Category: Rescue

Sometimes Angels Have Scales: Guest Post by Hannah Tomes

by Guest, posted in Companions, Rescue

The below story by Hannah Tomes is featured in our first anthology, The Dog Who Wooed at the World. For more powerful stories like this, get your copy!

During the summer of 2022, I made a spontaneous choice that would end up changing my life for the better and introducing a wonderful new member into my family. My dad mentioned that a local organization, which specialized in rescuing abandoned and neglected reptiles, was looking for volunteers. This organization was relatively new to our area, so I had never heard of it before, but I decided to look it up. I have always loved animals and take every opportunity I can get to be around them. At the time, however, I was pretty unfamiliar with reptiles; no one I knew had ever adopted one into their family or had the desire to. Reptile rescues like the one I was about to go to are very uncommon in West Virginia. I thought it would be a fun experience, though, so I went ahead and submitted an application. A week later I was invited to orientation for new volunteers, and from there my journey began. 

As weeks passed, I learned more and more about the variety of amazing species I was now surrounded by at the rescue center. I learned that the African bullfrog, Jabba, loved burrowing so far down into the dirt you couldn’t even see him, and he got very cranky if you tried to disturb his naps. I learned that Jonesy the alligator hissed every time someone came close, so it was best to admire him from a distance. I learned that sulcata tortoises could grow up to 100 pounds, but one of them, Opie, was stunted and would never get bigger than the palm of my hand. I learned that Kyle, the bearded dragon, loved basking in the heat and would sometimes get sleepy when you held him. 

And I learned that not all snakes were unfriendly after I met Scar, who everyone described as a “scaly puppy” and would rest his head in your hand if you held it out. He’d been severely burned in the past by his heat lamp, which was where he’d gotten his name, but he hadn’t let it destroy his trust in people and he had the sweetest personality. 

Every animal at the rescue center had a story. Not all of them were reptiles (there were also a couple prairie dogs, which is a long story), but it felt like we were all a part of one big family, despite our differences. They never turned away an animal in need. 

One day later in the summer, I was working in the back when I noticed two 10-gallon tanks sitting on the ground. I went to inspect them closer, and that was when I saw that each one had a leopard gecko in it—the sanctuary’s two newest arrivals. One of them was a typical yellow with black spots, and the other was a pinkish yellow with no spots.

“What happened to these guys?” I asked one of the other workers. If an animal was being kept in the back, it usually meant they were being quarantined for some reason.

“They were brought in last night. Found them in an abandoned apartment.”

“How long had they been there?”

“A few days, maybe a week. No food or water. Not even any heat.”

Hearing that broke my heart, and I watched them for a few minutes. The pink one was sitting calmly on some paper towels, but the spotted one had burrowed underneath and was hiding. I can’t explain it, but in that moment, I felt a connection with that pink gecko, staring up at me with her soulful brown eyes, a little smile on her face. Both of these geckos had been through a terrible situation and it was understandable for them to be frightened, but when I reached into the tank and gently scooped the pink one up, she rested peacefully on my hand, each of her tiny toes pressing softly against my skin. I was fascinated by her. Part of me had feared she might bite me, but she just looked around curiously. I stroked her back with my finger, feeling how bumpy it was.

“Hello, little angel,” I said soothingly.

After I returned her to her tank, I wanted to see if I could somehow comfort the spotted one, but as soon as I removed the lid to their tank, they chirped with fear and burrowed farther into their paper towels. It was strange, I thought. Despite being abandoned and probably dealing with some abuse before that, the pink one was so friendly and trusting. It was like she just wanted love. Once it was determined that both the geckos were healthy, they were put up for adoption. The spotted one was adopted quickly, but the pink one remained. When I visited each week, I went straight to the back room, where I would greet her.

“Hello, my little angel,” I would say every time. When I looked at her, I was overcome with emotion. How could someone so innocent, so precious, not have been adopted yet? Surely she would have a home soon. As weeks passed, a new thought occurred to me, something I never would have thought possible before. What if I adopted her? I had never been a reptile’s guardian before. I’d just had what were considered “normal” companion animals, like dogs, cats, and hamsters. 

