Category: Companions

These Cockatiels Found Their Paradise

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

It took a lot of courage to let them go. But it was easy to set them free. And if I ever doubt that it was the right thing to do, I just whisper to myself these words of the late, great Maya Angelou: “The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

Her words, a metaphoric reflection on oppression, remind me that we all seek it–that elusive freedom–and few truly attain it. Yet, as Ms. Angelou once said, “The truth is, no one of us can be free until everybody is free.”

*

I was about 12 years old when a pair of cockatiels fell into my home. They’d been used as some sort of children’s educational act, but once their mysticism had faded, they had been relegated to a cage and left to their own devices.

So he, a gregarious grey and white bird with a permanent smirk deceptively etched into his feathered face, had taken to grooming her… And grooming her… And grooming her. Endlessly–until she, once a sleek white-feathered maiden, had morphed into more of a turkey, bald-headed but still irresistibly adorable.

They were soul mates, serenading one another under the sunrise every morning and huddling together for bed under the moonlight.

Then, suddenly, she was gone. Teflon, we concluded–the coating on the pan that cooked our pancakes every morning. A stray whiff of the fumes must have killed her. We hadn’t known it was poison. We were devastated.

He was devastated. He sang for her, day in and day out. A sad, shrill, eternal song–an empty song.

We had to do something, so we did what seemed logical: We drove to the pet store, and we bought another: a lone female, who had already been discarded once and returned to the store. Grey, fiery, full of sass–she was mean and miserable.

Had we known then that almost a third of wild parrot species are classified as threatened because of habitat destruction and capture for the pet trade, according to the Animal Welfare Institute, perhaps we would have done it differently. Had we known that breeders often mass-produce birds in filthy, crowded conditions much like puppy mills, perhaps we would have done it differently. Had we realized that these birds are never truly domesticated and will always be wild animals–born to fly free–yes, we just might have done it differently.

From day one, she hissed. She wanted very little to do with us. But he was a different story.

His eyes shone once more, and his song became bright again. Slowly but surely, her walls crumbled. She began to nestle up to him. And over the years, they became completely inseparable, each shining a light into the darkness that had overtaken both of their souls in the aftermath of abandonment.

But he proved that some habits die hard, as he didn’t delay in grooming her in the same way as her predecessor, replacing her shiny grey plumage with a bare pink skull.

I went to college, and I came home. And then I left again, flying off into the adult world. But they stayed. And upon my return, I always was greeted by his sweet song and that silly smile and reminded of her elegant aloofness.

The day came when it was time for my parents to make their ultimate move: to the Big Island of Hawaii. En route, tragedy struck when their beloved cockatoo, Lilah, passed away after a series of unforgivable oversights by the airline, airports, and transport company that resulted in him being denied water and food for hours on end. The guilt and loss for my family were crushing and raw. And in those moments, it was quite clear that Willie and Lucy, the bonded cockatiel pair, were not destined to follow my parents to paradise.

Back in Virginia, my wife and I had temporarily taken in the duo, alongside our menagerie of dogs, rabbits, fish, and a potbellied pig. But flight was limited in their small room, and for them, life had to be about much more than fleeting moments of flapping back and forth between the ceiling fan and their cage.

“A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky,” wrote Maya Angelou.

We had known about the nearby Project Perry, also referred to as the Central Virginia Parrot Sanctuary and supported by game show host Bob Barker, for a while. With a mission to “provide exceptional natural environments for [its] residents where they can enjoy the enrichment of flight and the togetherness of flock with excellent care provided by a dedicated team of staff and volunteers,” the sanctuary is working to tackle the massive, growing problem of unwanted captive wild birds–often rejected for being too loud, too unruly, too disruptive–essentially, too wild.

Fortunately, Willie and Lucy were accepted into the sanctuary’s selective “Lifetime of Care” program, in which they could live out the rest of their days in a beautiful aviary with dozens of companion cockatiels and parakeets and surrounded by lush greenery. And while they would not be leaving my family in spirit–we’d continue to provide financial support for their care and be able to visit whenever we liked–their physical absence still pained me.

I wept in the silence after their songs had stopped.

Yes, it took strength to leave them there, but from the moment they climbed out of the carrier and took off in flight, I knew it was where they belonged–the closest habitat to their native Australia they’d ever reach.

I continued to visit when I could, and in the months of intermission, regular text updates and photos from sanctuary founder Matt Smith never failed to light up long, dreary days and weeks. Despite all the new fish in the sea, Willie and Lucy remained a bonded pair, never venturing far from one another.

