Your Tax Dollars At Work

Seventy seven of our country's wild horses died after the Bureau of Land Management's last round up. An additional 39 late term foals were aborted as a result of mares being run for days over rocky terrain to the BLM's holding pens.

Most of the deaths occurred as a result of being run (read: chased by a low flying helicopter) to exhaustion, for days during this last winter. Many of the foals and yearlings were simply not strong enough to survive.

Is this okay? Do we care? Is it more important to clear this land of it's original horse herds so it can be reappointed as grazing area for cattle to feed you and other Americans?

This video talks more about the issue and shows some footage of the last roundup.



Do you want to tell the Secretary of the Department of the Interior, Ken Salazar, that he is doing a great job? Or perhaps you would rather tell him this movement against these horses is an epic fail?

Either way, a link his site is here.

Not coolio with this? Outraged perhaps? You aren't alone.

The Cloud Foundation has been looking out for our country's wild horses for a while now. I think they are an excellent place to start if you are feeling called to action. A link to their site is here.

A Comfy Couch To Hump

I stole this off of Facebook and the caption read, "Inseparable"

The dog in the background of this photo belongs to my brother. Her name is Kona. The dog in the foreground is named Hef, and he belongs to my brother's girlfriend.

Kona was given to Sal as a puppy, and when she got to be around a year old I asked my brother what was up in the hizay* since Hef isn't neutered. He told me there was no prob Bob, because Hef only humps the couch cushions.

I am not making this up. That's is what he told me when I asked him a few months ago.

How cute are puppies? Soooooooo cute!

Guess who decided on a little more variety after humping that couch for a while?

Nine puppies later I wonder if my brother still thinks Hef only gets a case of the humps when he sees large pieces of furniture.

Good times.


*And by "hizay" I meant that I had seen this commercial enough times to know that we are all good on puppies in this country, so fix that shit!**

**And by "fix that shit!" I meant: Everyone thinks their dog is special. There are approximately 9 million companion animals put to sleep in this country every year, and they are no less special than the one you chose to feed. You merely got attached to that one. Your dog ain't that special, so you know....fix that shit!

If my brother finds out about this post, I am going to be in big trouble. Pray for me.

Curiosity

may have killed the cat; more likely

the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.

Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

~ By Alastair Reid

If the last fifty four seconds don't crack you up, then I fear for your funny bone.

You Can Keep The Puppy Dog Tails

I like snails. Water snails. Seriously. I have them in a couple of rooms in my house. I don't know exactly what it is about them but I have had many over the years and would have even more if I felt like cleaning all the bowls.

My very first snail was Babbalucci. A gold Mystery snail I got the year I was married (don't say it with diamonds, say it with water snails). He lived for many years and grew from the gumball I got at the aquarium store to the golfball he was in his golden mystery years.

Santo moved into my bedroom about six months ago. A rich yellow like Babbalucci, he is in his gumball era right now too. He's a good eater, respects the house rules of not sliming out of his bowl and breaking his snail ass on the dresser below. He also has a great sense of humor - he loves to wing out his peen when my room gets dark so when you flip on the light, everyone gets to do that awkward laugh for having walked in on him during private time. He always gets a "Whoa tiger! Let's roll that bad boy up and put it away!" out of me every time. I know, I know, he's a total crack up.

Pepino was a little chocolate brown nugget that lived out in the living room, but he died last week. I am not sure what happened to him, (actually I am pretty sure he killed himself after the Jersey Shore marathon, it's just that suicide is a hard thing to come to grips with)but he wasn't with us for long.

The two in the photo are shacked up in his old bowl. I just got them. Unlike other snails, Mystery snails aren't trannies, so you have to have a boy and a girl -- and they have to be in love to hump out some baby snail eggs. Keep your fingers crossed, this is potentially the first honeymoon snail suite we've had.

Now I am learning there are jade colored mystery snails, so I may just have to get another bowl going...

Hummers

All the 18-34 year old males just outclicked when they saw that picture. Sorry boys - no videos here, just a little bird talk.

