mention that one of my dogs barks at random times at … nothing. Or at least, I think it’s nothing. I hope it’s nothing. These unexpected, sharp — and loud — staccato yaps ring out first thing in the morning, the afternoon, the middle of the night, she doesn’t care. If she gets the urge to bark, she barks. And boy, does she get the urge. A lot. I can’t let it go, I mean, I have to look to see if it’s something actually worth worrying about. Is it an intruder? Is it a leaf blowing down the street two blocks over? Is it the cat on the shelf where she doesn’t belong (and someone is tattling)? Is it a ghost? By the time I’ve done a quick reconnaissance, Petra is back in her bed, under her blanket, content with herself and the world. It doesn’t relieve my stress at 2:00 a.m., I can tell you that much.
Rufus, to his credit, rarely barks unless there is something to bark at, like the mail carrier, the neighbor leaving his house or coming home to his house or looking out of his window, or the cat across the street. Or me, coming home from work. However, he does like to eat things he shouldn’t. He takes that 5-second rule seriously and sometimes he doesn’t even wait for things to hit the ground, he seeks them out and steals them taste-tests them for you.
Finding out that your dog has eaten the 2-pound bag of cat food you neglected to lock in the pantry to keep just this sort of thing from happening or your strawberry-flavored Chapstick that was buried in the depths of your purse because you forgot your dog loves strawberries and can smell them from a mile away AND he knows where your purse is kept and now needs to be rushed to the vet for almost $500 worth of stomach meds and emergency care is exactly like having a spa day. If the spa was on fire and you are also on fire. And then someone hands you your wallet which promptly bursts into flames.
Cats are no better. At least, mine aren’t. They’re just more inconspicuous about the whole “let’s relieve mom’s stress and make her live longer” scheme. In fact, they’re so cool and subtle about it, you’d almost think there was some complicated reverse psychology experiment going on.
Let’s be honest. Owning a cat is basically ensuring that no glass of water will ever be safe. In fact, knickknacks, coffee cups, bottles of all kinds, and even expensive foundation make-up — which creates such a lovely design on the floor when it shatters, by the way — will never be safe again.
Oh, the middle-of-the-night races are jarringly raucous and create quite the jump-scare when a small, fluffy, homicidal packet of cute jumps on your chest while you’re fast asleep, but you learn to adapt … it’s the yodeling contests at 3:00 a.m. that get to you.
Frankly, who can live stress-free when there is a continual plot against your life? Extending my life, indeed. Ha! The ne’er-do-well (aka Holly) has had it out for me ever since I put a baby lock on the cat treat cabinet, thereby successfully foiling her ongoing thievery … I can’t imagine her having any intention whatsoever of extending my life.
On the other hand, Shaylee, the older matriarch-cat of our four-legged family, is sweet as pie, when she isn’t tormenting Petra or biting the hand that feeds her or looking at Rufus which in turn apparently offends him to no end eliciting the need “to teach her a lesson” not remembering that she outweighs him and really doesn’t like him either (hence the look to begin with) and pure chaos ensues. Ah, yes. Fun and games.
Don’t be fooled, multiple pets, like siblings, will often torment each other just for kicks and giggles. A cat might tickle its tail in front of a dog’s nose just to irritate it. Or as is the case in my house, they will swat that dog right on the top of the head and then escape to a high shelf, far out of reach, tormenting the dog with its own failure. Cats, or at least my cats, don’t understand the concept of holding a grudge it would seem, and are quite surprised when, hours later, they descend from their haughty throne only to be met with a hostile canine hiding the shiv he made while he was awaiting their return to ground level. You can’t tell me being witness to these kinds of interactions are stress relieving in any way.
Oh, hey, I just remembered. I shut my finger in the door today. Hard. How on earth is that even relevant, Wendy, you may ask! Well, let me explain. You see, my dogs are nothing if not well fed. They eat three times a day with treats in between. Yet, Rufus acts as though he’s starved to death. He’s so put upon, really, just ask him. Poor thing. Still in the dark? Stay with me, it will become clear.
Anyway, Rufus eats his food quickly because he has it in his cute little head that he will go and steal Petra’s food when he’s done. He is never allowed to do this, but it doesn’t stop him from trying, God bless him. Petra, because she is the slowest eater I have ever seen in my entire life, eats in the bedroom of solitude behind closed doors so she can have her meal in peace without threat of invaders. As I was walking out of the bedroom – before doggy dinner time had concluded, Rufus tried to race through the minuscule opening I had created (I swear, it was impressive, it was like Road Runner took lessons from a cheetah to better outwit Wile E. Coyote).
Let me interject here, some of you may recall that Petra was abused before she came to live with us and noises, especially abrupt noises … like miniature Road Runner-Cheetah hybrids hurtling full speed across wood floors … still make her nervous.
So, as I was reassuring Petra that no, the apocalypse had not started and simultaneously doing my best to not step on Rufus who was now completely under my feet and somehow keep him out of the bedroom and not catch him in the door, I shut the door on my finger. Did I mention, hard?
Oh yeah. I’m going to live forever with these jerks sweet little fluffballs around. They certainly inspire a colorful vocabulary though, I’ll give them that.