On my visits, I noticed that they stopped flying down to greet me. They often sat together, perched near the roof of the aviary, surveying their surroundings. But still, he sang that familiar song, and through it I heard peace.

It stung, but I realized they didn’t need me–and that recognition was the biggest gift I could have given them. They were free, and they thrived.

Very recently, Matt solemnly notified me that Lucy had passed away peacefully in his hands, warm and comfortable–loved. By my estimates, she would have been more than 20 years old. I sighed, and then I wept–but inside I knew: this was the perfect ending to her story.

Then I began to worry for Willie. Would that desperate song emerge once more, with sorrowful cries into the night?

But my fears were quelled when my phone buzzed and a 10-second video appeared. In it, Willie and another bird, like two schoolkids on the playground, pecked happily together at the seeds around their feet.

“Maybe he’s on a millet-eating date,” read Matt’s accompanying text.

I just laughed, and I knew then that in that aviary, Willie’s soul had finally been set free. In there, he could heal, and he could truly live.

You can help: Exotic birds need you. Head on over to Project Perry’s page to learn how you can support the sanctuary’s life-saving work!

The Red-Eyed Rat Who Stole My Heart

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions

In 2003, when I was 15, I screen-printed a t-shirt with a photo of my albino rat, Hammy, and paraded it around school. The other kids laughed, but I wasn’t fazed. I’d made a best friend–one who was a whole lot more loyal, and maybe even a little smarter, than my classmates.

It was February 8, 2003, when my mom and I entered a small family-run pet shop and began perusing the aisles. A shy little being with a wide-eyed red gaze soon caught my eye. I glanced down into the tank–a “feeder rat” tank–and that was it. This albino rat absolutely wouldn’t be left for snake food. We left with this rat, trembling in a little brown box, with its naked pink tail wrapped around its small white body. The young rat was endowed with the name Hamilton–soon shortened to Hammy when I discovered she was not a little boy, but a little girl.

My mom and I noticed pretty quickly that Hammy wasn’t healthy. She had sniffles and diarrhea and struggled to breathe. But we worked hard to nurse her to health, and in a few days’ time, she traded her fearful warning nips for loving nibbles. And by March, she’d transformed into a bouncing mischief-maker who had a knack for investigating, well, everything. There was the time I found her hunched over a box of clay red-handed, literally: She’d been snacking on the crimson earth, leaving her tiny nose and fingers stained. And then there was the day she finally surmounted my wall of shelves, like Everest, triumphing over board games and puzzles as she summited Monopoly, way up near the ceiling.

Hammy became my best friend, in those few months. And I may have been hers, too, were it not for her partner in crime, Hallie, who joined our rat pack that spring and followed Hammy wherever she went. Hallie was her sidekick, always up for adventures–and trouble.

When I came in my office–“the rat room”–each evening to study, all I had to do was call. If I called for Hallie, Hallie came running–but Hammy couldn’t be distracted from the task at hand. Only once I said her name would she come racing down from between the slinkies and Rubix cubes. Then she’d leap across the floor and scale my leg to my lap in record time. There, she’d push her nose into my hand, demanding some serious petting time. She knew when the time was right.

The world, that room, was Hammy’s to conquer. And at the end of the day, the world would know it belonged to her, as she left her mark where it mattered, as a tiny trail of pee droplets.

But the days of Hammy streaking across the floor with 8″ by 10″ sheets of paper (usually old homework assignments and quizzes) in tow came to a harrowing end in mid-June that year. One night, she was suddenly lethargic and had lost her appetite for food and water, an appetite that had once driven her to stand on her hind legs or spin in circles for tasty morsels.

At the vet’s office, we learned that Hammy was most likely suffering from Mycoplasma pulmonis, a common ratty respiratory disease. Then I remembered that illness back in February, when we’d first brought her home. She’d had it all along, lying dormant, waiting for the perfect moment to erupt back into her life–our lives.

So, Hammy had Myco, a disease for which there is no cure, a disease that stays in a rat’s body forever. A disease that I never would have predicted would come back to haunt her… to haunt me. Maybe she’d gotten it from dirty bedding in the pet store. Maybe it was even earlier, at the breeder, where rats are churned out like an assembly line of plastic dolls. Apparently, most rats carry it in the pet trade. But not all succumb to it. It seemed a cruel twist of fate.

The vet injected fluid under Hammy’s skin, much to her displeasure, and we took her home with Baytril, a pink medicine we were to give her orally twice a day.

But the following day, she had not improved in condition. As I was picking her up, petting her, trying to force a little food into her mouth and into that withering body, I noticed a little red bug on her fur: a louse. Hammy had lice. That was easy to understand: With a suppressed immune system, she was an easy target.