I am not a huge fan of the nickname, but they used it repeatedly during the program about Hummingbird's last night. It was an installment of the PBS series Nature, and it was so interesting!

Fun Facts

• There are over 350 different species of Hummingbirds.
• Hummers are the smallest* warm blooded animal on the planet, and can only be found in the Americas.
• They lay eggs that are about the size of Tic Tacs. Well actually, that's what Tic Tacs are - you've been macking on Hummingbird embryos all this time. Nice going.
• There are actual Hummingbird banders out there who have documented some birds to be as old as 12!
• Hummers are the original hover craft. They're ability to move their wings in a figure 8 pattern and hover has given them mad flying skills, including flying backwards and upside down. Take that Aflac duck - you fucking show off!
• They're cute as hell.
• Hummers know sweet is an anytime treat. They believe this whole Diabetes thing is a government created/funded way to torture all of us, and I believe them. Think about government cheese people.

You absolutely must check out the magic in your air and see this program!



* I like the irony that Hummers are the smallest warm blooded creatures, and most of the people who drive Hummers are the biggest douchebags.

The Dispassionate Observer

I'm exhausted today. My overgrown Amazon of a yard really didn't care though. It still beckoned to me to get my ass out there and straighten things up before a surveyor takes some measurements out there tomorrow.

While I toiled and reflected on how I am the only person on the planet who has ever had to do a little manual labor while tired, I noticed some stuff.

I saw two dragonflies taking part in a little bit of Mile High club action. Their airborne bliss was a thing to behold. Who makes sure to keep a good look out and not fly into a tree during such things? Or is it that unlike us, they can fly into a tree without injury. How cool would that be, by the way...

These are stand-ins to protect identities. I think someone might have had a dragon at home waiting for them, if you know what I mean. Awkward.

When I had cut and filled my yard waste container, I spotted a giant spider sitting on the rim. It was black with gold stripes down it's back and had a body the size of a 25 cent gumball. I would have taken a picture of it, but once I saw it the only thought I had in my head was "mindless killing must commence!" and I grabbed a rather large rock. Sorry PETA, but I doubt you were going to help me if that damn thing had bit me and I went into anaphylactic shock and died in my yard, leaving my dog to watch me rot from the other side of the screen door. See, that in turn would be traumatizing dog cruelty, so be glad of my ninja-esque command decision to ice the giant spider.

The Ru happy that I am not dead.

Then I went out to my garage to put a few things away, and I was again reminded of the mass turd grave that has been gaining bodies along the fence line where my car is parked. This area is not part of my yard, so I don't know who is making all of the drop-offs. My guess would be that it is the same useless cat that slides down my windshield all the time, and runs across my roof at 4a.m. Good times. Anyway, as I scooped turds into a bag, the irony of this much shit getting under DS Man's radar really hit me. He sniffed out two little logs from my pooch that were in a small thicket of bushes, and had them gift wrapped on my doorstep in no time. How did he miss all of this sitting on the dirt strip out here in the open? Perhaps he was out of his gift bags and ribbon?

Stunt poo, but make it real and multiple it out by 50 logs or so, and you're smelling what I was scooping. Fucking cats.......or perhaps small hippies.....hadn't thought of that.

That was my little snippet of Nature's Majesty for today.

Ms. I and The Fish

I was a complete tool in high school. I focused most of my studies in how to be an complete and utter ass.

Very few teachers were willing to put up with my malarkey, let alone have an appreciation for it.

Ms. I was one of the few who did though. She was my English teacher for two years. The great thing about Ms. I was that she was a bit of a maverick too. The way she carried herself told you this stuffy, devout, Catholic school was not going to hold back the way she swung her hips or got excited about Zeffirelli's version of Romeo and Juliet.

I had always been a reader, but it took on new meaning when she introduced pieces of literature to us. Her enthusiasm and love for what she shared, brought it to life in a way I had never experienced before.

Like a hungry mob on Free Wing Wednesday at KFC, [Don't go crazy - I don't think that really exists.] we would all sit in class and take Shakespeare line by line and pick it clean of all it's literary meat - I mean beauty.

