Our dogs are really only with us a short time.  This makes it so important to enjoy life with them to the fullest.

This was sent to me via e-mail by a fellow dog lover. I do not know who wrote it.  I couldn't resist passing it on. We should all take more time to "think" like a dog, as it would appear they always approach things with a new outlook at the start of a new day, or an hour or a minute!

Philosophy of a dog (Author Unknown)

Don't take this the wrong way, but for the longest
time now, I have been trying to imitate my dog. Not
his look, which is furry and chestnut brown. Not his
walk, which, as with most dogs, can be more of a
waddle.

And not his tail. I don't need a tail. I have enough
trouble buckling my pants as it is. Also, I can live
without his bathroom habits, which can be summed up
this way: "Tree or bush? Tree or bush? Aw, how about
right here on the grass..."

No, what I admire about my dog is his fascination with
the simple routine of life. Every day for him is like
boarding the space shuttle.

For example: In the morning, I tumble out of bed,
grumble, yawn, open the door, and ta-da! There he is,
the canine answer to Richard Simmons.

He is so worked up, he doesn't know which way to go,
toward me or away from me. So he does both.

"Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" he seems to pant. "It's
morning and I'm gonna eat!"

Never mind that he has eaten every morning since he
was born. Or that he's had the same food every morning
since he was born-and that was 11 years ago. Never
mind. He pulls me downstairs and waits breathlessly as
I scoop yet another helping of boring brown nuggets
into his bowl. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy! Food, food,
food!"

I yawn.

Three minutes later, he is off the food thing and into
a new obsession: going out. Again, he runs forward and
backward. "I'm going out! I'm going out! Is this great
or what?"

Never mind that going out has not changed one bit
since we've lived here. He is so thrilled by the
notion of "exit" that he almost bites the doorknob
off. He bolts into the backyard as if heading for
Tomorrowland with a sack full of "E" tickets.

I slouch and yawn again. The great indoors.

Then comes the "bathroom" routine, which I already
have described. Humans deal with these functions
begrudgingly. Not my dog. It's a real thrill for him.
He scouts for the perfect spot as if looking for
beachfront real estate. "Tree or bush? Tree or bush?"
And I don't have that many trees.

Then, once his business is taken care of-and I make
a mental note where we're going to have to shovel come
summer-he is off the going out obsession and onto a
new one: going back in. It doesn't matter than he was
in just two minutes ago. "Things have changed! Things
have changed!"he seems to pant. "I gotta get in there!
I gotta check it out! Hurry up, hurry up!"

When I open the door, he bolts in, races back and
forth-looking for space aliens, I suppose-and
when he doesn't find any, he isn't disappointed.
Instead, he snarls at some ratty toy he's played with
for months, throws it into the air with his teeth, and
watches it land. "Look at that!" he seems to say. "It
goes up, it comes down!"

As I make a cup of coffee, he jumps up to watch.
"Whatcha doin?

Whatcha doin? Coffee, huh? That's amazing!" He then
clamps onto my leg and does a dance that, were it
theearly '50s, I might call the "Hootchie Coo."

I am not sure what he gets out of this-"Oh boy, a
leg! Oh boy, a leg!"-but he seems to be having a
better time than many of the dates I've had.

When I disengage and disappear behind a door, he lies
down outside and waits for me to come out again. If it
is only 30 seconds later, he will still react as if I
were a released hostage. The sunny side.

Now, my dog does not work. He does not pay taxes. He
does not create anything new (unless you consider the
bushes outside). But he also doesn't need clothes,
doesn't covet cars or jewelry, and doesn't care
about houses, as long as he can find a sunny spot on
the floor and lie there for a few hours.

Meanwhile, I am bored with my same routine. Getting up
is a drag. I can't get excited about breakfast. And
going out then coming back only makes me wonder how
many flies I've let in. So I'm trying to imitate my
dog. I'm trying to find wonder in the everyday. After
all, when you think about it, it is pretty remarkable
that you open your eyes each morning. And since every
few hours you get to quench your hunger, well, that's
a thrill, when you consider the alternative.

