Animal Stories

The Story of a Little June Bug and the Woman Who Saved Him

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Rescue, Wildlife

This is a story about a little green bug—and the woman who saved his life.

In the summer of 2018, Sherrie Carter had offered up her beautiful beach home on Buckroe Beach in Hampton, Virginia, as she frequently did, to a group of volunteers from the local VegFest for a pool party. That evening, as we laughed and said our goodbyes in the front parking lot, my eye caught a glinting green beetle struggling in a spider web—the predator with her menacing fangs just inches away, preparing to descend on her new meal.

I couldn’t take it, the horror of this feast. I swept in and scooped the little beetle out of harm’s way and gently set him down in the bushes, hoping the spider would find a new victim to sustain herself when I wasn’t there to witness it. I know—we shouldn’t interrupt nature, good, bad, or ugly—but that’s who I am. The suffering overcomes me.

Later that night, the beetle had somehow managed to climb all the way up onto Sherrie’s second-floor deck and was waiting for her with a broken wing, unable to fly. Of course, within moments, the beetle was in a Tupperware with a capful of water and some fruit in Sherrie’s kitchen, because that’s who Sherrie was: she couldn’t ever turn her back on a problem, or on someone in need.

Sherrie quickly updated me with a barrage of pictures, showing the little June bug—whom we immediately and fittingly named June after the daunting, fearless protagonist of our shared favorite show The Handmaid’s Tale—in his new little home. Climbing branches, devouring blueberries, nestling among leaves. Deprived of his wings from the damage of the spider’s web, he could not survive outdoors ever again. Alongside her four felines, he would be Sherrie’s forever companion.

Pretty soon, June Bug got an upgrade: a full aquarium from the pet store. For the entire summer, Sherrie documented his progress, frequently sharing photos with me about how proud she was of the little bug who somehow climbed an entire story after losing his flight. His perseverance, his will to live, all encapsulated in such a tiny body. To most, he was just an annoying June bug, swarming in the light of our porches on warm summer nights. But behind his dazzling emerald shell, Sherrie saw so much more. To Sherrie, he was brave, determined, a survivor. He was a voracious eater whose favorite food was blueberries. He was an individual. To Sherrie, every little being was remarkable, worthy, important.

I promised her I’d write a story about little June on my blog, where I share true and remarkable animal stories with the world, but between life and moving and chores and my potbellied pig who enjoys biting holes in my drywall for fun, I never did.

And as the sweltering summer gave way to the September breeze, June Bug, as nature had always intended, finally left this Earth. Sherrie kept his little shelled body, his exoskeleton, on her condo mantle in remembrance. She shed tears. I did too.

On January 2, 2021, after an illness, Sherrie joined him, leaving me and all of those who knew her with more tears and a giant hole in our hearts. That month, as I opened her computer and begin the arduous process of digging through her files trying to make sense of what I had lost, I found a gold mine: an entire folder dedicated to June Bug, with dozens upon dozens of photographs. It was time to write.

To understand Sherrie’s remarkable relationship with such an insect, you only had to know Sherrie for a moment. I knew her for almost 13 years. As I was winding down my college career and simultaneously discovering the horrors we inflict upon the beings with whom we share our world—from dismal factory farms to barren zoo cages and bathtub-sized pools confining magnificent orcas—I plunged into the world of activism, aching for a better world. It was then, through the newly hatched advocacy group Richmond Friends of Animals, that Sherrie and I joined forces.

We attended dozens and dozens of demonstrations together over the years and plotted alongside other group members how we could overthrow the evil powers-that-be, or at least put the wicked proprietors of Alan Furs out of business. Sherrie, several other activists, and I soon became penpals of sort, emailing and texting day in and day out about our trials and tribulations of life between our monthly protests and vegan potlucks. I learned of Sherrie’s incredible heartbreaks one after another—her mother, her brother, her father, her cat Boogie (who chased balls like a puppy and suspended himself from the back door window to watch the comings and goings), her dog Jack (whom she’d plucked from a filthy hoarder disguised as a rescue operation and whisked off to the vet to have an enormous abscess removed). Yet Sherrie persevered, just like June Bug. She showed up with a smile on her face, refusing to let the ache swallow her whole.

In 2010, Sherrie was named one of Allen and Allen’s 100 Hometown Heroes for her work in animal rescue and advocacy and was presented her award at the local baseball stadium. She made no fanfare of it—that’s who she was. She was always bailing out shelter dogs from high-kill areas like Rome, Georgia, funneling funding to their medical care and even helping transport them to safety. On her computer, I’d later find files and files of folders and spreadsheets documenting the hundreds of donations and animals she’d saved.

One day last fall, I got a flood of texts from Sherrie. She’d liberated two lobsters from the grocery store because she couldn’t bear to watch them alone in that tank, awaiting their fate of being boiled alive (disclaimer: please don’t repeat this; though Sherrie’s heart was pure, her money was, of course, just going to fund their replacements in that tank). The previous year, I had conducted a lobster rescue of the great Lawrence von Croydon and released him into the Atlantic, and Sherrie wanted to do the same. Of course, being Sherrie, she leapt into action. I walked her through how to release the two crustaceans safely, all while she filled my phone with expletives about how cruelly they had been wrapped up like produce. Sherrie was nothing if not passionate about her compassion.

Like that clawed pair, so many of us owe our lives to Sherrie.

About six years ago, Sherrie started calling me her daughter. We, of course, had our own families—me with my parents in Hawaii and her with her grown step-kids—but both of us were physically distanced from our families. After both of our divorces, we were two women on our own, forging our uncertain paths forward. That shared purpose, that surrogate familial bond, meant the world to me. Sherrie was the person I called late at night as I cried lonely tears. She was the one who doled out financial advice and reminded me that I could carry on despite my doubts and insecurities. Honestly, I can’t imagine where I’d be today had I not had her by my side through several years of hardship. She was always there, without fail, for me, and for countless others—even when it took a ginormous toll on herself.

I think back about the burden she carried for me, and others, who needed her. I wish now more than anything we could all tell her how much it meant, and tell her it’s okay to rest easy now. But I know it was what she felt compelled to do with her life—to help, to serve—just like she helped June Bug.

In her final months, Sherrie and her four cats took to the road in her new RV, and she told me often that she was living her dream, like pioneer woman in Barbie dreamhouse. After years of giving and serving, Sherrie found her path, a way to nurture her own soul the way she nurtured countless others’ who crossed her path.

Managing her estate has been straining, draining, impossible. It is the futile attempt at wrapping up a life unfinished with a neat little bow. It is the water over a gas-fueled flame, a fire that yearns to keep breathing warmth into everything it touches.

So when I cry, when I want to shut down, I pull out the postcard I found in her RV, which features two prancing puppies alongside the text: “If we are ever to enjoy life, now is the time, not tomorrow or next year… Today should always be our most wonderful day.” -Thomas Dreier

Sherrie will continue breathing life into us all for years to come, to help us make each day the most wonderful day.

Cover Your Snout and Save a (Pig) Snout!

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Farmed Animals, Rescue

Today’s story is a little different. Today I invite you to become a little part of the story of a serene place called Ranger’s Refuge–a slice of paradise where hundreds of unwanted and discarded farmed animals have found a new lease on life.

Tucked away in rural Virginia, Ranger’s Refuge has been special to me, as a rescue pig mom, for some time because of its specific devotion to our porcine friends who are all-too-often abandoned and abused. I even decided to make it the beneficiary of sales for my first novel, Dellie’s Run.