Vocabulary lists of words like galvanize, titular, onomatopoeia, and faux pas became these fabulous new ways to talk about things, as she encouraged us to use them in fun sentences.

For over 18 years now a snippet of a poem about a fish that she introduced us to still lingers with me. In her usual way, she took us through the poem line by line and I still remember the reference to the scales of the fish being like "ancient wallpaper". I loved that description. Just couldn't get enough of it. Ancient wallpaper.

From time to time I would word search those keywords online, but I couldn't ever locate the poem. This morning I tried again, and there it was!

As I read it again after all these years, I felt like I was back in that wooden crap desk my freshman year. I could hear Ms. I at the front of the room reading aloud to us, pausing in all the right places to emphasize parts that if we missed, life just wouldn't be the same [Or maybe the planet would shift of it's axis. I can't remember which one it was now.] If I looked up, there she would be with chalk dust smudged along the leg of her pants, her expression filled with excitement for each piece of symbolism.

I loved her for all of that -- and for putting up with me.

In the spirit of Ms. I and her fabulousness.....I give you...

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

Elizabeth Bishop

This little fishy swims in my room

In Order To Be Returnable, There Must Be Death

Not long ago I was watching Elmo with a very charming young man named Joe. In this riveting segment, Elmo was asking his goldfish Dorothy questions, and I'll be goddamned if she wasn't answering them!

Each time the E Man interpreted another tidbit of the sage advice of Miss Dorothy, I became more and more enthralled. I had to have one of these fish, so it could start talking to me as soon as possible.

Alright - cut to reality: I don't believe that shit. I know fish only talk to other fish. They aren't going to give up their magical watery speech skills to some red furry Plaza de Sesamo character. Sheesh, what kind of nutbag do you take me for?!

Anywho, despite my irritation at Elmo's attempts to trick me, I was getting a warm fuzzy over Dorothy. I remember my first fishbowl with it's two crap feeder goldfish in it, and how excited I was to have them for the 42 hours they lived.

I remember my dad taking us on a rainy afternoon to the local aquarium store to pick out our goods, and then helping me and my brother each put our fish bowl together. They were round, glass bowls complete with colored gravel, plastic plants, and the token must-have treasure chest.

I loved having a pet in my room and eventually our bowls turned into full-fledged fish tanks with all the fixings. I still remember falling asleep under the soft glow of the tank light and the hum of the air pump.

Ahh those were the days.....

Two weeks ago, I decided to indulge my nostalgia and went to Petsmart. I already had a bowl set up, and I decided ahead of time I was going to get me a couple of scrappy feeder goldfish to go in it. Recapture a bit of the good ole day's glory.

I had a touch of that little kid excitement too [ok - big touch] as I entered the store and started perusing the tanks. Fish, fish, fish, expensive fish, ugly fish, who would want that fish?, saltwater fish, glowy fish, tiny fish - where are the feeders man?!

Eventually I work my way back to where I started, and next to all the fancy goldfish I see a big empty tank. They were out. Noooooooo!

Like a seven year old, I was hell bent on instant gratification. I was going home with fish goddamnit!

I then proceeded to make a big mistake. I bought Ethel and Enid.

I have had fancy goldfish in the past and it has never worked out. They're snotty, spoiled and superficial. And then just so you can hate them that much more, they go and die right away so you can weep as you flush your $5.99 down the toilet.

What was I thinking?! Fancy goldfish?! Eck! As soon as I got them home, I knew I should have held out for my scrappy little faves, the feeders. Talk about an attitude of gratitude! They know how grim their prospects are. How you could have fed them to your snapping turtle or pet piranha or dumped them in bleach water like a certain brother I know. Their every move screams "thank you!" and you have just got to love them for that.

Alright, well so I fucked up, but I am a commitment girl so Ethel and Enid are going to shack up with me for as long as they haunt this earth.

If I hadn't been thinking like a kid, I would have got me some guppies. At least they are small and darty and you never know when they are going to splooge out some babehs - God's miracle every one of them.



But I digress.....back to E & E.