And I, just a teenager who’d spent countless hours with this tiny soul by my side, agonizing over history essays as she scampered over my back and burrowed up my sleeves–I was in a panic. The Myco was consuming her. I felt powerless.

Back to the vet, where Hammy weighed in at 270 grams. The same as the previous day. But she still seemed so thin, so weak. They told us they’d work their hardest to make her better, but she’d have to stay with them overnight in an oxygen tank. That way, she could breathe more easily, and they could try to get her to eat.

It was a big decision to make. I knew that if she died, she’d be alone, without me. I wanted her to be with me if–when she died. But I knew that they could do a much better job than I was equipped to do. I walked out of the vet’s office that day with tears running down my face, hoping to the powers-that-be that she would live to see more days, to explore more fields of paper and plastic wrappers.

On the drive home, I thought to myself, Never again will I buy a rat from a pet store. I had bought Hammy to save her from becoming snake bait, to prevent her suffering, to give her a new life. And she had become a happy rat, in those few cherished months we’d spent together.

But what of her replacement in that pet store tank?

I slept lightly, uneasily. On the morning of June 19, I woke up to my dad knocking on my bedroom door.

“The vet called this morning,” he said softly. “It looks like the rat… the little Hammy rat… she didn’t make it through the night.”

Today, half my life later, that little pet shop is long gone. I don’t know what became of it, or where all the animals went. It’s been many years since I’ve felt the pitter-patter of Hammy’s little hands and feet on my skin, and many animal companions have come and gone. But I still feel her little footprints on my heart, and every so often, I hear her dragging an old math assignment across the floor.

When the Wedding Favors Have Fins

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

White linens lined the tables, and Barbra Streisand’s voice filled the air. The banquet hall oozed with love. We paid our respects to the bright-eyed newlyweds and took our seats. And that’s when I first saw him.

The glass vase, the centerpiece of it all, confined not flowers, but fins. There he swam, in endless circles, bordered by a ring of porcelain plates and framed by shining silverware like armor.

He watched us exchange pleasantries with our tablemates, the angst-filled silence filling gaps in conversation, and the moment we awkwardly stood for the first dance. He, of course, said nothing.

As I took her hand in mind and swayed my hips to the melody, I saw them all–a dozen more like him–in their own glass jails.

Food was consumed in excess, laughs echoed from the walls, and a young child’s rendition of the Macarena was the talk of the night. Meanwhile, his eyes were opals, relics of an underwater world, captivating my own.

Guests filed out at midnight, clutching the glass vases to their chests. A dozen wedding favors, heading home. Home: a sphere of invisible walls atop a glass counter top, forever.

But he remained. His options quickly became clear: Live at the bar, a fly on the wall behind a parade of drunken sobs and sloppy kisses.

Or… Go home. With us.

The decision was made. He sloshed up and down in his bowl, gaping up at us, as we tiptoed into the night. The drive home was slow–after all, he was delicate cargo.

It wasn’t ideal, his captive life. We set him up in a respectable tank with colors, rocks, obstacles. A taste of a challenge beyond swimming the same curved path day in and day out.

He was mellow, mostly. Curious but not carefree. Bold but modest. And, as expected of a male Betta fish, he was not so fond of his own brilliant reflection.

Then, when fed, he’d get this streak, this fierceness, and he became a vibrant blue sea dragon, mightily conquering his freeze-dried food. He was braver than any human I’ve ever met.

I learned where he came from, probably: Imprisoned in a minuscule plastic bag or container with just enough water to survive. Blue-tinted water, captivating and surreal to a child’s wandering eyes–tranquilizing to him. An additive used to calm Bettas as they endure the trauma of transport over hundreds of miles to their destination: the store shelf.

Roux, as we called him, had some semblance of enrichment, our best attempt to disguise the artificiality of his habitat. But most don’t. They spend their days and months in small vases that limit their access to oxygen, which they breathe in at the water’s surface.

In stagnant water, often deprived of their natural diet of insects, they often perish.

Roux lived with us for more than a year before succumbing to illness. Burying him under our apple tree, we wiped away tears. We planted one of his neon plastic trees as a grave marker. We thought we’d done it right. He could’ve lived to be 5.

But a tank can never be a pond.

And that radiant blue hue–imprinted onto him through years of selective breeding–was never meant to be.

But on that one romantic night, at least he matched the bridesmaids’ dresses.

One Green Planet: This Dog May Have Lost His Eyes, but His Heart Just Keeps on Growing

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

This blog was originally posted on One Green Planet.