It all started on Easter morning in 2001. Lorelei and Ron Pulliam discovered a small black pig scampering about, afraid, with their horses at their equine center. Slowly, Lorelei earned this little pig’s trust and provided him with a forever home at what would become Ranger’s Refuge–named, rightly, after him.

Lorelei then went digging to discover Ranger’s origins and was appalled to learn that his family was living at a farm in extreme neglect. Fortunately, the farmer was persuaded to turn over these pigs, who were soon reunited with Ranger.

Lorelei with Ranger

Ranger not only founded a what would become a permanent home for hundreds to follow in his hoof-steps over the years–but he sparked waves of compassion for all, and even a little laughter, in everyone who met him. Writes Lorelei about Ranger’s role in Gallastar’s therapy program for children:

We began using him in our therapy program as an example of how to overcome abuse and neglect. He was the epitome of power around the other pigs but with grace and gentleness. We used him to teach group after group about not stereotyping or pre-judging. He affected many people. He always ate lunch with the children and even had a slumber party with his friend Regis the dog and the therapeutic riding students. He and Regis would follow me on my horse. One day, he explored too far and the only way to bring him home was to use my bra as a harness. I didn’t care what the neighbors thought – I had my Ranger. Those were the happiest days of my life.

Ranger was also fiercely loyal. When his best friend Bart became very ill, Ranger stood stubbornly by his side. Whenever Bart had to have a shot, Lorelei and Ron would have to lock Ranger out–but he’d just try to break through the door the whole time as Bart cried.

Sadly, after many years of love and unforgettable antics, Ranger passed away in early 2019. But his legacy lives on through every single animal who sets foot, hoof, or paw onto the pastures at Ranger’s Refuge. Currently, there are over 200 animals–pigs, horses, ponies, donkeys, goats, cows, rabbits, and chickens–calling Lorelei and Ron’s place a forever home.

And somehow, through the daily toil, sweat, and even tears, Lorelei manages to not only care for this rescued pack–but to give back to the wider community but helping find homes and secure care for animals in need all over the East coast.

Right now, thanks to Lorelei’s tireless work, three Kune Kune pigs–two of whom were being bred repeatedly, only to have their babies taken away for meat time and time again–have been rescued and are heading to new homes to live out their days in peace. One, a tiny girl named Cardigan, especially caught my eye, not just because of Taylor Swift’s new song, but because of this fluffy face.

Funds are urgently needed to vet and spay these girls–and to keep everyone happy and healthy over at Ranger’s Refuge.

Lorelei and Ron have given their hearts and souls to countless animals, and now it’s time for us to give back to them. Fortunately, we can help hundreds of piggy snouts to enjoy rooting and snorting for years to come, simply by purchasing a mask from Pig Wow to cover our own snouts.

Me in my Pig Wow masks, with Peppercorn the pig

Each mask is handmade by Teresa Burton for only $10.00, with 100 percent of proceeds going to Ranger’s Refuge. You can choose from the lovable array of pig, dog, chicken, cat, and more designs below (plus, more available not pictured!) in either adult or kid sizing. To order, simply visit the Pig Wow Facebook page and comment on the post with your desired mask(s)–or head straight to PayPal and send $10.00 per mask to Teresa at datnky@aol.com, noting your address and desired mask(s) in the comment field.

Thank you for becoming part of the story of Ranger’s Refuge–and helping Ranger’s legacy live on for years to come.

Need a Breath of Fresh Air? Two Words: Sea Puppies.

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Petitions, Wildlife

It’s been a rough week–hell, it’s been a rough year. Fellow humans are fighting for their lives, both in hospitals and on the streets in the wake of the brutal murder of George Floyd. And we’ve gotten our first glimpse inside a factory farm that was forced to mass-exterminate pigs because of slaughterhouse shutdowns due to workers contracting COVID-19.

I’ve spent the week trudging through the desolate headlines, taking action for our Black family and friends where I can, and soaking up tips to become a better ally. As an animal advocate, I must also be a human advocate. Animal oppression is rooted in the same oppressive system that kills Black and Brown people, and our work won’t be done until we’ve addressed all of it.

Over the last few months as the world seems to be topping down around me–and especially now–it’s been hard to find a time to write an inspiring story about animals that feels meaningful. So I’ve stagnated in my writing while waging on with other forms of social justice activism.

The truth is that there’s not going to be that perfect moment, as the flaws in our society keep bubbling up to the surface: cruel factory farms and slaughterhouses that serve as breeding grounds for disease and keep farmers and workers trapped in an exploitative cycle, systemic racism etched into the fabric of the very force that’s supposed to protect citizens of all skin colors, and constant reminders that the powers-that-be care more about profits and economic activity than immigrant, elderly, non-white, poor, and animal lives.

At some point, though, I have to take a breather and find comfort in the world–if only to help refuel me to get back into battle. So, during those brief minutes, I figured we could all use a dose of snuggly puppies.

And these very special puppies happen to live in the sea.

Photo credit: Jonathan Rosenberry

Back when cruises were a thing, my friends Jonathan Rosenberry and Maureen Cohen Harrington had the opportunity to hop aboard the Holistic Holiday at Sea, an all-vegan Caribbean cruise centered on plant-based eating and wellness.

There, in the glittering teal waters, they encountered soft, cuddly beings eager to embrace them with their massive flapping wings. These beings can only be described accurately as floppy, curious, silly puppies–of the sea.

Photo credit: Maureen Cohen Harrington

Their actual name is, of course, rays, a group of cartilaginous fish comprising more than 600 species. Unfortunately, more than 500 of these species are on the IUCN Red List, threatened by human fishing.

Like all fishes, rays are remarkably intelligent, adaptable, and innovative. The behemoth manta ray, whose wingspan can reach nearly 30 feet, was documented in a 2016 study to use a mirror to check out body parts that this animal normally can’t see. Individuals were also fixated by their reflection as they furled and unfurled their horn-shaped mouth fins repeatedly. While we should take care not to use such anthropocentric measures like the use of mirrors as definitive metrics of animal intelligence, we can at least appreciate these results as fascinating yet limited glimpses into complex minds we are barely beginning to understand.

Despite their clear sentience and complexity, though, these fish are violently killed by the thousands for human food and medicine–often even being cut apart into pieces while still conscious because their enormous bodies don’t fit onto boats.

But perhaps such research can lead us to reassess our propensity for ripping these rays–and other fish–en masse from their oceanic homes. In response to the 2016 study, a student blogger at the University of Washington wrote, “If manta rays are self-aware, what about other fish and shark species? Have we been underestimating them all along? For years humans vainly believed we were the only ones with higher-order intelligence. Maybe it is time to take a step back and give our wild counterparts more credit.”

Photo credit: Jonathan Rosenberry

Close to my home, another fight has been unfolding for the past several years over the much smaller cownose ray. Every May, these gentle rays migrate to the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland, where females give birth to a single live pup after an 11-month-long gestation period.

As the rays arrive to labor over their long-awaited newborns, fishermen armed with arrows lurk, preparing for an annual killing contest. They don’t discriminate, often shooting pregnant rays and babies alike. Until three years ago.

In 2017, Maryland Governor Larry Hogan signed a bill into law placing a moratorium on the savage killing contests through July 2019, during which time the Maryland Department of Natural Resources (DNR) was to develop a ray management plan.

Yet the DNR failed to do so in time, necessitating further protection for cownose rays upon the expiration of the moratorium. Thus, activists from the Save the Rays Coalition banded together and successfully achieved an extension on the moratorium until a management plan is created.