During my time at the rescue center, I’d learned about what was required for leopard gecko care. But was I capable of doing it? I began doing some research. I knew it was a huge responsibility, and I didn’t want to bring the gecko home unless I was certain I could provide her with the right environment. For a while, there was one thing holding me back: they ate bugs! They had to be live bugs, too, because many small reptiles will only eat moving insects; they cannot be successfully fed pellets. At the time, it was hard to imagine buying and keeping live bugs for my gecko. It was too gross, I wouldn’t be able to do it, and yes, it is sad that insects have to suffer for lizards to eat—but I couldn’t ignore the way this gecko was tugging at my heart. One day I thought to myself: what if everyone who ever considered adopting a reptile let this stop them? Sometimes in life, getting out of your comfort zone is worth it. 

As the summer came to an end, it became clear to me that I had a choice to make. My family and I were going out of town, and while we were gone, there was going to be a reptile expo. The rescue center always took their animals to such events and would try to get people to adopt as many as they could. I decided that when we came back, if the gecko hadn’t been adopted at the expo, it would be a sign that she and I were meant to be together. I thought about it for a few days, looking at photos of that endearing face that I had taken on my phone, photos of that little angel sitting on my hand so casually, like we had known each other forever. When we returned home and I went back to the rescue center, I was preparing to be disappointed. I stopped to talk with some of the workers about the expo before heading to the back.

“It went great. We got all of the animals adopted,” one of them told me. “All of them except the gecko.”

My heart soared. What were the odds? It was meant to be, I was positive now. I practically ran back there, and there she was, waiting for me in her tank with a smile. I spoke with the owner of the rescue center immediately, and we worked out the adoption. I am very grateful to him for helping me get all of the supplies I needed and recommending what would be best. By late August, it was time for me to bring the gecko home. But there was one thing I wanted to know. All of this time, I hadn’t even known if she was a boy or a girl. The owner examined her, and he told me she was a girl. A little girl. I already knew what I was going to name her. Angel. 

Once Angel was home and I had everything set up for her, I couldn’t believe it had actually happened. I had a companion leopard gecko! I was so excited to share the news with all of my friends and family. There were some mixed reactions (a lot of people aren’t too fond of reptiles, as I’ve come to find out), but overall, everyone was happy for me. It’s hard to believe months have passed already, and she’s settled into her new home wonderfully. I am so glad I decided to try something new—something a little scary—because I have gained such an adorable addition to the family, and she has been the sweetest companion. I also overcame my reservations about handling bugs!

I’ll never forget the day I met Angel and what she went through. Even though she had to deal with extreme trauma, she was not afraid to put her trust in me and warmed up to me almost instantly. I couldn’t understand why no one wanted to adopt her before I did, but perhaps they just didn’t have the connection with her that I had felt from day one. 

Now I know she will be safe and loved for the rest of her life, and I am so thankful that she came into mine. She taught me that all animals deserve a chance, even if they’re not furry and cuddly. They can have a bond with humans that’s just as close, if not closer. I’ve never seen an animal that responds to my voice the way she does. The way she gets so alert and raises her head to hear me better. How she closes her eyes halfway, as if the sound is like beautiful music. My relationship with her has changed me for the better and ignited a passion in me for reptile conservation, as they are so often overlooked.

People always say that dogs are the angels we have here on Earth, and though I agree, I think sometimes reptiles can be angels in disguise, too.

🦎

Hannah Tomes is a college student studying Professional Writing. She lives in West Virginia with her dog, a black lab named Jade; her cat, a Russian blue named Cloudy; and the newest member of her family, a leopard gecko named Angel. She has always adored animals and is currently a volunteer at a local organization that takes in abandoned and neglected reptiles.

For more inspiring stories of courageous animals, get your copy of the anthology today!

What Were We Thinking? by Mary Jo Meloy

by Guest, posted in Companions, Rescue

Guest Post by Mary Jo Meloy

My husband and I have been blessed with dogs our entire married life. We have always had two dogs at a time as companions to one another. We lost our last canine couple, a chocolate Lab and Boxer mix, the same weekend—one from cancer and the other from hip dysplasia. Since we are now in our early 70s, we decided against having any more companion animals. We grieved for a couple of years without dogs when our daughter suggested another dog was needed for our “protection.” Elderly safekeeping? Research studies show that living with a dog positively impacts one’s physical and emotional health, especially by improving the health and happiness of older individuals. 