One thing’s quite obvious when you look at a picture of Bear the Pit Bull: He can’t see — at least, not through his eyes. At just one year of age, Bear was hit by a car and wound up at an emergency vet with severe injuries to his face. His guardian at the time was unable to afford treatment, leaving Bear’s fate hanging in the balance. Fortunately, New Jersey-based Rawhide Rescue stepped up to the plate, offering to fund Bear’s medical care if a loving family could take him in. And, luckily for Bear, one worker at that animal hospital saw beyond his disfigured eyes and into his heart.

Taking a Chance on Love

When teen Katie Frame, the daughter of that compassionate hospital staffer, first met her new dog pal, she admits that she was a bit nervous about caring for a special-needs animal. And it soon became clear that the damage was so extensive that Bear would need multiple surgeries, which would ultimately leave him eyeless.

This Dog May Have Lost His Eyes, but His Heart Just Keeps on Growing
Katie Frame
 

But Katie and her family never turned a blind eye to Bear, who, in those early days, struggled to get around and often bumped into obstacles he couldn’t see. While walking, he pressed his body up against his new family members, afraid to venture too far. Soon, however, Bear learned to “see” his environment in a new light. Katie explains, “He eventually mapped out the house in his head and he gets around easier than I thought he would.”

Shedding Light on Special Needs

Katie took to Instagram to share Bear’s journey with the world. There, Bear’s tens of thousands of followers are gifted with photos of him snoozing on the couch and sniffing out the cool autumn breeze. These images are often accompanied by insights into Bear’s daily life and how he has adapted to the world around him without eyesight.

This Dog May Have Lost His Eyes, but His Heart Just Keeps on Growing
Katie Frame
 

On Instagram, Katie explains that on walks, Bear moves from one side of a path to the other: “He’ll walk to one side and when he feels grass he starts going to the other side. People don’t really realize that a blind dog’s (or any dog’s) sense of touch is important to getting around and understanding the world.”

She’s also shared her plans to try out “nosework” — a mentally and physically stimulating activity in which Bear can use his heightened sense of smell to track down the source of a scent — with her best friend.

Katie hopes that through these snippets and photos, she will show the world that although there may be challenges to life with a special-needs animal, the rewards are boundless. She writes, “Most people see their dogs love through their eyes. I see his love through the beating of his heart … Don’t overlook the disabled pups. They can see and hear better than anyone.”

Bear Gives Back

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Bear has been his ability to inspire from the moment he walked through the door. Reflecting on her life, Katie admitted that before Bear, she wondered about her direction in life. Once Bear came into the picture, however, she felt filled with purpose. After all, what could be more motivating than a dog who, despite having no eyes, bounds into life each day, ready to navigate the world around him?

This Dog May Have Lost His Eyes, but His Heart Just Keeps on Growing
Katie Frame
 

One way Katie has channeled this inspiration is through her “Shelter Dog Sundays” on Instagram, where she shares photos and stories of other dogs in need of loving homes. Even if they can’t adopt a dog or donate to a rescue directly, Katie urges Bear’s followers to spread awareness of dogs in need of adoption. “Just don’t do nothing,” she urges, in reference to the millions of animals seeking homes every year.

About Bear, Katie concludes, “He has taught me that love is not what you see, but what you feel.” And with his enormous heart, maybe he can teach all of us to see beyond the cover and love what’s inside.

Lead image source: Katie Frame/Instagram

Mr. Bagel - The Every Animal Project

This Little Furball Is on a Big Mission

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

(Story by Laura Lee Cascada / Photographs by Steve Byun, @chinnybuddy)

Mr. Bagel - The Every Animal ProjectThis ball of fluff is Mr. Bagel. Despite how it looks, he’s not a gargantuan field mouse from some alternate universe of adorable creatures with big eyes and even bigger ears. He’s a chinchilla from regular old planet Earth.

But before you run out to your local pet shop and scoop up a chinchilla of your own, Mr. Bagel has a word of advice for you: Stop!

Over the last decade, unwanted chinchillas have filled shelters from coast to coast, an unfortunate consequence of those cartoonish ears and bushy tails, which lure children in until boredom sets in and their pet is cast aside in favor of a new sparkly rainbow unicorn.

Horror stories abound on the Internet, such as the tale of a chinchilla who was accidentally sat on by his child guardian and that of his replacement, who was fed such a poor diet that she took to biting out her own fur.

Mr. Bagel is one of the fortunate chins–rescued about 8 years ago in San Francisco and currently living out his days in style with his guardian, Steve Byun, in Southern California. Steve reports that Mr. Bagel enjoys the run of the house, but of course, never fails to make his way back to the cage to do his business.