But it’s been a full year, and there’s still no sign of a more permanent ban on cruel ray killing contests. It’s time to demand that cownose rays are shielded once and for all from being mercilessly hunted as part of a twisted competition.

Even amidst multiple national crises, sea puppies have managed to warm my heart ever so slightly. Join me in making sure they’ll have a safe harbor in the waters of our Bay for years to come.

Petition closed with 226 signatures.

You Need a Smile. This 3-Legged Goat’s Got You.

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Farmed Animals, Rescue

The world as we know it is crumbling to our feet. We’re locked in our homes, we’ve lost employment, and loved ones are dying. We long for someone to wake us up and tell us that it’s all been a cruel joke. While I can’t make that happen, I can introduce you to someone who will make it all feel a little better, at least for a moment. Meet Toby the three-legged goat.

I first encountered Toby in the summer of 2015 at Richmond, Virginia’s famous Vegetarian Festival. I wandered between booths overflowing with “I Don’t Eat My Friends” t-shirts and So Delicious vegan ice cream bars, and then I saw him: At the center of a curious crowd of onlookers was a beagle-sized being with a bandaged front leg enjoying being coddled by his new caretakers.

I learned that earlier that same month, this baby goat had been taken in by Peaceful Fields Sanctuary in Winchester, Virginia, at just one week of age–and still nursing. He’d been born in Chesapeake, Virginia, and had suffered a severe leg injury–but had not been provided any medical treatment. The young goat had only ever known pain and was clinging to his life, in danger of being euthanized, before his rescue.

Fortunately, Toby was surrendered to PFS, where his new family began to work around the clock to stabilize him. He’d already received a partial leg amputation by the time I met him and had come to the fest so that he could be continuously watched and cared for–yet there he stood so tranquil and calm, looking just a bit goofy. He was, already, a cheerful ambassador for the sanctuary who had saved his life, seemingly unfazed by his trauma.

Peaceful Fields is one of hundreds of farmed animal sanctuaries that have sprung up around the country–and the world–in response to a growing need for refuge for the fortunate animals who escape the animal agriculture industry and can live in freedom to share their stories with the public, representing the millions of others of their kind, the ones who haven’t been so lucky.

On factory farms, cows, chickens, turkeys, and goats like Toby often spend their lives in cramped, filthy conditions before their untimely slaughter. Perhaps most devastatingly, in the dairy industry, young calves and goats are separated from their mothers within hours of birth so that the milk can be spared for humans instead of being consumed by the young animals who need it.

Toby might be the famous face of PFS because of his annual appearances at Richmond VegFest, but he’s just one of the dozens of animals who have found their permanent home there. Located in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, PFS provides safe harbor to more than a handful of gregarious goats, as well as chickens, turkeys, two sheep, a pig, a cow, a donkey, and a horse named Elvis.

When you pay PFS a visit (post-coronavirus quarantine), you’ll be showered with cuddles and head rubs from the loving goat Warren, and if you’re lucky, Elvis the horse might give you a kiss–a remarkable sign of his rehabilitation after being rescued from a severe abuse case in Montgomery County, Maryland, from which one of his friends was so neglected that he was unable to be nursed back to health. But at PFS, Elvis thrives–alongside his shy but sweet best friend Brownie the donkey, who’s also healthy and happy after being abandoned in a field.

Chickens will dart about your feet, begging for the banana in your pocket–which the turkeys will steal if you’re not paying attention. And as you admire the diverse melting pot of feathered beings around you–like a rainbow of crayons all nestled together, despite their differences–you’ll savor this rare paradise in a world that’s often so bleak.

But back to Toby. Shortly after his VegFest debut, he was transported to Virginia Tech, where the rest of his leg was removed and he was given a blood transfusion so that he could finally fully heal from his injury.

According to PFS, “So many people generously donated to cover his medical costs and now he scampers and plays as any kid!”

Despite being three-legged, Toby hasn’t slowed down. He’s tenacious, jubilant, and silly. And he’s a stark reminder of how, against all odds, when you’re literally losing limbs, it’s possible to persevere–and to thrive.

Now, nearly five years later, I found myself encountering Toby’s antics–as a fully healed adult–up close. I recently moved to Front Royal, Virginia, just a short drive from PFS, and began attending the sanctuary’s volunteer days and tours. Last month, during the last few days before the COVID-19 lockdown, I made my way up to Winchester for a final visit.

As I snapped my camera, Toby seemed to know exactly what was up. He immediately put on his model face, grinning and baring his teeth.

He just couldn’t stop.

And just when he seemed to be done, he poked out his little pink tongue–as though tasting the sweet air of freedom around him.

While the coronavirus pandemic rages on, to Toby and his friends, life proceeds as normal: green fields, tasty meals, yellow sunshine, and mountains of love. Put simply, Peaceful Fields is, well, exactly as its name describes: peaceful–a smooth sea in these turbulent times.

Yet in this new normal, sanctuaries like PFS are being hit hard. They depend on donations and exposure from events like tabling at festivals and open houses. Now, more than ever, your donations are needed to keep them afloat.

If Toby made you smile, please considering paying it forward. For those who are in a position to give, there’s an easy way to support Toby and his friends: through a sponsorship. And it’s the perfect gift for a loved one this spring, with no need to leave your house. Just make a quick donation, and your chosen animal’s story and photo will be sent to your friend or family member–who can even schedule a visit with their new friend once the quarantine has been lifted.

Click Toby’s card below to get started. And don’t forget to share a smile today.

My Piglet’s So Cute, You Want One, Too? First, Add 100 Pounds and $100k.

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Farmed Animals, Rescue

Peppercorn the potbellied piglet, all 12 pounds of him, came into my life squealing one April afternoon about five years ago. He was skittish and jumpy, obstinate and forever hungry–and really, really tiny. It was love at first oink.

Pepper–then named Guinness (yes, after the beer)–was living with a family in a townhouse with two large boxers when I first met him. I had found a rehoming ad for him online and promptly responded. “Guinness” was a 3-month-old “teacup” pig who’d been purchased by this family from a breeder and was to grow to be just 35 pounds. But after being in his new home just a few weeks, he’d become frightened by all the new activity and the gigantic dogs and ran around screaming constantly. If the family couldn’t find another home for him, off to the shelter he would go.

That was how I first encountered him, darting across the hardwood floor of that townhouse and screaming. He was so small, he sounded like a hamster.

Peppercorn settled in quickly, peeing all over my house, burying himself in blankets, cautiously befriending my (much smaller) dogs, eating voraciously, and snuggling a lot. Yes, there was a lot for him to learn: The floor isn’t a toilet; even small dogs and pigs don’t always mix (more on that later); not everything is food. But he was home.

I’d adopted Pepper in the midst of grief over losing my best friend, a neglected, ailing pig named Poppyseed, who’d only ever known love for the short few months he was with me after being confined in a barren, freezing hunting dog run for much of his young life. I ached to give my love to another, to save a life after failing to save Poppy’s.

In hindsight, I now know that the mourning period isn’t the best time for big life decisions. That, I was about to learn in very big ways.

And as the months wore on, and Pepper grew–and grew some more–I would learn for the first time what life is really like with a healthy, full-grown potbellied pig.