In July we rescued two pups from the Chuck Silcox Animal Care & Adoption Center in Fort Worth, Texas. They are both very good with people and other dogs, but both were dealing with parasites so could not be put into a social setting or sent to training. Phineas was 7 pounds when adopted—pathetic and petrified, skin and bones, broken and bow-legged from malnutrition. Ferb was an athletic, muscular, stunning fawn Boxer when relinquished to the shelter. 

Boxers tend to be highly energetic, playful, and upbeat and consume all your energy—and 70-year-olds do not have a lot of spare energy to be consumed. We are seasoned animal guardians but have not had puppies for 15 years, so a serene existence suddenly felt totally out of control with the thought, What were we thinking?! 

Having furry friends, especially two together, completely changes the retirement routine. Canine chaos and craziness become part of what was once a sedentary life. House cleaning is a daily duty now, as is scrubbing the backyard storm glass door from dog slobber. As we scoured the outside exterior of the glass with paper towels and Windex, Ferb was on the inside, imitating the wiping movements with his tongue. We realized that we adopted a giant tongue saliva machine with a dog head attached. 

The mighty mischief-makers proved to be a destructive dynamo duo, destroying and devouring anything that had pooch appeal. There were dozens of toys and chewies, but Phineas went for furniture and carpeting; Ferb, everything else. Phineas—besides gnawing on his bestie bud, Gentle Ferb the Boxer (who already looked like a boxing prize fighter who’d lost in the ring, with his mangled ears and scabbed and scarred face)—also enjoyed chomping playfully on his guardians. Our new best friend became liquid skin. 

Phineas and Ferb require plenty of playtime, exercise, and attention. The pups played non-stop and, while wrangling and wrestling, broke a glass door to our antique bookcase. The bottom shelf of literary works became exposed to literary consumption—literally! The dogs found several of our printed works to be in good taste. 

Since they consume books, possessions, time, and energy, we contracted a personal trainer who came to our home. After instructing us not to use treats for motivation, she decided to get the dogs’ full attention with treats. She instantly had their complete attention, and the twosome sat perfectly still at her feet like garden statues. While the handler explained “stay” and “come” while waving her arms, the pair started to perform amazing animal auditions. They offered right paws in unison—then, upon receiving no food reward, concurrently extended left paws, then lay down, and finally rolled over. The trainer was oblivious to the players’ performance of their entire repertoire of tricks. When the trainer’s barking instructions concluded along with her stretching and swinging arms, both dogs simultaneously stood on their hind legs and twirled—as their finale. If it wasn’t for the exorbitant expense, the ludicrous training session would have served as comic relief. Learning—nor mastering mutt manners—was not one of the things the hounds ingested! 

A new experience was having to search to find the robot vacuum. The vacuum now works 100 times as hard; what once was an easy, peasy job now involves swallowing dog hairs and choking on bits of dog food. I clean up on vacuum nights, fold up their cooling mat, put away all the dog toys, and sweep up the dog food, but the robot vacuum still tries to hide and commit suicide. Some nights I’m too tired to pick up everything, so I give the robot a night off and send it back to its dock. Now, the vacuum automatically gives itself nights off. It hates vacuuming our doggie daycare center, as our home has become the House of Kibbles. 

The Texas triple-digit temps led us to bribing the pups to go outside. The heat did not help with the housebreaking training. Ferb shattered a 5-foot-tall mirror, so that’s 7 years of back luck. (We’re assuming that it will now take another 7 years to housebreak them.) We have been drenching and dousing baseboards and furniture legs in white vinegar to keep Phinn from chewing them. The term “piss and vinegar” must refer to the smell of the House of Kibbles. 

We are adjusting, and the pups get mandatory naps now, as do we. Phineas has become a handsome little fat boy, while Ferb becomes a bigger goofy goober by the day. He makes us laugh with his comical antics and silly stunts. As Ferb runs, he is so smooth and graceful—until he runs right smack into the patio post. Then he stands on the backyard stone wall like the magnificent lion king surveying his land—he looks so regal, except that his ears are inside out. The partner pair are valuable members of the family, who bring both madness and mayhem into our home, but also joy and entertainment. Having dogs, with their devoted companionship, may be one of the greatest gifts that enriches our lives with love and laughter. 