Truth is, like any companion animal, chinchillas require specialized care and years of devotion. Their diet must be filled with chewable delicacies to wear down their ever-growing teeth–which can actually grow at a rate of up to a foot per year!  And don’t dare throw them in the tub for a rinse-off, which can leave them sick with matted fur.  Rather, chinchillas prefer to bathe desert-style–in lots and lots of dust.

Over the last several years, Mr. Bagel has become not just the star of his own household, but also of the Internet. Through his Instagram page and other social media channels, Mr. Bagel (via Steve’s photography skills) shares his life. There, you’ll find dozens upon dozens of photos of his feathery tail and heart-melting eyes–along with a few of him clutching a tiny chinchilla-sized shopping cart or donning a wizard hat.

Boo! #MrBagel #chinchilla

A photo posted by Mr. Bagel the Chinchilla (@chinnybuddy) on

He even has his own online shop. Because who wouldn’t want a bagel with their coffee?  And Mr. Bagel will never forget his roots, as a portion of proceeds goes back to helping homeless chinchillas.

Mr. Bagel Says No to Fur - Every Animal ProjectBefore you go, Mr. Bagel has one last message for you. Winter’s just around the corner, which means it’s nearly time to break out the winter coats. Chinchillas are known to have the softest fur you’ll ever touch, which means, you guessed it, chinchilla fur coats. But it can take up to 150 of these little puff balls to churn out one fur coat, and that process is reminiscent of a horror film whose protagonists are hundreds of thousands of gentle beings who look like they should be starring in a warm and fuzzy Pixar children’s movie instead. But on factory fur farms, these guys are confined to tiny wire cages and driven mad before being violently killed for their fur.  It’s a far cry from Mr. Bagel’s luxurious estate.

So let’s all say “no” to fur this year and instead indulge ourselves with this photo of Mr. Bagel napping atop a stuffed animal–along with over 1,000 other gems right here.

How #MrBagel deals with Monday’s 🐭💤 #chinchilla

A photo posted by Mr. Bagel the Chinchilla (@chinnybuddy) on

 

Teddy - Wags 4 Hope - The Every Animal Project

This Shaggy Dog Beat Heartworms–Now the Art He Inspired Is Saving Others Like Him

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

(By Laura Lee Cascada / Photographs by Annie Blumenfeld)

Annie Blumenfeld - Wags 4 Hope - The Every Animal Project
Annie Blumenfeld with dog, Teddy

Meet Teddy. Four years ago, he bounded into Connecticut teen Annie Blumenfeld’s life and changed it forever. Now, in 2016, Teddy spends his days watching chickens and roosters peck around the neighborhood, eagerly awaiting his next adventure with each walk and car ride. He lives a life of luxury, preferring to take his water from a glass–with plenty of ice cubes, thank-you-very-much.

But before his happily-ever-after, Teddy’s story was bleak. In a shelter in Texas, this shaggy, tail-wagging dog was slated to be euthanized because he had tested heartworm-positive, plagued with a serious parasitic infection of the heart, lungs, and surrounding vessels–all because somewhere along the way, he hadn’t received a simple monthly preventative. As the cost of treating heartworm disease can range from $600 to $2,000 (compare that with the cost of prevention, often equalling out to just a few cups of coffee each month), the only option for many overwhelmed, underfunded shelters like Teddy’s is a final, irreversible one: death.

Fortunately, just days before that fateful walk, Teddy was scooped up by Houston Shaggy Dog Rescue (warning: click the link, and be prepared to be overwhelmed with adorable pictures of furry mops with bright pink tongues and barely-visible eyes). His treatment began right away: over a month of cage confinement as an arsenic-based poison flowed through his system. As dying heartworms are dislodged from the heart area, excessive movement can cause fatal blockages of arteries. So dogs must remain still, giving their bodies time to break down the parasites. This treatment period can be grueling, leaving dogs feeling lethargic, feverish, and coughing. But Teddy survived it.

Now, meet Annie. When she learned of the painful process Teddy had to go through before he could join his loving family, her heart broke. Annie did some research and found out that animals with heartworm disease rarely stand a chance in shelters because of the high cost and length of treatment. Around that time, a piece of her art, a painting of a sheepdog, was featured in a local art show. There, a woman approached her and asked to buy the piece–and if she could paint other dogs. The wheels of 14-year-old Annie’s clock started turning. She became a teen on a mission.

