Tag: adoption

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.

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.

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

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Petitions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Lilah never made it there.

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” I said.

“Lilah?” he replied.

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

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

A week later, I received another call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Petition count: 1,439 signatures

Meet a 2-Year-Old Pig the Size of a Milk Jug. Where He Came from Will Shock You.

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

Meet Beacon. Hunched over, timid, and hardly bigger than a gallon of milk — you’d think he was just a piglet. But Beacon was two years old when he was rescued and given a chance to truly live.

He was born February 6, 2016. “That date is also the date I got married in 1996,” says his new mom, Anna Hoffman of Ohio, “which couldn’t be more of a sign that lady fate knew what she was doing bringing Beacon into my life on a date that represents dedicated, loyal, everlasting love.”

Prior to his adoption, Beacon lived in an aquarium.

Yes, a glass tank.

At just days old, he was sold to a man with good intentions but basically no knowledge on what raising a piglet would require. So when a vet told him to feed the piglet just 1/8 of a cup of food in the morning and 1/4 of a cup in the evening, that’s exactly what he did.

For two years, Beacon ate 3/8 cup of food daily and drank from a guinea pig water bottle hanging from the side of his tank.

For two years, he only knew those glass walls.

For two years, he was known as Bacon.

Anna knew that changing his name would only cause more unnecessary stress and confusion. So, she settled on a name that was quite similar phonetically, yet so deeply different at its core: Beacon, which “seemed fitting because [she] truly believe[s] he is and will continue to be a Beacon of hope and light for all unwanted, neglected fur babies out there.”

Of course, as he settled into his new home, there were many uncertainties: his fragile health, his timid personality, his future. But his new family was determined, patient, and kind. They slowly increased his feed; offered him a comfortable place to sleep; introduced him to grass and sunshine; and even provided him with a friend, their potbellied pig, Charlotte.

At two years old, Beacon should have weighed 50 pounds or more (because “teacup” pigs are not a real thing), but he was only 11 pounds — hardly 3 pounds more than a gallon of milk. His hooves were overgrown, his back was curved, and his sides were sunken in.

And such is the plight of thousands more like him, sold by breeders who say they will stay petite if you don’t “overfeed” them. But while these pigs might not weigh in at 50 or 100 pounds, it’s not because they’ve been bred to be the Chihuahuas of the porcine world.

They, quite simply, are starved. Their bellies shrivel in, and their bodies consume every ounce of body fat, desperate to stay alive. They are the faces of the “teacup” pig industry.

But, for the lucky Beacon, at 11 pounds and suddenly living a life of luxury, the only thing to do now was grow, and grow he did.

And while he grew, Beacon learned that he could snuggle. Graze. Gorge himself on apples.

He learned that he could be loved. And trust. And roll over for belly rubs.

He even learned that pools aren’t so scary.

And Beacon learned that bliss is just one butt scratch away.

Most importantly, he learned that no matter how bleak life gets, there is always hope. And now, via his Facebook page, he’s inspiring others every day with his determination, zest for life, and quirky personality to find some light in even the darkest of places — and to never let it go.

Follow Beacon on Facebook to keep up with his amazing journey as he grows, romps, oinks, and squeals with his forever family by his side. 

(Photo credits: Beacon the Piggy of Light and Hope, Anna Hoffman)

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.