Dogs provide security, unconditional love, and forever affection. The question of “What were we thinking?” when rescuing these pups often comes to mind, especially when cleaning up pooch piss, poo, and puke. The answer is that life is too short not to embrace man’s best friends. Furry friends create a human-animal bond of the utmost importance. Both of our sweet-natured softies are loving and loyal. Cuddling clownish Ferb with his big brown eyes and wrinkled forehead and petting pretty boy Phinn are soothing to the heart and almost as good for the soul as prayer. Happiness cannot be bought, but possibly it can be rescued.

Mary Jo Meloy, a dog lover, is married with three children and a granddaughter. She has resided in various parts of the country, but after relocating to Texas, she traveled thousands of miles with her husband via motorcycle. “Been there, done that—on a bike!” A number of her joy ride tours have been published in Wing World Magazine. She also wrote “Mother of My Heart,” published in Memories of Mothers: Inspiring Real-Life Stories of How Mothers Touch Our Lives. Her self-published book, Somewhere in France, A Rendezvous with Your Own Thoughts, is a richly detailed commentary on the Second World War via a compilation of her father’s letters.  

I Brought a Tiny Tiger into My Home—and Did Not Get Eaten

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

“Why would anyone keep a tiny tiger in the house?” I asked my immediate circle approximately 1,000 times over the course of the last 20 years. Never mind that I’d made it a lifelong habit of always having at least one tiny wolf by my side.

To me, housecats were miscreants who spent their days plotting the overthrow of their rulers à la Animal Farm’s Napoleon and Snowball. That was made quite clear by the multitudes of felines I’d met who’d bat their eyes for a gentle pet only to sink their claws into my wrist moments later. Or, a decade ago, when my (very temporary) foster kitten, Elphaba Bean, would glare at me and then effortlessly slide my houseplant off the edge of the dining room table. Never mind that I internally cherished the moments she’d scale my entire body for the chance to lie on my chest purring with content, or that I volunteered monthly with a local cat rescue, or that I secretly melted every time a kitten photo crossed my social media feeds.

Devious schemers, those cats—every last one of them. Every last one, that is, until I encountered a 2-pound kitten with a black nose bordered by a white face lurking on my porch in the summer of 2021.

She was too young, too bold, for the wild, with her contrasting tones that blew the gaff on her charade as a chameleon amidst the shrubbery. I secured a kitten-sized trap from the cat rescue. I knew what I had to do.

By the next day, there was a dazed tuxedo kitten pressing herself so tightly into the corner of my laundry room that she just might have metamorphosized into the wallpaper. Success. I would spend the next few weeks vetting, spaying, and socializing her before finding her a loving home, wiping my hands clean, and calling it a day. I could add the victory to my list of good deeds for the year.

Then I stepped back outside, and there she was again, blinking up at me—only reversed? White nose, black face.

Oh. Her brother.

Soon, they were both squeezing themselves behind, above, and under cabinets, the washing machine, my fish tank. I shoved balls of towels and blankets and miscellaneous boards into every orifice to keep them out of these crevices and in my sights until I realized I had nothing left to dry off with after a shower. But despite their digging (coupled with an uncanny ability to shrink to approximately a quarter of their girth), my makeshift blockades worked, and the kittens soon acquiesced to being gently petted as they devoured their meals.  

But this isn’t their story, those two kittens who, after weeks of living in my laundry room, being inundated by my persistent company, and being carted to and from traumatizing vet visits, are now hulking, thriving cats living their best lives with my boyfriend’s mother.

This is the story of their birth mother, whom I made the executive decision to trap just two nights into the kittens’ perceived imprisonment after I nearly ran her over as she chilled in the middle of my street, unperturbed by my oncoming headlights. With raindrops pattering on my roof, I set a trap and 10 minutes later returned to vibrant emerald eyes blinking into mine and a jet black face accentuated by a petite white mustache.