Wags 4 Hope - The Every Animal ProjectAnnie thus founded Wags 4 Hope, a 501(c)(3) organization dedicated to spreading awareness of heartworm disease and relieving the burden of shelters’ veterinary bills. To fulfill her mission, Annie sells custom-painted portraits of dogs, cats, and even the occasional pig and then donates the proceeds to shelters and rescue groups all over the world. And to help spare other dogs from the horrors that her dog, Teddy–and others who are not so lucky–endured, she speaks out about the importance of heartworm prevention in big and small ways.

Her efforts recently paid off in one gigantic way at the Connecticut State Capitol, where Annie worked with lawmakers and rallied citizens for over a year to pass H.B. 5422, a bill that would add a checkbox onto Connecticut’s dog-licensing application for guardians to indicate whether their dog is on heartworm prevention. While not mandating the use of a heartworm preventative, the bill aimed to raise awareness of the disease and prompt guardians to look into this easy step to protect their dogs.

On the first go-round, the bill failed to pass. But Annie persisted with Teddy and hundreds of citizens by her side, and Connecticut became the first state with a heartworm awareness message on its dog license form. The Department of Agriculture ordered 100,000 copies of the form, which is available statewide and online.Wags 4 Hope - The Every Animal Project Annie has now set her sights even higher, hoping that other states will follow suit.

Today, after four years, Wags 4 Hope’s art continues to make waves and raise money for shelter animals online, where its Facebook page has garnered over 6,000 likes (help it get to 7,000!). Annie’s even recently launched a line of chic clothing featuring her artwork in partnership with Vida. You can become a part of Annie’s vision by visiting the Wags 4 Hope website and supporting her work.

In the meantime, Teddy’s story marches on, proving day after day that one dog–and his inspirational human–can change the world.

Poppyseed: The 'Teacup' Toddler

Poppyseed: The “Teacup” Toddler

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

It was 7 p.m. on a Thursday night in late winter. Instead of catching the tail end of happy hour with friends after a long day of editing scientific manuscripts, I was hunched over the kitchen floor with a soiled rag in one hand while the other groped around inside a tiny mouth seeking the remnants of a rubber band. My wife coaxed the captor of the elastic to no avail. Screams were escalating, and they were murderous. I surrendered, collapsing into a splatter of diarrhea camouflaged against the stone floor.

I began to weep on my wife’s shoulder. I didn’t sign up for parenthood, I sobbed. I still had tropical paradises and European backpacking adventures to experience, a novel to write, a career to etch out. I sighed, forfeiting the next 18 years of my life in one grand exhale. In that moment, I nearly forgot that the source of the vehement wailing, indiscriminate pooping, and unrestrained mischief was no human child.

Rather, our little toddler was a Vietnamese potbellied pig. Well, minus the infamous potbelly. The bones of his 30-pound frame jutted out at odd angles, and his rear legs curled underneath his torso when he stood. His head drooped low, and he stumbled when he walked.

Poppyseed didn’t have a name when we first encountered him swaddled in a blanket in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. His eyes were barely open; his legs were useless. We transferred him to our backseat, and that’s when the uncontrollable defecating began.

The kind woman who had removed him from his frosty hell gave us the scoop. The eight-month-old had once been loved, living in a lush condo as a wee piglet, until he was exiled by the homeowner’s association. His next stop in life wasn’t quite so furnished. For three weeks, he resided in an empty hunting dog run through frigid February nights and two snowstorms. His hooves slid across the icy ground when he attempted to reach food or water. Almost a third of his body weight was shed.

We sought emergency veterinary treatment. Poppyseed’s body was covered in sores. Along with malnourishment, an infection was brewing. The numbers on the bloodwork were haywire. Worms ravaged his intestinal tract.

After a few days of treatment, we managed to stifle the bacteria. Days turned to weeks, and Poppy’s ears began to perk up; his eyes became brighter. Slowly, Poppyseed became part of our pack, our family. I began to hear imaginary snorts and grunts in public places, and the endearing pitter-patter of hooves echoed through my dreams. I watched him sleep, softly snoring, cocooned in a pile of blankets. The first time I saw Poppyseed race across our backyard with reckless abandon, I nearly burst into tears.

Poppyseed - The Every Animal Project

But the breakthrough wasn’t big enough. The pounds crept back into his belly at an agonizingly sluggish pace, and angry bouts of diarrhea arrived at random, converting our house into a temporary warzone. Lab results showed elevated liver enzymes. Medications were prescribed; supplements were administered. Some led to an onslaught of diarrhea, while others were spit up immediately, regardless of whether they were tucked into peanut butter or vanilla icing.