My first lesson was in size. From the time I adopted Pepper’s older brother Poppyseed, I knew that “teacup” pigs were a marketing ploy used by breeders to fuel sales of regular potbellied or “mini” pigs, and that no healthy adult pig should weigh under 50 pounds. (And, more often than not, these pigs reach upwards of 100 or 200 pounds.) Those who do stay petite only do so after breeders tell excited new guardians not to “overfeed” their new bundles of joy–or, more specifically, to feed them only 1/3 cup of food per day perpetually (for comparison, Pepper, now an adult, eats 2 cups of pellets every day, plus liberal fruits and veggies).

Unaware new pig parents happily oblige, resulting in frail, malnourished porcines who stand with their back legs curled under their bodies and whose lives are often tragically cut short–just like Beacon, the two-year-old pig who was the size of a milk jug after being raised in an aquarium and, despite being rescued, ultimately passed away.

So I knew when Pepper first walked in the door that his 12 pounds were fleeting. And, in fact, he’s now about 100 pounds, making it nearly impossible for me to move him on my own. Just last fall, when I was moving to a new home and had finished loading up the U-Haul, it was time to load Pepper into the passenger seat.

Now might be the right time to tell you that pigs scream bloody murder when their hooves leave the ground. I believe they think they are truly being murdered. It was cute when Pepper was a 12-pounder, but now I worry every time if I’m going to be reported to the police by my neighbors for torture.

So after attempting to guide him up a stepladder with his favorite treat, peanut butter, failed, resulting in him flailing about at the end of his leash wailing in my front yard, I mustered all my strength, lifted with all my might, and scooted him up the side of the truck, wedged between my body and the door frame–blood-curdling screams emanating from him all the while. After what felt like forever, he was in, and I was left with a baseball-sized bruise on my shoulder.

But, of course, I still love him and his goofy smile.

Because Poppy had passed away at about 8 months of age, I had never truly known an adult, or even teenager, pig. They call pigs’ adolescence the “terrible twos.” And that was my second lesson.

As Pepper reached this period, neutering was a given. I’d seen it in Poppy just before he passed, so I knew: Soon, he’d start mounting everything in sight–his toys, the dogs, our legs; it didn’t matter. Plus, unneutered male pigs give off a horrendous odor that makes them unsuitable house inhabitants.

But, despite his neutering, as he grew, so did his aggressive distaste for our dogs. I’d read that pigs and dogs can never be left alone together because even the most predictable, submissive dogs can snap. I thought my family’s Chihuahua and Pekingese would be the exception. But, alas, Pepper wasn’t. He’d get in their faces and swipe his head at them until they’d growl and run away. Then he’d chase after them. He was miserable; they were miserable.

Luckily, everyone was small. Luckily, I learned my lesson before there was any damage. But I’ve seen the photos, handfuls of them, of pigs missing ears from dogs who their guardians swore could never do such a thing.

The fact is that dogs are predators; pigs are prey. And I will never allow my pig to cohabitate with dogs again–for everyone’s safety. That means a carefully divided house, and enough attention to go around.

There was a brief period of about 11 months after Pepper’s adoption in which we lived in a rental home. Pepper’s room was in the kitchen, where he had easy access to come and go from the backyard. That’s something most pigs need–plenty of outdoors time. (And don’t try to grow a garden, even escalated a couple feet up on a pile of pallets. They will, just like Pepper, figure out how to get into it and eat all of your carrots and onions.)

As the little diva he is, though, Peppercorn adamantly refuses to stay outside when the temperature plunges below 40 degrees Fahrenheit. If you close him out there, he’ll just stand at the door and scream. Every time, I picture the cops rolling up asking about reports of a domestic disturbance. So I give in after about five minutes.

Locked inside all winter during his “terrible twos,” Pepper taught himself to open the fridge. And the first item he indulged in: A whole stick of margarine. The aftermath was brutal. As he slept peacefully in his pile of blankets, his intestines rebelled. And as he dreamed, his tail flitted to and fro. The mess on the blankets, floor, and wall took an hour to clean up.

Ultimately, Pepper’s boredom during the long winter months, despite my construction of a rock box for him to (loudly) dig for treats in, periodic voyages into the wintry weather with a jacket (that cost $70 and probably took about 70 minutes to put on each time), and lots of belly rubs, produced a wave of destruction in that home.

He ate pieces of the walls and floors, and he left dirt from rooting in the yard on all the cabinets. An hour before every meal, he’d start biting on the door frame–a habit he still has to this day, despite my attempts to discourage or ignore it. We had to move.

My ex and I bought a house together, mostly because of Pepper. There, we installed a pig door between the laundry room and the backyard, so his damage was confined to a smaller area of the house–but he didn’t fail to destroy the original Dutch door to that room or knock off the temperature knob on the water heater (a $400 repair) in the 1.5 years we lived there. Oh, and as I was preparing to move to my next home after my divorce, he decided to help me with the renovations for my tenants by tearing off large panels of drywall. I became quite handy at DIY repairs last fall.

So, here I am, in my new house–again, purchased, not rented, for Pepper’s sake. I chose to settle in Front Royal, Virginia, despite my lifelong yearning to be near the Washington, DC, metro area for its culture, diversity, and opportunities. But this small mountain town about 60 miles away was the closest and most affordable option for me, a newly divorced woman working for a nonprofit with a pig and dog in tow. Not to mention–Washington and most of its suburbs (along with hundreds of other metropolitan areas around the country) prohibit potbellied pigs, considering them swine and, thus, farm animals.

It took me almost a month to set up my home to house both my pig and my dog separately and comfortably. I built a mini wall out of some fencing and bricks to divide the house in two, and I had to specially order a $600 large dog door to fit the French doors that lead to my backyard. Oh, and I can’t forget the $6,000 I spent to fence in the yard itself.

Now, the five-year-old Pepper lives in my living room, where I work much of the day and can easily spend time cuddling him on the couch. He’s already covered much of the dark green carpet with Virginia’s rusty red clay and will sometimes resort to biting on the flooring when he’s bored.

Probably the most difficult part of the transition has been his temper. Because he’s claimed the living room as his, when he was stuck indoors for weeks on end through the cold winter, he became (as did I) stir-crazy. He got into the habit of swiping his head at me as I’d pass between his area and the rest of the house–and Pepper has tusks that are sharp enough to break skin. Sometimes, he’s left my legs with scratches.

But I don’t blame him. This is how pigs communicate with one another, and after they’ve pushed each other around a little bit and gotten what they wanted, they resume normal behavior as if nothing happened. He head-swipes me to warn me that I’m bothering him, and this is just part of his language.

It’s my job, then, to tell him that it’s not an acceptable part of our household language. And to do that, I have to push back. I’ve mastered the art of “move the pig”–a technique in which a large, flat board is used as a blockade by a person who moves firmly and unflinchingly into the pig’s space to tell–not ask–him to move. It takes perseverance, and it takes courage.

The biggest lesson, after all of it, that I’ve learned is that pigs aren’t dogs. They can’t be treated like them. To be a pig parent, you have to learn what it means to be a pig.

I am sharing all of this not to discourage, but to illuminate. Pigs are insanely smart, curious, and passionate animals–and all of those qualities, I believe, make them one of the most misunderstood animals. While they can outsmart chimps in video games, this complexity, aptitude, and determination leave them bored–and hence, destructive–in many homes. I’ve spent weeks and months learning how to provide an enriched life for my pig, and there’s still work to do. But, for now, he has a safe, warm bed (comprising a dog bed, three blankets, and a mashed-up bean bag chair he claimed) and a half acre to roam.

I dreamed of rescuing a pig my entire life–but if someone had told me that that desire would lead me to buying not one, but two, homes by age 31; racking up several thousands in debt for home renovations; and spending half of my twenties living a structured, regimented life around my pig’s needs, well, I might have thought longer and harder.