Mother and kittens hissed and fought at first, as though they’d lost their memory of one another. But by the next morning, all misgivings had been abandoned, and the 8-week-old twins had returned to suckling their young mom, who was crawling with intestinal parasites and lethargic. She silently tolerated my incessant visits to her nursery room, apparently teetering between relief at the breaks from nursing and suspicion over my intentions with her progeny.

As she healed, she remained aloof, but this mama cat I began calling Chia barely uttered a hiss and never once tried to bite. It was hard to fathom that she’d always been alone, feral; perhaps, rather, she’d been raised by a neighborhood family and then been abandoned. But I posted online; I sought her people—and no one ever came looking.

At a mere two years of age, according to Chia’s vet, she was a dedicated, focused mom. She let those kittens nurse until 13 weeks when they finally went to their new home. And though she retreated under the fish tank for almost two days after their departure, I knew the agonizing decision to split them up was what needed to be done. In my humble abode with a pig and one of those aforementioned tiny wolves, a family of three felines would not fit.

It was time for Chia, too, to find a home of her own, yet a month or so in, it had become apparent that home was with me. After all, she’d chosen my yard, of all yards, in which to deposit her kittens, somehow knowing, or hoping, she’d find safety. A tiny tiger had taken up permanent residence, and it felt perfectly rational to accommodate this conspiratorial predator. She camped out in the laundry room by day, averse to confrontations with my tiny wolf, Powder, and prowled for unsuspecting crickets at night. The tenuous relationship she’d begun to forge with Powder, though, was cut short upon Powder’s sudden departure due to a massive cancer of the heart that December. I was all Chia had left, apart from the potbellied pig inhabiting the living room with whom she had no desire to associate.

Chia’s nightly escapades throughout the house grew longer, and her hours beneath the fish tank shrank. She yowled like a lost child while I slept, so I invited her into my room. When she’d finally recovered from her worm-induced malnutrition, she instituted a ritual of early morning rampages with her stuffed mouse that led to many sleep-deprived workdays on my part.

Although grumpy with fatigue, I relished in Chia’s youthful frenzy, which injected life into a household left vacant of Powder’s once effervescent presence. Still, in my season of grief, I couldn’t reciprocate that energy. We both needed a friend.

That’s when Chia’s new sister, Lip Gloss, a formerly neglected senior lady from a hoarding case, entered the picture, or rather, strutted in with the air of a queen claiming her rightly throne on my pillow. Chia’s first reaction was to smack LG and run away. But LG didn’t blink—she simply smacked her back. She could take it.

Over the coming weeks, the new frenemies interacted like stars of a cat soap opera. Despite their overt daily scuffles over tensions invisible to me, though, Chia’s confidence was soaring. Her midnight mewling simmered out, she became willing to nap within six feet of her sister, and the two tested the waters at brief games of tag. Peace descended on the household, punctuated only periodically by mutual slaps. The challenge, it seemed, had inspired compromise and adaptation.

If only humans handled conflicts like these cats, I mused one day. We’d just hurl a bad word, storm off, and sit in our respective corners to mull over what we’d done before coming back and apologizing an hour later. Perhaps we’d stop threatening nuclear warfare to prove our own might, or at least stop passive aggressively blasting our neighbor on Nextdoor when they let their grass get 6 inches too tall.

A few months in, I was narrating my adventures in feline companionship to my aunt, a lifelong cat lady. “Just wait. Chia has some surprises in store for you,” she declared.

I didn’t really believe her, assuming that with Chia, and cats broadly, “What you see is what you get.” But one day, during my newly acquired habit of reading about cats in my free time as I worked toward completing my own transition into a cat lady, I learned that it can take between 6 and 12 months for two cats to form a solid friendship. In my experience with dogs, generally, they either were or they weren’t friends. They wore their feelings on their sleeves. Cats, meanwhile, quietly survey their surroundings, formulate a hypothesis, hash out a plan of action, assess the results, and repeat until they’ve refined a strategy. They’re subtle scientists, on a path of evolution.

Sure enough, over the next year, my aunt’s predictions came to fruition. Chia and Lip Gloss are not only in an intense love-hate sisterhood consisting of Chia fervently grooming Lip Gloss’ face until the latter bats her away with impudence (only to beckon her to come play hours later)—but Chia also offers me, the human she’s supposed to be dethroning any day now, plentiful sandpaper kisses in return for a mere scratch on the back. The pair started to sleep cuddled on either side of me all night, purring like a massage chair. And now, Chia only disappears under the fish tank when the vacuum comes out.