They are annoying as hell. My visions of relaxing evenings sipping a glass of wine, gazing at my peaceful little fishy duo are blown out. These two will not be any help in lowering my blood pressure.

For starters, they can't swim worth a shit. Everyday looks like it is their first day behind the fin. Most of the time they just look like they are trying not to float up to the top. They fight over the food like there isn't a thousand little flakes there floating for them to share. They're pretty much ungrateful little biotches........and I am stuck with 'em.

And we come full circle: When I was leaving the store that fateful day, the sales girl tells me that they have a return policy on their fancy goldfish. If they eat it within 14 days of purchase, and you have your receipt AND the dead fish, [she told me twice I had to have the carcass on me] they will give you a refund or store credit.

Well that little ray of hope blew out yesterday. Today is Day 15 and as I type this those two gaping fools are over there still trying to get the swimming thing down. Damn.

The Book Of Ruth - Chapter One

Fixer-uper Puppy

Ten years ago today I brought Ruth home. Well actually We brought Ruth home. You see, back then I was married and it was the other half of the We, John, that wanted to bring Ruth home.

I admit I started it. My not-so-subtle pleading to at least go down to the Humane Society and look around had finally paid off -- or so I thought.

August 4th 1999 was our third trip down to the pound. Our house was small and we were on the hunt for a petite pooch to match. Our previous two visits the preceding weeks were Pit Bull and Shepherd mix adventures. No-go.

This visit was shaping up about the same. Row after row of large breed puppies and large breed adult dogs watched us walk up and down the rows of runs. There was the occasional small dog garnish amongst them but they were all on adoption hold already. We were never going to find a dog this way.

As I frowned into one of the last runs full of Shepherd mix puppies, I marveled at the little brown dog toy they had in there when I realized it was moving. What in the french toast was going on here?!

John caught up to me, and as I pointed, his smile confirmed that my eyes were not deceiving me. A tiny, brown scraggly little puppy was sitting in the middle of this pack of dogs destined for great...size. Each time they tried to play with her it looked more like a pummeling. Paws on head, playful nosey nudges pushing this little thing right over.

Bummer for that puppy or squirrel mix, or whatever, I thought as I walked towards the exit. But John was not so quick to follow. "Where are you going? This could be the dog for us."

Um, what?! I only agreed to the strict size limit on the prospective puppy because I thought I was going to end up with a CUTE one!

This is a cute puppy.












This is a cute puppy.

This.....not so much.













Alright, alright.....but still...


















Before I can even spell UGLY, John has hurried off in search of an adoption counselor. Five minutes later he returns. Alone. "She's already on hold" he tells me in a disappointed tone. Whew! That was close. As we leave, the woman who had helped John stopped us to tell us that if the potential adopter doesn't pass muster during the scheduled interview that was to take place that evening, She-It would be back up for takers starting the following morning.

Oh great.

There we were bright and early the next morning; arriving when the Humane Society opened. We waited to speak to someone, and were informed She-It was off of adoption hold and back on the market.

Apparently the woman who wanted to adopt her had what else but a big dog at home. Since that Rottweiler of hers was an adult, it made the environment for She-It unsafe by HS standards, and her application was denied.

Oh great.

We followed the woman out to the kennels and the little brownish clump of steel wool managed a half wag as we approached. As John stepped into the run and picked She-It up, a yellow sprinkling hit his jacket. "She peed on you!" I screeched. Unfazed, John held She-It close and softly dismissed my resistance with, "She's a fixer-uper puppy"

Oh great.

Ay! Dios Mi!

Yo quiero what the fuck?! Is this summer of celebrity death ever going to end?! I can't take it -- too much loss.

The Taco Bell chihuahua is dead. Yes, you read that correctly: muerto.

Ed McMahon, Farrah, MJ, Billy Mays, Walter Cronkite -- not enough -- no, no the Grim Reaper's appetite for death was still unquenched, so he took his vengeance outside the bun.



Gidget is gone. Apparently she just stroked out on Tuesday evening and no quantity of steaming Chalupa or piping hot Churro could save her. She was 73 (about 15 in dog years).

Her trainer confirmed the sad news stating, "She made so many people happy." Amen sister, amen.