Would I still have a pig? Probably. Because despite all his obstinate behavior and mountain of bills, he adores flopping over and grunting for belly rubs, he’ll always come running with eager oinks when his name is called, and he never fails to find me at the end of the day for snuggles.

And because, with thousands of pigs reaching shelters every year and filling sanctuaries to the brim because of their aforementioned personalities or their unexpected growth spurts, they need us–those who are willing to adapt our lives and provide a forever home–to help curb this crisis.

With me, Pepper will always be home. And I hope that others who see the beauty behind these big babies will follow me in adopting a pig in need. But only after much research and peparation, of course. Your life will never be the same.

Here’s Why Trademarked Glowing Fish Aren’t Such a Bright Idea

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Petitions

Saltwater aquariums, though prized for their glorious colors and living reefs, are a massive undertaking. And the havoc the exotic fish trade wreaks on tropical sea life is no secret. But for people who are itching to adorn their homes with vibrant fish, science came up with an easy solution: fluorescent freshwater fish. And the pet industry lapped it up–but at what cost?

A couple years ago I stumbled upon the GloFish® website–yes, trademark and all–and I was transfixed by the words: “GloFish® fluorescent fish are born brilliant! They are not painted, injected or dyed. They inherit their harmless, lifelong color from their parents. They get their stunning color from a fluorescence gene and are best viewed under a blue light.”

I was floored. It read like an advertisement for a new car. Toying with living beings this way hardly seemed harmless. I needed to know more.

These fish were among the first genetically modified animals to have been made available on a commercial scale. But their journey to pet store shelves was not quite intentional. At the turn of the 21st century, scientists from Singapore were attempting to engineer fish who could glow in the presence of certain environmental toxins as a biomarker for pollutants. They inserted fluorescent jellyfish genes into zebrafish, creating the first iteration of glowing freshwater fish.

The patented technology eventually caught the eye of the company that would ultimately create and trademark the GloFish, available now in zebrafish, tetras, danios, sharks, and barbs. As I write this, the brand is currently marketing its “Mardi Gras collection” on its website, comprising two Moonrise Pink tetras, two Galactic Purple tetras, and two Sunburst Orange tetras, to commemorate the festive occasion.

Video captured at a Virginia Petco store

Despite opposition from groups like the Center for Food Safety, the glowing fish made their way to American store shelves with a stamp of approval from officials who claimed that the captive fish posed no threat to wildlife or the food supply. (And a study later attempted to back that up, documenting that non-GMO male fish out-competed GloFish with female mates, which would eventually lead to the disappearance of the fluorescent trait in a population–should a stray GloFish ever make his way into the natural environment, that is.)

The GloFish line, from a commercial perspective, has been a massive success. The company’s sales now comprise about 10 percent of the entire aquarium industry.

And it’s easy to see why: Many people don’t want the hassle of setting up and maintaining a saltwater aquarium just to enjoy brilliantly colored fish in their living rooms. Freshwater is (relatively) easy. Plus, more and more consumers are becoming aware of the death and destruction caused by the saltwater fish trade, which pulls over 20 million fish from the waters of places like the Philippines and Hawaii every year and results in six fish deaths per live fish sold due to dangerous and cruel capture and shipping methods. And let’s not get started on the extensive coral reef damage.

Breeding fish in a captive, contained environment seemingly circumvents most of those issues.

But I was still left wondering if, throughout these past two decades of tinkering with the genetics of these tiny beings in a lab, anyone ever stopped to consider a fundamental question: What’s in it for the fish themselves? Admittedly, apart from making them the life of a house party, the modification doesn’t seem to inflict any other known physical changes on them. They eat, swim, and live just like regular zebrafish, tetras, and barbs. The process of breeding fish from already modified fish is not inherently invasive (unlike chemically dyeing or injecting inks into fish–two common, but undoubtedly cruel, practices in the aquarium industry that lead to illness and high mortality).

Yet, clearly, fluorescence won’t provide an average tetra with an evolutionary advantage, either. (Imagine a neon orange freshwater fish trying to hide from a predator behind a few strands of seaweed or a pile of grey rocks.)

So are we left with net result of zero in our cost-benefit analysis of GloFish welfare? Not quite.

The moment that Yorktown Technologies, the original company behind the GloFish, entered the picture, this genetic manipulation in the name of science became a gimmick.

The goal: Make the look and feel of saltwater tanks more accessible. Make freshwater fish prettier, more enticing, more consumable. Like a vacuum, a new car, or a frozen burrito, these fish needed to be branded.

The aquarium industry has turned these fishes’ genetics into a commodity that it markets to us as an innovative way to spruce up our home decor. After all, like any industry, it has to churn out fresh products to keep us interested. And, so far, it’s worked: There are over 9 million fish sold by this multi-billion-dollar industry living in American homes, from an endless array of Betta fish varieties to the dainty angelfish and the goldfish brought home after a carnival game victory.

For many years, I was one of the millions of consumers lured in by the appeal of having my very own fish tank. In college, I was gifted with a tetra who looked remarkably like the “Moonrise Pink” variety of GloFish–with one major exception: He didn’t glow.

Miraculously, I loved this fish, whom I named Clapper, just the same, regardless of his slightly less lustrous hue. Clapper traveled with me from dorm room to dorm room, to my first house after graduation, and to my apartment after my relationship with my boyfriend at the time fell apart.

We shared many memories, including one that made my heart skip a beat: Midway through a thorough tank cleaning, I noticed that Clapper was missing from the jug I’d temporarily placed him in. Within a few seconds, I found him–on the floor, wedged between the washing machine and the wall. Somehow, I managed to slowly slide the machine out enough–without crushing the tiny being–and scoop him back into the water before suffocation set in.

I spent every day for months silently apologizing to him. Because I loved him.

I was diligent with his care, and Clapper remained physically healthy up until a couple of days before he passed. He met his expected lifespan of five years–and then some.

Yes, we shared many memories: memories of me crying; memories of me laughing; and, most often, memories of me leaving and coming back again, sometimes with a friend, or a new love, or a new painting.

Every day, though, Clapper stayed there, swimming in circles, silently watching me from behind his glass wall.

I didn’t know the inner toll captivity was taking on this social being for much of his life. I didn’t realize that he was lonely and isolated because tetras need schools to thrive. Or that with only a few artificial plants and rocks to enrich his environment, his life was just a slow, drawn-out death.

Today, most of us have started to question the ethics of confining magnificent mammals like dolphins and whales to the equivalent of a bathtub at marine parks for guests to gawk over. As the Animal Welfare Institute (AWI) explains, films like Blackfish have “challenged people to recognize the cruelty of keeping large, intelligent, and sentient animals in such small tanks.” However, AWI continues, fish are also “sentient—showing far more cognitive abilities than they are given credit for—and few, if any, spend their entire lives in the wild in the volume of water contained in a standard fish tank.”

Remember the fish who used a rock as a tool to crack open his meal? Or the pufferfish who builds an intricate sand sculpture to attract a mate? Fish scientist Dr. Culum Brown states that “it would be impossible for fish to survive as the cognitively and behaviorally complex animals they are without a capacity to feel pain.”  The scientific research for fish complexity and sentience abounds, and in 2018, Smithsonian Magazine (finally) declared, “It’s official: Fish feel pain.”