For over 30 years, I surrounded myself with canines who felt often like an extension of me, with their unwavering affection and codependency. I couldn’t have conceived of welcoming into my home an unpredictable being who clears countertops in one leap and inexplicably, according to science, is aware at all times of my exact position in the house without even laying eyes on me. (Seriously, if that spy skill isn’t evidence of a conspiracy waiting to happen, I’ve got nothing.) I never could have predicted becoming the narrator in Taylor Swift’s “Gorgeous,” who sings, “Guess I’ll just stumble on home to my cats.” But here I am, enamored by my cats so much that I even painted the line on a cat-themed cardigan, which I purchased through an auction benefiting that cat rescue that let me borrow those traps that summer. And it all started because of the mama cat I came so close to running over that August night who now, with a complete lack of ferocity, licks my nose every time I offer her a kiss.

Oh, and as of early 2023, we’re now a three-cat family.

This story was written with the help of Tina Marie Johnson of Blue Mountain Creative Consulting.

Cat’s Permanent Grin Was Caused by Years of Neglect

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

Exactly 3 months, 12 days, and 4 hours ago, my entire world was shattered. Powder—my soul dog, my best friend—was ripped from my life by an aggressive cancer just as fast as she’d collided with it in early 2009 when my car nearly collided with her, a white puppy lost in the road at midnight. The pain has been so raw, so jarring, so unimaginable that I still can’t write about it. But in the depths of this sadness, an almost equally unimaginable being pounced into my life. That being is Lip Gloss.

It was only a couple weeks into the hurricane that had become my new normal after Powder’s loss, intensified by the near death (twice) of my father and the actual death of my second mom, Sherrie (2021 was quite the year for me), that I began the search for a feline friend on Petfinder. Nightly, I pored over pages and pages containing tens of thousands of cats, knowing it would be years, maybe decades, before I could welcome another dog into my heart—but that I still had a lonely cat at home and the space to offer to another in need. Yet equally needy, equally sad, they all appeared, yearning not to become one of the millions who enter shelters and never emerge alive each year. I couldn’t choose which cat to save and which to turn my back on. Although I don’t believe in “signs,” I needed one to overcome the paralysis.

The “sign” came when the name “Powder” flickered across my screen above the image of a plain white cat. Without even reading his description, I rushed to put in my application. This was the cat I had to have to fill that hole in my heart, if it could ever be filled.

Not an hour later, I was reading more about my cat-to-be and immediately learned that he had a brother who had to be adopted with him. They were an inseparable pair, but space for two in my humble abode, I did not have. I sighed as I emailed the shelter, Shenandoah Valley Animal Services Center (SVASC) of Lyndhurst, Virginia, withdrawing my application. Fate seemed to be taunting me like an uncatchable laser pointer.

But SVASC wasn’t ready to give up on me. “Is there another cat you’re interested in?” they replied. I halfheartedly scrolled the website, knowing I’d never find another Powder. And I was right—there will never be another of Powder, not for me, and not for this world. She is irreplaceable, and her loss is incurable.

But who I did find was Lip Gloss, a 12-year-old feline with a permanent grin—or grimace, depending on how you look at her—etched onto her face. She was strange; she was beautiful; and she was a sweet senior who had been looked over for two straight months. She instantly became mine, and I, hers.

Lip Gloss’ curious expression is actually the result of a “rodent ulcer,” or indolent ulcer, resulting from an ongoing, untreated flea infestation at her former home, where she was hoarded along with 12 other cats. According to the shelter, her fitting name “Lip Gloss” comes from the so-titled song by recording artist Lil Mama. Her original name, given by her previous family, was Mama, which makes me wonder if she’d previously been bred. The neglect at that home also left her with a cauliflower ear, crumpled because of a hematoma due to ear mites or an infection.