Eventually, we took the plunge and traveled three hours to a vet specializing in porcine acupuncture. As soon as his hooves hit the ground of the pen adjacent to the vet’s three enormous resident pigs, the fog lifted. Poppyseed raced the perimeter, hair standing on end, jaw chomping. Through his excitement, he didn’t even notice when the acupuncture needles went in. But as the electric current began to emit a low hum, Poppy sank to the ground, suddenly mellowed. If pigs could smile, there would have been a grin the size of Texas on his face.

Finally, the bloodwork began to level out, and Poppy’s spirits soared. One day, he met his new best friend: a vibrant yellow ball that always seemed to outpace his wriggling nose. He loved the chase. Soon, a romance developed. It was unstoppable. Poppy mounted that yellow ball with all his might until we were forced to pry it from his grasp. Then, he mounted us. It was time for him to get neutered.

The surgery went fine, but within two days, something was clearly wrong. Poppy was still in a daze, but the anesthetics should have been long gone from his system. He wasn’t eating, and his diarrhea returned with a vengeance. At 2 a.m., I called every vet I could find but turned up with no leads. My wife and I suffered through the night alongside our piglet, waking every half hour to the sound of urine splattering on the floor and Poppy tumbling over furniture in bouts of complete confusion.

In the morning, I rushed Poppy into our regular vet, who whisked him off for emergency treatment involving cold baths to get his fever down, antibiotics, and fluids. I sobbed watching Poppy screaming in terror as he was carried away from me. The vet collected information from the neutering surgeon on the anesthetics that had been used, frowning as he scribbled in a notepad. The cocktail of drugs had overwhelmed Poppy’s weak system. He’d have done it differently, he said, shaking his head. I wept and wiped my weary eyes. We’ll take care of your pig, the veterinary technician told me. Go get some rest. I obeyed.

Mid-afternoon, an optimistic call came through. Poppy was doing better, engaging in hide-and-seek with the staff. We could pick him up later. At 6 p.m., I arrived in high spirits. I paid the bill as the receptionist went to fetch our pig. She carried him out and placed him on the floor next to me. Immediately, Poppy toppled over. I dropped to my knees, stroking him.

A vet emerged from the back and began asking questions, poking and prodding, making observations. Poppy only groaned faintly. Perhaps in denial, I began to ask about his medications—what time, how many pills, with or without food? There was no response. In a blur, Poppy was carried away to the back again.

A short time later, I was invited into one of the patient rooms. I’m so sorry, said the vet softly as she walked into the room. I began to tell her it was OK, that I didn’t mind the wait. He had a seizure before we could do the X-ray, she said. He passed away. I’m so sorry.

I remember the tears falling and never stopping. My vocal chords seized so that all that could come out was unintelligible bellowing. They brought him to me, and I draped myself over his body. Some time passed, but I couldn’t leave. I squeezed him so tightly that a puff of air forced its way from his lips. I convinced myself in that moment that he was still alive.

My wife and I cried in a darkened room that evening, surrounded by our dogs whose eyes and ears drooped alongside our own. I had not asked to be a parent, but in some ways, I had become one, nurturing a skeleton into a grunting, nudging, burrowing, cuddling piglet who had completely depended on me to survive. I had rolled up my sleeves and cleaned up feces, fixed chewed-up baseboard, and did more loads of laundry that I can count. And somewhere along the way, I began to love so deeply a being who felt pain and loneliness, oozed with curiosity, and, at the end of the day, simply wanted to disappear into a black hole of cushions, just like me.

After Poppy’s death, with a hole in my heart, I yearned for someone to blame. I thought about the vet who had overwhelmed Poppy’s body with anesthetics. I thought about how I’d forced my pig into a surgery he wasn’t strong enough to survive. And then I thought about the mystery man who left Poppy in the snow to perish, the man who truly sealed Poppy’s fate. But all I know of that man are his last words to my pig: “It’ll be a miracle if you survive.”

In grieving, I learned that Poppyseed’s story is mirrored by thousands of neglected and abandoned potbellied pigs around the country every year. Breeders churn out “micro” and “teacup” pigs, promising the equivalent of little oinking puppies. Instead of loyal, carefree canines, the 100-pound adult pigs become independent, stubborn, and too smart for their own good.

Poppyseed taught me that pigs are essentially toddlers—forever. Pigs enjoy nothing more than spending hours tilling their guardians’ backyard, uprooting manicured lawns and flowerbeds. But confined to a small space indoors, under-stimulated and dissatisfied, many become reckless.  The house becomes their personal sandbox, and flooring, closet doors, and trashcan lids are just temporary obstacles.

So when overgrown, rebellious pigs become too much for their families, they’re given the boot. Sites like Craigslist abound with unwanted former “teacup” pigs, and sanctuaries overflow. Yet breeders don’t stop, profiting off fantasies of piglets posed in Easter baskets with daisies and tulips. When I see those photos, I remember the thousands of pigs who never get their happy ending. I remember Poppyseed.