Gaining traction for the notion of fish as individuals worthy of ethical consideration is an uphill battle, though, especially with outfits like Amazon offering up 1-gallon aquariums (a volume infinitely too small to house any fish species long-term) accompanied by descriptions like, “Compact design fits almost anywhere – perfect for dorm, office or home.”

As my fellow animal advocates and I try to rewrite the public discourse on how we ought to think about our relationships with fish, such captions continue hammering home the message: Fish are decorations, trinkets, objects. We don’t maximize their space for their well-being; we minimize it for our convenience.

And, in the case of our genetically engineered friends: We don’t have to settle for dull fish when we can have spectacularly striking GloFish.

It’s time to embrace fish for who, not what, they are. And we can start by letting them keep their natural colors.

 Petition closed with 499 signatures.

Our Cockatoo Died Flying Cargo. Don’t Let This Happen Again.

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Petitions

He was supposed to live 70 years. Instead, as he traveled to his forever home in paradise, a series of mistakes and, ultimately, negligence killed him.

When I was about 11 years old, my family adopted an umbrella cockatoo. Instead of resembling the mighty white birds with towering head crests soaring through the forests of Indonesia, though, he was skinny, trembling, and rather naked when I first laid eyes on him.

His pale grey torso reminded me of a turkey corpse, plucked bare before Thanksgiving dinner. But he had inflicted this damage all on his own. Before my family took him in, his first guardian, who’d had him since he first hatched, gave birth to a human child, who soon consumed all her attention. The bird was often relegated to his cage, and there, languishing in boredom and isolation, he grew neurotic and angry, quite possibly jealous of the newborn stealing away all his mom’s affection.

So this bird turned on his own flesh, plucking feathers from his chest and dancing anxiously to and fro just to release some energy.

Such behavior is all too common in the captive population of parrots worldwide. Because of captive breeding and the illegal wildlife trade, tens of millions of parrots now occupy US homes and facilities–and thousands of them end up homeless every year as they become too rambunctious and under-stimulated in a caged environment or they outlive their human caretakers.

This particular cockatoo was one such bird–but, fortunately, my mom was ready and willing to jump to his rescue.

He came into our home with the name Lilah. But at the first vet visit, we learned that Lilah was indeed a he, not a she. Yet the name remained, as it was the primary tool from the English language he’d clung to for communication with our species. We couldn’t take that from him.

“Lilah?” he’d often ask in a quivering voice, as though pleading for food, affection, anything at all.

And those things, he soon learned, he would receive in abundance. At the offset, he became my cuddlebug. We were, more or less, around the same age. As an only child, I began to see him as a bit of a younger, talkative brother–like a toddler, first learning about the world and expressing his thoughts via a series of babbles and chuckles.

One evening, I approached his cage wearing a bright red tank top and reached in for some snuggle time, as I had done dozens of times before. But this time was different. This time, he rewarded me with a sharp, deep bite to my finger. Blood immediately pooled, and I wailed in response and ran away.

At that time, I was a loud, boisterous preteen with an opinion about everything. And the vivid red hue of my shirt was like a blaring “danger” sign. I’d scared him, and he reacted the only way he knew how.

But the incident scarred me enough to keep a healthy distance from him from then forward. And in my sulky teenage years, I found myself increasingly annoyed by his calls and shrieks, natural vocalizations that are used freely by flocks of wild parrots inhabiting the jungle, but are often found to be a nuisance by those attempting to confine these exuberant birds indoors.

I’ve always loved animals, but with Lilah, I could only love him from afar.

My mom, though, never wavered in her bond with him. Despite the handful of times he’d hauled off and pierced her nose with his beak upon being frightened by a man in a baseball cap or the vacuum cleaner, she adored him.

So, naturally, as my parents planned their big move to the Big Island of Hawaii in 2014, Lilah was coming with them. My mom plotted out the magnificent habitat she’d build for him in paradise, where he could soak in the sunlight, watch the flittering yellow finches, and eat exotic tropical fruits for decades to come.

But Lilah never made it there.

Hawaii has a host of complex requirements for importing animals, and birds specifically, to prevent the spread of disease–and my mom mastered them backwards and forwards.

A quarantine for 7 days at our local vet and a mountain of paperwork: check.

As my parents prepared to depart, leaving their two dogs and Lilah at the animal intake area of the airport, I bid farewell to the bird who’d once felt a little like my nemesis during my darkest periods of teenage angst, but now, cowering in his carrier, was like a fearful little child once again.

I didn’t know then that it would be our final goodbye, but it felt peaceful, like a long-awaited truce.

“I love you,” I said.

“Lilah?” he replied.

Later that night, my mom called me from California. Unfortunately, the vet had incorrectly completed the quarantine paperwork necessary for Lilah to enter Hawaii, so he had to redo his 7-day quarantine at a vet there. My parents opted to continue on to the islands with their two dogs and pay an animal transport company a hefty sum of money to handle Lilah’s trip a week later.

He would be in good hands, they were promised. He’d be given the utmost care.

A week later, I received another call.

“Laura, Lilah’s dying. He’s dying!” My mom’s blubbering voice could hardly make out the words.

He was in her lap, having just been picked up from the airport, and was listless, lethargic, barely hanging on.

“Can’t you find an emergency vet?” I begged over the phone.

But they were in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from anyone who could help. He died there, in her lap, moments later, after suffering a seizure.

To this day, my mom has trouble speaking about this tragedy. The sadness, the overwhelming guilt of putting her beloved companion in the hands of someone who was supposed to provide for his safety. I know it so well–I’ve been there myself.

But what happened was a string of errors my mom never could have anticipated or prevented, starting with the vet’s quarantine paperwork, which led to another crucial error: the animal transporter, who was paid to see Lilah directly onto his inter-island flight between Honolulu (the only port of entry for animals) and Kona on the Big Island.

Instead, to save money, she’d checked him into a cargo flight and left him there, where he sat for hours without water or food before being boarded up. Then, the transporter went dark, failing to answer my mom’s texts or calls. My parents didn’t even know his flight number. They had nothing.

Thus, when Lilah arrived in the cargo hold of the Kona airport, my parents had no idea of his whereabouts and couldn’t reach anyone who knew anything at all.

By the time my mom was finally contacted to pick him up, he’d gone over 24 hours without water–and likely without being checked on at all. That neglect, compounded by the stress of flying cargo, ultimately killed him.

And so my family was left to grieve in their paradise, Lilah’s empty cage on their front porch a forever reminder of what could have been.

Flying animals in cargo is always risky. Every year, animal companions die. In 2018, a report revealed that there had been 85 animal deaths in the last 3 years on flights in the US, with nearly half occurring on United Airlines. And just a few weeks ago, in the wake of two cats’ deaths on a Russian airline, guardians took to social media with photos of their dogs and cats to tell the airline that animals aren’t cargo–they’re passengers–in hopes of changing in-flight policy.

As for Hawaii, the state requires that all animals coming into the islands be taken immediately to the quarantine holding facility in Honolulu for inspection–but it doesn’t prescribe how these animals must enter, which is up to the individual airlines. While many of them will allow companions to fly in-cabin between islands, only a couple allow this for flights from the mainland to the state, leaving thousands of cherished companions relegated to the cargo hold. Or, even worse, they’re put onto a cargo-only airline that deals mostly with inanimate shipments, leaving actual live animals with very little to no care or oversight.

Why? Because the logistics of ensuring that animals flying in-cabin make it over to the quarantine hold facility for inspection would take time. And time is money.

It’s been over five years, but it’s time for Lilah’s story to become more than a black cloud over my family. It’s time for me to share it with the world and help other dogs, cats, and birds from suffering the same fate.