Despite her humbled appearance, Lip Gloss strutted into my house and made herself at home immediately. Like the queen she is, she has taken over my bed, roosting each night on my entire pillow and leaving me the corners. Sometimes, she prefers to burrow under the blanket and will meow until I oblige her by lifting the covers so she can crawl in—almost perfectly mimicking Powder, who whined incessantly for the same prize: being tucked in for a good night’s sleep.

Lip Gloss carries not only her unique physical features from her past, but also her own emotional baggage. She hoards each meal like it might be her last, nearly tripping me as she awaits feeding and then scarfing the food down so fast she occasionally throws it back up. I’ve resorted to feeding my other cat, Chia, in a separate room, lest Lip Gloss devour her entire bowl, too. But at least I’ve taught Lip Gloss some manners: she’ll sit every time, without fail, for a meal or even a morsel of food.

As predictably as her insatiable appetite, Lip Gloss does something else every day: she makes me laugh—a feat I never thought possible after Powder’s passing. Whether appearing apparently from nowhere beside my face baring her teeth and breathing like Darth Vader through her mouth (she also suffers from periodic bouts of stuffy nose brought on by feline herpes), sleeping upside-down with her fangs on display, or using her paw to hold up her bulbous tummy as she grooms herself, Lip Gloss is a perpetual comedian.

It was terrifying to adopt a senior cat so soon after I lost Powder. I thought I might lose Lip Gloss, too, in mere days. I rushed her to the vet in those early weeks at every sneeze or excessive trip to the water bowl (we’re exploring a possible, treatable thyroid issue currently, so my fears haven’t been completely unjustified). Death has surrounded me lately, stealing my ability to enjoy beautiful moments and replacing it with a loudly ticking clock in the back of my mind that counts down my own mortality, and that of everyone I know and love. At first, all I could think about was that I might only have two, or maybe four, years with Lip Gloss, if I’m lucky. And days ticked by unappreciated, and with them, beautiful moments. I broke down in bed for days and nearly missed the first time my cats broached their inexplicable silent battle over territory, lowered their batting paws, and simply played together.

Lip Gloss has forced me to stop missing those moments. I know her years are short. In the scheme of things, mine are too. We will all be plunged into the unknowable oblivion, like Powder before us. But we can make something of each day. I might not move mountains, but I can play a song on my ukulele; I can write a blog; I can post a photo revealing the marvels of the tiny shrimp who mate for life at the Hawaiian seashore on social media and reach untold people with a compassionate message. I can laugh at my cat snoring upside-down, knowing she had the strength to leave behind her years of neglect and keep grinning.

Thanks to Lip Gloss, today, I’m wide awake, and I grin, too.

These Dive-Bombing, Deck-Destroying Bees Can Outsmart Us All

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Rescue, Wildlife

I love spring, the season of rebirth. Every day the leaves grow bigger, new flowers burst into bloom, and the yellow buzzing cotton balls known as carpenter bees dive-bomb me nonstop on my back deck. One might presume this would be quite the annoyance, and in the past, I’d have heartily agreed. Until the day I met Dandelion two years ago and fell in love.

It was late March in Virginia, where the whether changes from day to day like a wardrobe. The daffodils had already sprung up, but the crisp 40-degree winds of winter still kissed my cheeks. Hunched over almost lifelessly on my front porch one morning was a fuzzy yellow and black ball, a carpenter bee who’d crawled out to greet the sun and been stunned by the plunging overnight temperatures. He’d lost the energy to fly, and without his wings, he’d never be able to travel to his next meal.

I scooped up the creature, and he buzzed in my hands. I quickly filled an oversized Tupperware with a damp paper towel, some blades of grass, a few dandelions, and a capful of organic sugar water. I coaxed this new friend to the dish, where he immediately began sucking up the liquid with his long proboscis, resembling a miniscule winged elephant of sorts.

Dandelion, as I immediately christened him, spent about a week with me. Each morning I’d replace his supply of flowers and sugar water, and he’d lap up the beverage and spend the day sipping from the array of flowers like a wine tasting at a vineyard. He’d hang out in my lap buzzing sporadically, yet still unable to muster enough strength to take flight. While he was in my care, I read up on these fascinating insects, learning pretty early on not to fear Dandelion or others of his kind: despite their overt aggression and stalker-like behavior (anyone else been followed around your yard by a zealous bee, hovering inches from your face and staring menacingly yet adorably into your soul?), male carpenter bees can’t actually sting.