Laura Lee Cascada is a writer, editor, and advocate based out of Virginia. 

Puppy from Na'alehu - The Every Animal Project

The Pup from Na’alehu

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

It was late one evening in the spring of 2015 as a carload of us–my wife, Rachel, and I, along with two friends–were making the long trip back from Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park to my parents’ home in the Ka’u District halfway around the Big Island. We’d just hit a straight stretch of road outside of the quaint town of Na’alehu when my eye caught a glimpse of a small white blob slinking along the right-of-way. I slammed on the brakes, feeling fortunate in the aftermath that we were the single car on the road.

The white blob was barely bigger than a coconut with two pointed ears, one hopelessly failing to stay upright. We quickly scooped this young pup up, inhaling a scent reminiscent of death and risking a major onslaught of fleas. We couldn’t leave him, so young and vulnerable. There was one option. We’d come to visit my parents in their newfound retirement for just two weeks, and apparently, we had forgotten to bring a gift. This wormy and homeless pup would have to do. We drove onward as I played out the scenario that was to unfold in my mind.

You can’t seem to go anywhere without picking up a dog, they sighed, just as I’d imagined.

Pup from Na'alehu - The Every Animal Project

The next few days were filled with howling. And poop. And more howling. And even more poop. And as I walked from my room to the shower each morning, a shark-let gnawed at my ankles until they felt raw.

It became clear that this pup had no home. But, not quite thrilled about the prospect of spending endless bright, sunny days mopping up diarrhea, my parents pledged to get him in with the local rescue and out the door as soon as possible.

Each morning, as our troupe prepared for the day’s outing, we’d turn our backs just long enough to find this pup, now named Niu (and eventually renamed Pip), sprawled out atop our backpacks and lunch coolers. At night, as Rachel rocked in an old wooden chair, he gradually ascended her torso and wrapped his tiny body around her neck. On a hike, his lanky legs failed him over the rocky terrain, so he was quickly swaddled in a makeshift sling, a.k.a Rachel’s hoodie. There wasn’t an object that couldn’t be made a bed. He just seemed to fit, always.

When Rachel and I returned to Hawai’i this month, Pip was still there. I suppose that, somehow, he had just seemed to fit his way right into our family. Not much had changed, really, except that this tiny coconut had matured into a 70-pound barrel. His howls had been upgraded to barks, and, fortunately, his bowels seemed to have been tamed. That ear, the one that always seemed to droop, had finally learned to stand tall.

For the first few days, surprisingly, Pip seemed to have no recollection of us. He hovered in corners and darted out of rooms when we came near–perhaps confirmation that his mother had been a stray. Rachel learned that she could approach him with her back turned toward him and then slowly slip a hand out for him to sniff. I tried my luck, somewhat unsuccessfully, at bribing Pip with treats; I’m sure he saw right through these thinly-veiled attempts at bonding. Sometimes I even managed a few pats on the head before he turned around and recognized me as the patter. It was hard, but inevitably, we knew our only hope was to respect his space–essentially, to leave him be.

So, ignore him, we did. Soon he began to test the waters, slowly climbing the stairs to our room and poking his head in just long enough to catch some sniffs before our eyes locked on him, and then–danger, retreat!

Near the end of our visit, all hope seemed lost. We simply weren’t going to be friends. It wasn’t meant to be. We’d admire Pip from afar; he’d stare back at us with mounting suspicions. But one day, as we sat around the table for lunch, Pip scampered between pairs of legs. A wet tongue began to brush against my knee. And it licked and licked and licked.

I wish I could say that it was all peachy keen from that point forward. It wasn’t. Pip still kept his distance; we continued to make peace offerings. Little by little, we seemed to get closer and closer. By the end of the trip, I managed to plant a kiss on his forehead. We hadn’t become best friends, but we’d started to test the friendship waters. Next time, I know he’ll be ready for us, and we for him.

P.S. If you have a dog with social or separation anxiety like Pip, check out this great guide to eliminating fear in your dog from Natural Wonder Pets. In addition to their K9 Calm formula containing organic calming herbs like chamomile and passion flower, they offer a step-by-step guide to changing your interactions with your pup to promote confidence in him. One piece of their advice that’s really worked at home (and with Pip) is to act like your departure and arrival are simply no big deal and to wait to greet your pup for several minutes after getting home. Dogs are so in-tune with their guardians that when we act like coming and going isn’t a huge ordeal, they start to take notice. For that gem and more, click here.

(Note: This post contains affiliate links.)