It’s time for the major airlines from the mainland U.S. to the Hawaiian Islands to apply, at a bare minimum, the same rules they use for flights within the lower 48 states–which allow small animals in carriers to stay in the cabin with their families.

And for animals who are only given the option to travel in cargo either into or between the islands, these carriers must implement rigid standards for animal companions, including constant tracking of animals’ whereabouts, hourly monitoring in holding facilities, and provision of water at regular intervals.

Please join me in calling on these airlines to protect our beloved animals who are entrusted into their care by signing my petition below.

Petition to be delivered to: Hawaiian Airlines, Alaska Airlines, American Airlines, United Airlines, Delta Airlines, and Aloha Air Cargo.

Petition count: 1,439 signatures

Rescued Rooster Found His Flock—and Is a Huge Snugglebug

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Farmed Animals, Rescue

What do you get for an animal lover who already has everything she needs? A rooster sponsorship, clearly.

That’s what went through my mind during this past holiday season when I stopped by a pop-up for Grateful Meadows, a Virginia-based animal sanctuary and cozy B&B run by my friends Tori and Jonathan, and saw this face peering up at me from one of their holiday cards on the table.

This stunning redhead, named Lucia (“Loo-sha”), comes from a not-so-extraordinary background. Like thousands of birds who are unlucky enough to be born as males in the backyard chicken movement, he wasn’t considered particularly useful. So, like many others, Lucia was dumped and abandoned.

In the larger, industrial egg industry, male birds don’t have it any easier. Because only females are needed to lay eggs, newborn male chicks are killed just because of their sex. In the US, it’s estimated that about 260 million male chicks are suffocated, gassed, or macerated (picture: a giant blender for baby birds) to death each year.

Worldwide, this number surpasses six billion chicks every single year.

And then there’s cockfighting, a blood sport that’s illegal yet still prevalent across the US. For this gruesome game, breeding, training, and even steroids are used to amplify roosters’ natural fighting instincts. Before a fight, breeders will cut off a rooster’s combs to prevent tearing during the fight and pluck out most of his feathers. The birds are also outfitted with sharp spikes on their feet, exacerbating injuries.

These bloody matches often end in death.

But, fortunately, Lucia’s path took a different turn. Enter Grateful Meadows into Lucia’s life a little over a year ago. And just as much as they’ve changed his world and gifted him with a permanent loving home, he’s changed theirs.

Says Tori, “We’ve learned that chickens can purr like kittens when being pet. We’ve learned chickens make a distinct excited sound when they find something tasty.”

Lucia’s favorite sound? The cock-a-doodle-doo, of course. But his family has picked up on dozens of other noises he makes to convey his feelings and desires.

Perhaps as expected, Lucia acts as the sanctuary’s security guard, on alert for any visitors. He loves to put on a tough show. “But underneath those beautiful feathers,” admits Tori, “he’s all about snuggles.”

Every day, Lucia proves to everyone who meets him that roosters, often seen as aggressive and obnoxious, are actually loving, generous spirits.

Roosters are fiercely protective of their families and even do a dance known as “tidbitting” to alert other chickens to food. (Maybe we’d all do well to look to Lucia for a lesson on sharing.)

Speaking of food, Lucia’s faves? “Watermelon from the garden, grapes picked off the vine, and on occasion [he’ll] indulge in a very berry smoothie,” according to the Grateful Meadows website.

Ultimately, the biggest lesson we can learn from Lucia is perhaps one of the most important and challenging of our lives: Question stereotypes, and dig deep beneath the surface.

Hopefully, with feathered cuddlebugs like Lucia taking the internet by storm, roosters’ bad rep will soon fly the coop.

Now at Grateful Meadows, Lucia shares the roost with a motley crew of other rescued animals: a hungry potbellied pig named Winnie, who eats everything; comedic donkey brothers Archer and Marley; a loyal dog named Baelyn; and others. Birds of a feather don’t always flock together, it seems, as this hodgepodge of species has come together into one big, happy family.

It is there, tucked between sprawling country fields, that these lucky rescues have found their nesting place. It is where, put simply, “the warm welcoming embrace of a retreat center” meets “the safety, peace, and compassion of a sanctuary for the animal residents.”

Lucia stole my heart from the moment I saw his photo on the table that winter day, and now he’s stolen yet another in the friend I gifted with his sponsorship.

To help spread the wingspan of Grateful Meadows’ work for animals, you can join me in sponsoring Lucia, Archer, Marley, or any of the other residents: Just visit this website.

All photos courtesy of Grateful Meadows.

The Two Million Victims of Florence We Aren’t Talking About

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Farmed Animals

Update: As of 5:00 pm on September 19, the numbers have risen to 3.4 million birds and 5,500 pigs killed in Florence’s aftermath. And media is now widely reporting on these casualties. Our story remains below as originally printed to provide a tiny glimpse into the lives of the beings behind these staggering figures.

Unrelenting rainfall. Historic flooding. Catastrophic destruction. The East Coast of the United States erupted in panic last week as Hurricane Florence loomed offshore. Evacuations were issued. Millions fled their homes–for their very lives.

But so many millions more never had the chance to leave. Unseen and unheard, they remained behind the walls of their prisons.

As the storm loomed, some environmental groups began to speculate about another dire consequence of the massive flooding: the overflow of giant lagoons filled with thousands of tons of toxic pig manure. In North Carolina alone, over 10 billion pounds of liquid manure are created each year by the animal agriculture industry. Much of that sludge sits in enormous pits–until the dreaded day that floodwaters send it spilling over into our environment.

And shortly after the storm hit, that’s exactly what happened to more than a dozen of these waste-filled lakes.

But still, we weren’t talking about them, the ones left behind. Perhaps because we couldn’t see them, languishing in darkness, as their own excrement seeped out before our eyes into our world.

Then, finally, the flood gates opened to their plight: Over 1.7 million chickens had drowned at more than 60 farms, reported major poultry producer Sanderson Farms this week. And at another 30 farms, flood waters were still preventing the delivery of food–which could potentially lead to thousands more deaths due to starvation.

North Carolina’s pig industry still has yet to release any numbers on mortality.

But those pigs, and the millions of birds who lost their lives in this storm, won’t be included in any official Florence death tolls. Their lives will only be measured in dollars lost, and their individual stories will never be told.

We can imagine, though, what life was like for them before the storm. They were trapped as babies in massive, dark, empty sheds, with only each other for comfort. And then they began to grow–rapidly–to an enormous size. Over the course of just 45 days, they would have become slaughter weight.

At only about 6 weeks of age, they would have been big enough to die.

Photo: Compassion Over Killing

But before then, they would have started to suffer from lung stress, heart stress, and difficulty walking. Many would be crippled under the weight of their own morbidly obese bodies–genetically manipulated to grow so large, so quickly so that poultry giants can turn a profit of quick, cheap meat.

But if you or I grew at that rate, we’d weigh 660 pounds by only two months of age.

And they would have developed painful burns on their chests, produced by the accumulated ammonia from their own waste, upon which they spent every moment, day in and day out.

Photo: Compassion Over Killing

That is the life of a factory farmed bird. Of the billions who die for our plates each year in the US alone.

The 1.7 million who died this past week were only babies. But had Florence’s destructive rampage not reached them, they still never would have matured into adults. The only difference is that instead of being splayed open on a Styrofoam tray, their bodies are now rotting in rainwater.

