Monthly Archives: May 2012

May2

There’s No Such Thing As A Free Lunch….or a Free Dog

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There’s No Such Thing As A Free Lunch….or a Free Dog

*climbs up on my soapbox*

I haven’t been on here for awhile.  A little creaky, but still comfy.

I love animals.  I have spent lots of time, energy,  and money to protect and defend all sorts of creatures.  I work with our local Humane Society, I share my home with rescued pets, and my veterinary expenses easily outpace my clothing budget 2 to 1.  I have a special place in my heart for dogs.  If you’ve shared any part of your life with a dog you’re “connected” to, you know what unconditional love is.  If you haven’t, well, I’m sorry.

I’m a pragmatic idealist.  I think every shelter dog deserves a forever home, and I also think there should be spay and neuter laws to cut down on the obscene numbers of unwanted pets.  It’s a simple concept, really.

Last week, hubby and I went to the local WalMart.  As we pulled in, we see a truck parked at the end of the lot, with a dog crate next to it, and a big handwritten poster board sign that said “English Mastiff Puppies”.  Oh, goodie!  I felt my temples begin to throb.  We decide to take a walk and take a look.

Have you priced English Mastiff puppies lately?  A good breeder will charge you around $1800 for show quality.  A good pet quality dog will run you close to $1000.  What’s the selling price of an English Mastiff in a WalMart parking lot?  A hundred bucks, cash.

Let me tell you about these puppies.  Then my rant shall begin in earnest.

There are 4, 2 males and 2 females.  They are totally lethargic, which is understandable since they’re in the sunlight with no shade and no water bowls.  They are 4 weeks old, which is much too young for a pup to be without its mother, who is nowhere in sight.  There are two extremely friendly women sitting in folding chairs near the crate o’ puppies.  We ask about the parents, and are told their “neighbor owns the mom and dad, and just asked us to sell the pups for him.”  Really?  I have had lots of neighbors in my lifetime, and lots of really close friends, too.  Not once has anyone ever asked me to take their litter of puppies down to the WalMart and sell them!  NOT ONE FRIEND, EVER!  I’m beginning to suspect that these nice ladies are either A) liars or B) thieves.

Totes Adorbs!

Totes Adorbs!

The dogs, at 4 weeks, have been weaned.  Both parents are papered English Mastiffs, we’re told, but there aren’t papers on these puppies.   Of course not.  The owners don’t want to make a lot of money, they just want the puppies to go to good homes.  Of course they do.  What incredibly generous people, wanting to spread Mastiff joy!

My husband is now watching for signs that he might have to drag me away before things get out of hand.

The father is a “Napoleon” Mastiff, and the mother is a fawn.  $100.  They need to sell them today before they go home, because the owners can’t keep them anymore.  Why, pray tell?  Too many loud parties?  They’re moving to E. Namibia and can’t take the dogs?

As we were talking with them, with my husband watching me begin to stew, 3 other cars stopped.  First question:  “How much?”  Kids running over to grab these listless pups.  Serenity Prayer, Serenity Prayer, Serenity Prayer.

Let me line out all the things wrong with this picture.

1.  It would be absolute kismet for someone who has done their doggy research and determined that a Mastiff is the dog for them to find these particular people in this particular parking lot on this particular day.  Therefore, I must assume that there are going to be impulse purchases made.  Oh, goody.

2.  There is no such thing as a “Napoleon” Mastiff.  The word is Neopolitan.  If you’re going to sell a dog, please know what kind of dog you’re selling.

3. Dogs should not be weaned at 4 weeks, sold at 4 weeks, or sold before being vaccinated / examined by a vet.

So, the whole “Purebred English Mastiff” story smells to high heaven.

Typical Backyard Breeding Operation

Typical Backyard Breeding Operation

Even more distressing are the people who I’m sure snagged themselves a big ol’ Mastiff dog that day.

Do you know what happens when someone impulse buys a dog, or gets one “free”?  They haven’t done their homework.  They haven’t selected the correct breed for their lifestyle.  They haven’t budgeted either their money for all the needs a pet has, or their time to provide training and nurturing.  The vet visits get put off….maybe not the first one, but over half will stop going before the dogs are caught up on vaccinations or spayed/neutered.  The “cute” wears off quickly when shoes get chewed up or multiple accidents happen on the carpet.  The dog walking stops when it begins to interfere with social schedules or the weather becomes unpleasant.

The end result:  within a year, more than half of these unplanned additions to the family end up in a shelter, or being given away to someone who will make the same emotional, unprepared choice to get a dog.  They are typically not well socialized, not at all trained, not spayed/neutered, not current on vaccinations, and not in good health.

Not the "Happily Ever After" this pup deserved

Not the “Happily Ever After” this pup deserved

By the way, for those of you who think you’re “saving” that puppy, you’re dead wrong.  You’re delusional.  You’re encouraging irresponsible breeding.  If people would stop buying these pitiful animals, then they’d stop breeding them.  Besides, that’s a lame story.  If someone’s first question when approaching a truck with dogs for sale is “How much?” they’re not out to save the puppies.

Don’t be part of the problem, people.  Spay or neuter, or breed responsibly.  Adopt from a local shelter (who, on average, have about 20% purebreds in their kennels at all times).  Choose carefully, after long consideration and sufficient preparation.  You deserve a forever dog, and those dogs deserve a forever family.