So while I can't match my dog's drool, I am trying to
match his zeal. Don't worry. If you come to visit, I
will not clamp on your leg and do the Hootchie Coo. On
the other hand, that sunny spot on the
floor looks pretty tempting...

The End...

Author Unknown

I Know No Finer Things Than Dogs

Though prejudice perhaps my mind befogs,

I think I know no finer thing than dogs.

The young ones, they of gay and bounding heart,

Who lure us in their games to take a part;

Who with mock tragedy their antics cloak

And from their wild eyes’ tail, admit the joke.

The old ones, with their wistful, fading eyes,

They who desire no further paradise

Than the warm comfort of a smile and hand,

Who tune their moods to ours and understand

Each word and gesture; they who lie and wait

To welcome us – with no rebuke if late.

Sublime the love they bear; but ask to live

Close to our feet, unrecompensed to give;

Beside which many men seem very logs—

I think I know no finer things than dogs.

You have to think very carefully when you get a dog.  Will you always be able to care for it.  If not, what then.  A dog is for life, not for Christmas or birthdays, etc.

The following is an article written by Jim Willis.  Jim is willing to share his wonderful article with everyone, on the web, in newsletters, flyers, etc.  It is all in the interest of our wonderful dogs, how much they give, and how much we should give them.  This article appears twice on this web site, and if you read nothing else on my site, read this. Here it is.

Dear Friends – What follows is a new essay I’ve written, which I hope will help change some minds among those who consider animals disposable. That’s not you, of course, but if it only sits in your in-box, then it is just "preaching to the choir." I hope you will post it where it can be read by those most in need of its message, distribute it to your address books, and cross-post it to other lists.

You are welcome to distribute it any way you like, just please retain the title and copyright line. You may delete the other information that follows, as you see fit, but I do appreciate you spreading those messages as well. You can request an MS Word document version of this entire text for use on your websites, in newsletters, or to print out as a flyer. Please send me a request by e-mail, jwillis@bellatlantic.net, and in the subject line, write "Send Word version." I may not be able to reply to everyone personally, but I would like to hear how you’ve used it.

Nicole and I, and our animals, thank all of you for your continued support.

- Jim

"How Could You?"

Copyright Jim Willis 2001

When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you’d shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" – but then you’d relent, and roll me over for a bellyrub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" – still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch – because your touch was now so infrequent – and I would have defended them with my life if need be.

I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.

Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You’ve made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son’s fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don’t let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you – that you had changed your mind – that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.

She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I’m so sorry." She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn’t be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself – a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever.

May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.

The End

A note from the author:

If "How Could You?" brought tears to your eyes as you read it, as it did to mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the millions of formerly owned pets who die each year in America’s shelters.

Anyone is welcome to distribute the essay for a non-commercial purpose, as long as it is properly attributed with the copyright notice.

Please use it to help educate, on your websites, in newsletters, on animal shelter and vet office bulletin boards. I appreciate receiving copies of newsletters which reprint "How Could You?" or "The Animals’ Savior," sent to me at the last postal address below.

Tell the public that the decision to add a pet to the family is an important one for life, that animals deserve our love and sensible care, that finding another appropriate home for your animal is your responsibility and any local humane society or animal welfare league can offer you good advice, and that all life is precious. Please do your part to stop the killing, and encourage all spay & neuter campaigns in order to prevent unwanted animals.

IThank you,

Jim Willis

Director, The Tiergarten Sanctuary Trust, accredited member of The American Sanctuary Association, and Program Coordinator, International Society for Animal Rights

e-mail: jwillis@bellatlantic.net

Also by Jim Willis:

The Animal’s Savior

Copyright Jim Willis 1999

I looked at all the caged animals in the shelter...the cast-offs of human society.

I saw in their eyes love and hope, fear and dread, sadness and betrayal.

And I was angry.

"God," I said, "this is terrible! Why don't you do something?"

God was silent for a moment, and then He spoke softly.

"I have done something," He replied.

"I created You."

 

Tiergarten Care Fund

c/o McDonald Animal Clinic

126 S. McDonald St

McDonald, PA 15057

 

Jim Willis, Director

The Tiergarten Sanctuary Trust

8 Carter Lane

Avella, PA 15312-2242 USA

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