Had they been born into a different world, a different life, their stories would have been filled with curiosity, adventure, exploration, and family. Inside the egg, they’d have learned to communicate with their mom through peeps, letting her know if they felt too cold or too hot. And they’d learn to recognize her voice before they’re even born.

Once they hatch, chicks have a basic understanding of numbers. At five days of age, they grasp basic arithmetic. And they can use deductive reasoning–something human kids don’t even achieve until age seven.

Mother chickens nurture and guide their young, and the birds quickly learn to recognize more than 100 different faces of other birds. Within their flocks, they form deep bonds and develop highly structured pecking orders.

And we mustn’t forget their wit: Some male birds have learned that they can attract females through deception–by performing a food dance for attention, even if no food is available. To the females’ credit, many catch on and will ignore males who attempt to use this tactic too often.

And, like us, these birds are empathetic. Researchers have found that hens’ hearts begin to race when air is puffed on their chicks, something they know to be unpleasant.

We now have a whole new understanding of a “bird brain”: a deeply curious, cunning, and caring individual.

On factory farms, unfortunately, these birds never know their mothers, who themselves are locked away on “breeder” farms, their bodies used as reproductive machines until they can churn out no more eggs.

But at least, as the flood waters rose around them, those birds had each other.

September is National Chicken Month–a time when the poultry industry bands together in a desperate attempt to inflate sales after the end of grilling season. But the best way we can celebrate this month is for the birds themselves, by keeping them off our plates.

You can help shine a light on the dark plight of billions of birds every year by pre-ordering a copy of Dellie’s Run, a powerful new novel sharing the story of one girl chasing the elusive home run in the name of freedom—not just for her, but for the thousands she left behind. Along the way, she comes face to face with who she really is and why, according to the laws of physics, she’s basically destined to strike out. As Dellie sets off to defy these odds along with the companionship and scientific ingenuity of a curious young boy named Austin, she might just change the game for her kind—and for all of us on the Outside. Support this important new project today!

Featured image credit: AP

All She Had Was This Plastic Cage and Some Pebbles

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Petitions, Rescue, Wildlife

At the door of a Maryland townhouse, I stood in the rain as a man thrust a plastic container into my hands. I ran back to the car, dripping, and hopped in. There, we opened the lid—and we were immediately floored by a pungent odor much like that of a fishing pier. I was pretty certain that there wasn’t anyone alive in there.

But, sure enough, there was someone. Clinging tightly to the inside of the white shell in the middle of this cage was Molasses, a petrified wild Caribbean hermit crab.

We’d found her on Craigslist, being offered up for free, and immediately decided to make the 8-hour round trip to bring her home. She’d never make it without swift intervention, we knew. With summer shriveling into fall and the outdoor humidity levels plunging day by day, time wasn’t on this tropical creature’s side. Her modified gills would already be struggling desperately to breathe in the crisp Mid-Atlantic air.

Molasses had been bought earlier that summer by a family visiting a souvenir shop at the beach, but was quickly set aside when boredom crept into their children, whose curious fingers were hungry for their next interactive toy.

For Molasses, though, there was no relief from the boredom in that plastic prison—the isolation, the gloom. There were no branches, no hideaways, no sandy beaches. Nothing for her to do but sit, curled up inside her shell, and rot.

When we first took her in, Molasses was so weak that she could hardly lift up her shell to walk around. We immediately moved her into a much larger tank, filled with stimulating objects, proper food, sea water, high humidity, and warmth—the closest possible habitat we could provide to her natural home, the tropical seashore.

Her rescue was bittersweet. We saw her come out of her shell, figuratively and literally, and begin to explore her surroundings. Her strength grew. Her antennae perked up. But we knew she’d never see the waves on the beach again, or feel the wind blowing through her shell, because, once captured, hermit crabs can never be set free again. Their odds of survival when being stranded on an unfamiliar beach, much like our own, are quite low. So we were simply resigned to do our best.

She was one of five hermit crabs my wife and I rescued between 2011 and 2013, a hodgepodge of characters, all female, who surely had their disagreements and growing pains—marked by rounds of intense clicking—but eventually meshed together like the Brady Bunch. Molasses, or Mo, was the largest of the gang, and she didn’t have any trouble striding in and staking out her own space alongside Stevia, Splenda, Truvia, and Agave.

Hermit crabs like Molasses are complex wild animals who can live for over 30 years in their natural habitat, the tropical seashore. These social beings thrive in large colonies and often sleep piled up together. They enjoy climbing, foraging, and exploring and even work in teams to find food. Once a troupe of hermit crabs was observed stacked on top of one another to orchestrate a heist from a bag of dog food. Those on top were responsible for nabbing the goods and sending them down the line. These clever, sensitive animals will also rub and nurse their wounds when they’re injured—evidence that they, in fact, feel pain like we do.

And hermit crabs have unique personalities, just like Fido. Molasses, the bold adventurer, seemed to calculate each move. She was deliberate, on a mission. Agave, on the other hand, was reserved, cautious, a follower. They complemented one another like yin and yang.

Every single land hermit crab sold in souvenir shops—hundreds of thousands every year—has been caught from the wild, as these animals do not breed readily in captivity. And investigative footage has revealed that to the souvenir industry, hermit crabs are nothing more than disposable trinkets. A shocking investigation of one hermit crab supplier in Florida, for example, recently revealed what happens to many hermit crabs after being ripped from the seashore, before they reach store shelves: They are confined in filthy, crowded warehouses by the thousands and tossed in bags with hundreds of others to be shipped to retailers. Hermit crabs depend on their natural shells for protection, yet in another video, these delicate animals are shown being forcibly shoved into painted shells to be sold to tourists.

Once at the boardwalk, hermit crabs are sold to tourists in tiny, barren cages with some pebbles and maybe a plastic palm tree, if they’re lucky. Deprived of everything natural to them, they are destined to die in mere months. They often spend their short captive lives slowly perishing from suffocation because their modified gills require high humidity to breathe. These crabs also need deep substrate to molt and grow; without it, their bodies will halt the molting process until their death.

If their miserable captive environment doesn’t do them in, their own shells—their basic means of protection—can very well kill them in captivity. Many hermit crabs are slowly poisoned by the toxic paint adorning their shells. They don’t care if they’re pink or purple, but they pay with their lives because we do.

Molasses, Stevia, Agave, Splenda, and Truvia should have lived to be my age: 30 years old. But they didn’t make it more than a fraction of that time. Despite our best efforts, our tank suddenly collapsed in late 2014 for no explicable reason, leaving no survivors—but leaving us behind, absolutely devastated.

I wanted to, but I didn’t falter through my despair. Instead, I decided to turn their plight into a movement: The Plight of the Hermies. Over the last four years, through this project, my community and I have made some incredible strides: Over 50,000 people have signed our petition to get beach chain Sunsations to stop selling hermit crabs. We saw the end of the Mid-Atlantic Hermit Crab Challenge, a terrifying annual “race” marked by crowds and blasting music in Virginia Beach. We’ve gotten media coverage in The Virginian-Pilot and Lady Freethinker and an op-ed in One Green Planet. We helped PETA release the first undercover investigation of this cruel industry, opening millions of eyes.

We’ve shown countless people around the world that crustaceans are sentient, intelligent animals—not souvenirs.

So onward I march, for them. And I will continue to fight for their freedom, year after year, in memory of Molasses and of countless others like her, so that someday their descendants can be left in peace at the seashore instead of the store shelf.

Visit PlightoftheHermies.org to get involved in this important work for hermit crabs everywhere.