Yesterday

What I missed because I couldn't find time in my busy schedule of arguing with someone all day to get to Hollister. Gah!

My brother (center) competed in the steer roping at the Hollister Rodeo - Go bro!

Nice - Giddy Up!

Alviso

Yesterday I wandered around Alviso for a little while. Technically a part of northern San Jose, Alviso's small town atmosphere and tidal marshes make it seem like it is miles from the techno hustle and bustle of Silicon Valley.

Settled in the 1700's, Alviso's golden era was between 1849 and 1864 as a major shipping port for San Jose.



With the growth of the railroad system, the use of Alviso's ports declined, and by the 1970s the community was largely overshadowed by the growth of San Jose.

Now what greets you when you pull into town are a few established restaurants, a smattering of maintained homes amongst several dilapidated residential areas, and a tiny harbor with many of the boats stuck in their places by the low water and high reeds.



If you jump over to one of the roads that run the outskirt, you will come upon the Don Edwards Wildlife Refuge. Don wasn't there when I arrived, but there was a little bit of small town animal action already in progress. In true well-prepared douche fashion, I only had the camera on my phone with me so apologies in advance for the following photographic crappiness.

Just before the refuge's parking lot, I encountered a waterfowl road block. Two geese and their three little fuzzy goslings were apparently taking a cue from the chicken they heard about, [Sorry -- I know that was awful, but I couldn't resist] and were crossing the road. Everyone makes it, but only two of the dark gray and neon yellow babies can seem to get over the curb to the embankment. Due to their strict No Gosling Left Behind policy, a very challenging parenting moment ensues.

I guess it doesn't matter what species your kids are, they are going to melt down when there is an audience, as there are three cars watching now. The first approach Mom and Dad try is the ole "Bye - we're leaving. You better hurry up if you want to come with us." as they waddle up the dirt shoulder of the road. This tactic leaves G-3 peeping his head off and jumping against the curb without making any real progress in getting over it. Everyone stops and turns back to see if G-3 is bluffing, but he means business and is not happy. Now Father Goose realizes something must be done so he heads back out to the road to stand by G-3 while Mother Goose hangs in the shade on the embankment with G-1 and G-2.

At this point I think Father Goose pretty much leans in over G-3 and through clenched beak tells him to peep down, or he is going to get the beating of a lifetime when they make it to the marsh. [Don't judge -- Geese have to do what they have to do to get their kids ready for the rough and tumble avian life they have ahead of them.]

The talk seemed to work because G-3 shut the hell up, but his tantrum exhausted him. He ends up just laying down right there in the street next to his dad, who is begrudgingly protecting him from the mini-traffic jam of voyeurs.

Once Mother Goose sees G-3 go down from sheer flopsweat exhaustion, she hangs it up. There will be no trip to the marsh this afternoon. No doubt she was questioning some of the decisions she has made in her life as she walked G-1 and G-2 back down to the road to be with their Father and dim-bulb, lazy sib.

Who's in the middle wallowing there and feeling sorry for himself instead of trying harder....

Back out on one of the side roads from the refuge, was our next bird buddy. I think he said his name was Larry but I am not positive, because quite frankly, homeslice was pretty jumpy.



When I caught sight of his lunch, I realized why he was so nervous about giving any identifying information about himself.

Yeah, one bird eating another bird..........awkward.

I didn't really know what to say at that point. Larry was hopping around talking really fast about how he is some sort of vulture all of this normal in "nature" or whatever, and that he is an upstanding citizen who does all this community outreach work. I don't know dude, I'm not saying you don't give back, but what you were doing looked pretty sick, and if you were so okay with it then why all the squirellyness when I asked to take your pic (notice he didn't want to be photographed with his lunch)?

So, I hope Larry figures it out. It's hard to see the good vs evil struggle like that. I think there is some good in Larry, and I could tell he felt bad about what he was doing, but he was also getting really into his meal too, savoring it. At one point he was enjoying it so much, that he was actually standing ON it. Not pretty. I was able to snap a quick pic of him getting ready to dive back in with abandon before he caught me and starting screaming profanities and throwing rocks at the car. I had to get out of there to save myself.