While males are out strutting their stuff, female carpenter bees, I learned, live with their sisters in sorority fashion, caring for one another and taking on specific roles within a social hierarchy to keep the nest running smoothly. And while they can sting, they only do so under dire circumstances.

Since that spring, I’ve spent hours watching carpenter bees diligently deconstruct the wooden boards in my deck, as, true to their name, they burrow into wood to nest. Listening closely, I can hear their soft scratching sounds like tiny saws. Instead of agonizing over how much putty I’ll need to fill these precisely carved tunnels, I remind myself that I’m a mere visitor here, in their home. And my deck is host to an extraordinary, unbreakable sisterhood.

If you’re still unconvinced of the magic I see in bees, consider this: researchers at Queen Mary University of London taught a group of bees in 2017 to move a ball to a certain position to access sugar water. The bees easily mastered this task, unsurprisingly. Then, when new bees were introduced to the experiment and observed their peers completing the task and being rewarded, they, too, learned to do it. But their intelligence didn’t stop there—the new bees invented more efficient ways to get their sugar fix, like picking balls that were situated closer to the target. They innovated.

These results support an earlier study that discovered that bees could learn new tasks with increasing complexity for food, and they could subsequently somehow communicate their discoveries to their friends.

Perhaps, most remarkable, however, is how bees’ social adaptation skills can measure up to, or even actually trump, our own. Bees have long been observed to perform a “waggle dance” to show other bees abundant food sources. But when a find is unappetizing, the bees do a smaller dance, or don’t dance at all. Other bees respond appropriately in either case and will even leave more crowded feeding spots for a higher quality opportunity, avoiding “maladaptive herding,” a phenomenon in which blindly following the masses results in the spread of misinformation (2020 conspiracy theories, anyone?).

To test this capability in humans, researchers devised an experiment in which participants had to choose among three slot machines, trying to win as much money as possible, while being allowed to observe other participants. The results:

“[A] challenging task elicited greater conformity and the copying increased with group size. This suggests that unlike bees, when large groups are confronted with tough challenges, collective decision-making becomes inflexible, and maladaptive herding behaviour is prominent. … [W]e should be more aware of the risk of maladaptive herding when these conditions – large group size and a difficult problem – prevail. We should take account of not just the most popular opinion, but also other minority opinions.”

Imagine where we’d be if more of us humans detected and strayed from harmful ideologies, platforms, and demagogues. Imagine if we were as discerning and skilled participants as bees are in our own democracy.

Back to that spring two years ago. One morning I came downstairs to find Dandelion zipping around his enclosure, and I knew his time had come. I picked a balmy 70-degree day and released him soaring back into the wild. His departure saddened me, but I knew it was his job to go out and pollinate the world. After all, bees are responsible for pollinating 90 percent of our food, and without them, in a reality that could be right around the corner, we’d lose half the groceries we take for granted today. I can’t imagine a bee-less world, but we’re catapulting toward it every day with our pesticides, pollution, and habitat destruction.

In the U.S., for instance, between 1947 and 2008, the honeybee population plunged from 6 million to 2.4 million, or about 60 percent. This is largely attributable to our pesticide use on massive scale. According to Greenpeace, scientists have discovered over 150 different pesticides within granules of pollen, and major corporations like Bayer and DuPont “shrug their shoulders at the systemic complexity, as if the mystery were too complicated. They advocate no change in pesticide policy. After all, selling poisons to the world’s farmers is profitable.”

Do your part to protect our pollinators. Maintain a bee-friendly yard with no pesticides. Leave the dandelions in your yard, as they are emerging bees’ first spring snack. Purchase organic produce when you can, and work to secure better access for others, especially those in food apartheids. Support an American ban on neonicotinoids, a particularly deadly class of pesticides that’s already banned in the European Union and which may be responsible for the deaths of up to up to a third of U.S. beehives. Be on the lookout for stunned bees like Dandelion in early spring, and leave out shallow bowls of water (filled with rocks) for them and other insects.

Despite their (endearing) dive-bombing and deck-destroying proclivities, bees give us life—so let’s preserve theirs.

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.

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.

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.