*climbs off of the soapbox*

Thanks for listening.

 

May1

My father would be proud…..or he’d think I’m an idiot

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My father would be proud…..or he’d think I’m an idiot

I am definitely my parents’ child.  From my mother, I have inherited an acid tongue, a nasty temper, and her feet.  I’ve learned to control the tongue and the temper.   Sadly, there is nothing to be done about the feet.

I’m going to give my father credit for my tenacity, because I don’t know where else it would have come from.  So it’s the tenacity that got me through last weekend.

The grass was tall, and not in a poetic, beautifully natural, windswept sort of way.  The grass was tall,  in a “Is that house abandoned?” sort of way.  Sure, I could have called the landscaping friends that we have, who would have done a fabulous job.  You know I didn’t do that, right?  I mean, why would I be writing about this if the whole story was about calling the landscaping company and having a gorgeous lawn the next day?    No, I chose to do it myself, because I’m stubborn that way.  I’m not sure who to blame for “my stubborn”, but let’s be kind to my ancestors and just say there are many suspects from whom that particular personality trait may have been inherited

Armed with a baseball cap, my work gloves, and my Canadian Flag Crocs, I head off to get the job done.  Yes, I *was* a vision of Ozarks loveliness, thankyouverymuch! Fill up the gas in the little mower, and encourage myself that it’s not THAT big of a yard.  Oh, how I lie

My husband thought I was a lunatic.  Good sport that he is, though, he offered to tag me out to take breaks, and would regularly jog up to me with a cold drink, walking along with me while I sucked down iced tea.  It was like a mowing version of a pit stop.

An hour went by.  I ran out of gas, refilled, and kept going.  I had made alarmingly little progress. Another hour, and shortly thereafter more sputtering from the now twice drained gas tank.  I was almost halfway done.

Almost. Halfway. Done.

I began to rethink my plan.  Looking around, I realized my assessment of this task was severely flawed.  I’d done the side portion of the lawn first.  If I stopped now, there was zero improvement to the curb appeal.  If I had curbs, which I don’t.  I just have 2 1/2 acres of grass that spill onto the asphalt.

That’s when the Scotty in me kicked in.  My Dad’s name wasn’t Scotty, but that never stopped anyone from calling him that.  I was 8 before I knew his name was Alex.  I suppose that’s neither here nor there, but the point is that the tenacity was definitely a Scotty trait.  I’m not sure how Alex would have responded.

I refilled the gas again, and started talking myself through this torture.  My Dad would not have stopped with the lawn half done.  Mostly because my Mother would have screamed like a Banshee if he had, but nonetheless, he would have finished.  With a manual pushmower, because we didn’t have a gas powered mower.  We also had a yard about 1/4 of the size of the one I’m trying to mow, but I’m not going to think about that.

So off I go.  The dogs have given up walking along with me, and are stretched out on the porch taking a nap.  My calves hurt.  My upper arms hurt, and I’ve no idea why.  I’m not LIFTING the lawn mower, I’m just PUSHING the lawn mower.

Another tank of gas.  I realized completion was an option.  It was in sight.  The lawn looked amazingly beautiful, and I only had one section of it left to do.  My second wind kicked in.  I kept going, thinking about how I was going to reward myself for all this with a Pepsi Max and some bacon.  Maybe the bacon would be wrapped around a shrimp or a scallop or a jalapeno.

 

Eventually, it was finished.  Over 4 hours, and 4 tanks of gas, dodging rocks and lizards and turtles and dog poop, throwing sticks out of the way and wiping sweat out of my eyes….but it was done.  It was beautiful.  I basked in the satisfaction of a job well done while I had a bacon sandwich completely overstuffed with thick cut bacon.

It lasted 5 days.

Why, oh why, can we put a man on the moon but not genetically engineer grass that reaches a maximum height of 3 inches?

On Saturday, rain was threatening, and the grass needed to be mowed.  Again.  We hadn’t gotten around to taking the riding mower in to be repaired yet.  There was obviously only one solution.  On went the baseball hat, the work gloves, and the Canadian Flag Crocs. It was time to become one with the mower.

 

It was significantly warmer on Saturday than it had been the week before.  And more humid.  Not pleasant mowing weather.  I tired more quickly.  I tried to summon Scotty’s tenacity, and that’s when the realization hit me.

My father was a hard working man.  When something needed to be done, he just did it.  No fanfare, no procrastination, no whining.  Yet, he was also intelligent.  My father would indeed have finished the yard that first weekend, but he never would have been out there mowing it a second time.  No, before it would have needed another 4 hour mow, he would have had a concrete truck there.  Whether he’d put in a patio, a tennis court, a basketball court, an in-ground pool or all of the above, he would have gotten rid of all that grass.  He may have thrown 5000 wildflower seeds over half of it and renamed it “The Meadow”.  He would have bought cows to eat it all.  He wouldn’t have spent another four hours mowing that lawn.  He was no fool, my father.

I mowed part of the lawn on Saturday.  I may do another section later in the week, if it doesn’t rain.  Certainly I’ll be prioritizing the repair of the riding mower….. or I may be calling someone with some concrete.  Maybe I inherited some common sense from Scotty after all.