Larry got really pissed at me right after I took this pic, so I had to jet. I wasn't going to wait around to see if he had a gun, or take a chance on ending up like the poor schmuck he was munching on. No thanks.

I will be honest with you, the encounter with Larry was pretty draining and I just wanted to be out of there and heading towards a cocktail.

Two cosmos found their way to me about a half hour later, and as I sat at the bar enjoying them, reflecting on the afternoon, I felt pretty damn good.

Horsemeat Anyone?.....Anyone?

Okay, I know I am a pain in the ass with my dreadfully dark topics sometimes, but I can't help it. My brain whirs all the time and sometimes it is a total buzzkill with the stuff it churns up.

Animal slaughter, and even more specifically, horse slaughter has been one of my latest points of ponderment (making the English language work for you people!).

For several years now I have been aware of/and researched somewhat the American animal slaughter market. The injustices (both to animals and humans), corruption, and downright filth, are way too broad of a topic to discuss here. However I do think I can scratch the surface on the horse slaughter issue, and that has been the focus of my musing lately.

It all started several months ago when I admitted how much, and how long I have had a crush on horses. It started as a kid with the Black Stallion books and an uncle who let my brother and I ride his Quarter Horse, Sugar Foot. As I got older, I just admired them, and the people who got to ride them, from afar. With this admiration came the knowledge that somewhere between calm, sweet Sugar Foot and the present, I had developed some fear.

My brother now has three horses and every time I get around them I feel anxious I am going to get stepped on and the notion of riding one of them fills my head with ugly fall scenarios; complete with broken bones. Yikeys!

Anywho, back to the crush*. I decided to seriously consider getting my own horse (under my brother's tutelage) and wanted to educate myself before making any final decisions.

I started with several books about horse care and "horse people" relating their experiences at all stages of equine knowledge. At the same time I added a few horse blogs to my morning lineup; including Fugly Horse of the Day and NorCal Equine Rescue. Lately both of these blogs have had several posts on the issue of horse slaughter in this country. I am sure it comes as no surprise that they are both staunchly opposed to horses being slaughtered and their meat being eaten. No shocker here either that many are for the slaughter and meat use of horse, and so the grand debate begins.

Currently in the US (and these could be rapidly changing in Montana) horse slaughter has been banned in most states sine the 1990s. Most of the horses purchased at livestock auctions in this country, are sent to Canada or Mexico for slaughter.

I do not regularly comment on blogs (other than my own) but yesterday I did weigh in at Norcal's blog on the slaughter issue.

Daniella said...

I think the work Nor Cal is doing is not only amazing, but wonderful. I have great respect and admiration for all of the work to help as many horses as possible.

The animal slaughter issue in general is a difficult one. Who are we as a nation to decide which animals are to be eaten and which to be spared, or made into pets?

We routinely, and by vast majority, inhumanely slaughter thousands of animals a day in this country alone for their meat. No, we do not currently slaughter dogs and cats for food in the United States, but is that to say other animals like cows and pigs and chickens are just plain more deserving of this fate?

Does that also mean European markets for horse meat are somehow wrong in comparison with our meat consumption?

I don't think it is about how many animals are killed and what we are doing with them.

I think we need to shift our thinking to one of a unified intolerance of any animal being inhumanely treated/slaughtered; no matter their human labeled status as "pet" or "food".

As humans, we have chosen to overlap our existence with many different species. If we respect that choice by making sure every animal we deal with has a dignified, peaceful life - and death, then I think we will have brought some much needed humanity and grace back into our interactions with these animals. That is what they deserve.

May 20, 2009 11:50 AM

So there you have it. Not the most eloquent comment in the world, but hopefully I got across my point that if we have dominion over an animal, it is our duty as humans to make sure that our time with them does not include inhumane or unnatural treatment.

Did my cheery look at such a lighthearted topic stir you to the point where you just have to know more?

Here you go:

Legislation information from the Animal Welfare Institute

The Montana chapter of the Quarter Horse Association jumps into the slaughter ring, but maybe not on the side of the issue you would think...

A surprising look into the horse meat black market in Miami

A Pro-slaughter article from the NY Times

A Fugly Anti-slaughter post



* Afternote: My equine education really showed me that I cannot afford a horse at this time. It didn't wipe out my crush though, so we shall see!

Happy Thanksgiving!

What can I say? .....We aren't all in to turkey -- too dry. Now puppy...that's different. Mmm, mmm moist!

Continued Adventures In Cat-Butt

Umm....there is really no delicate way to put this: My cat has diarrhea.

Have you ever walked in on something like that? Yikeys!

First it was the smell. As I opened the door, a wave of stench hit me like a bread truck going 90mph. No question as to the source. When you are catching even a whiff of that much cat crap, there is no doubt. The brain does not go, "Hmm, is that poo I smell?". Oh, you know.

I half expected the cat to be dead. A visual flashed across my mind of her getting up to use the litter box when her little cat guts lurch (you know, the 30 second heads-up lurch). Then suddenly, she just explodes from behind and is actually propelled around the room like a balloon losing air, spraying my whole house with liquid poo in the process.

Not the case. As I am staving of dry heaves, she meets me at the door meowing and looking absolutely fine. Not at all bothered by the smell I might add, thus proving the theory "whoever smelt it first, dealt it"

I have to go in there. I have to go in the bathroom where the litter box is kept. There is no way around it. How bad will it be? Where is a damn Hazmat suit when you need it?!

So I gear up with gloves, a dish towel wrapped around my nose/mouth, goggles, and a fly swatter (to use as a slotted spatula, of course). Alright, alright -- I didn't use the goggles or fly swatter, but go visual -- it's pretty damn funny, right?

So, I put my head down and go in. It's bad. Real bad. The thought crosses my mind that it might be better if I just demolish this bathroom and start over. We are in a recession though, so I flip the fan on and start with paper towels and lemon scented Pine Sol.

I manage to get it all cleaned up without puking. Victory......or so I thought...

Sidenote: When you can't wipe your butt AND you have diarrhea, chances are you are going to drip. I'm sorry. Simple facts here.

I point this out because my cat dripped. As I walked out of the bathroom and took a deep, relief filled breath, I see them. Out the door and across part of the living room is a series of little brown reminders of the carnage that took place in the room behind me. They are reminiscent (in a demented, fecal way) of Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumb trail. Even if I am wiping out the cat's way back to the litter box, these have to go. More Pine Sol.

It would be wrong to seal the cat with Wacky Glue so I don't have to go through that again, right?

Can you believe people who write this kind of crap -- about crap – yuck!

Easy Like Sunday Morning Cat-Butt

Sunday mornings are fabulous (so is the word 'fabulous', by the way). I always try to carve out a few hours to do whatever I want, with coffee in hand. You know, just have a little time to unwind and relax. I love 'em.

Well, apparently my dog does too. She has a little different idea of what a relaxing Sunday morning looks like though. She likes to spend hers smelling the cat's butt. That is actually the everyday morning ritual around here, but I only really have time to be disgusted by it on Sundays. I will stick with the coffee under my nose, thank you.

I don't get the attraction, but the two animal train with the canine cat-butt smelling caboose has just made it's third trip through my living room this morning.

The whole thing is gross I know, but I will tell you that I have some respect for it on a dedication level. It may not be the healthy, well adjusted love Peck talks about in The Road Less Traveled but it is committed. I mean this has been going on for over 8 years! There are a lot of marriages that haven't lasted nearly that long, even if they did include butt smelling!

Here's the thing though: The cat shows no sign of appreciation or acknowledgement for what looks like quite a task. Instead, it seems to me that she has developed a pretty snooty sense of entitlement about the whole ritual. That doesn't seem right.

I don't know -- I just have a little bit of what I am sure is poorly placed admiration for sticking to something for that long -- even if it is an unappreciative cat's butt (you know you saw that coming).

I just blogged about my dog's fetish and my cat's butt. That's probably not ideal.


happy Sunday!
d.