...still animal-related *g*
Living out in the country, we often get strays stopping by, or neglected dogs hoping to find a new home. It's sad, and we do what we can to patch them up and get some meat on their bones. Usually, they end up leaving, of their own volition. It's sad, but we hate calling animal control or the pound, since that only spells a painful death sentence around here (until recently, they still took animals out back and shot them--they weren't good shots, either. So, really, it's an option between painful death or...painful death). If they come back, we're happy to see them and, once again, do what we can.
For those that don't come back to our home, if we see them, we leave piles of dog food at their favorite haunts and hope for the best. Rehoming never ends well around here, and it's like some stagnant Catch-22. No one really realizes the full extent of the problem, and no one cares to find out.
Sometimes, though, we run across one that makes us wish they were ours. Beat up, starving, and just the sweetest thing imaginable. Happened with Red, a fighting pit that made a home here, and Baby, his rottie friend--when we found the place they kept him, we saw all the other fighters staked out, adults to pups, all dead. Happened, again, with a hunting dog who took a shine to me, until his owner located him by the tracker in his collar.
And, now, with one of Crazy Jack's dogs, who came up last week. At first I was intimidated, since he looked like quite the bruiser, but his ribs were poking through, his face was all bit to hell, so there was no way we weren't going to help him; despite what happened to him he played nice with the dogs, had manners when fed, and even got comfortable enough to lick my hand every time I went out to either feed him or dose him with benadryl. I didn't know his name, so--in desperation--I just called him Chow-Chow (since that's what he is--a short haired chow).
Later on in the week, we had another guest--a young pit. Chubby, well taken care of. Obviously, he had just escaped from a fence--not a free roamer like most we encounter. We tried getting him to go back home--no luck. So he stuck around--I even threw him a piece of pizza one night. It was fine.
Then, yesterday, I noticed Chow-Chow wasn't around. We called for him, which was no go, and by supper time, he still hadn't come back; we didn't know if the pit ran him off or if Crazy Jack found him and chained him back up. I was very unhappy--I liked Chow-Chow, he fit seamlessly in with our dogs. The pit? Is rude. Last night, I saw he was limping, and went to give him some medicine. And he bit my hand. Bruised it something fierce, even though he didn't break the skin. The outside girls (outside dogs because they prefer it, and can't settle down inside the house) had a lot to say about that, though :).
But, today, we saw Chow-Chow. He came up all excited and nervous, and we added more food in for dinner, expecting him to stay. He didn't. That damn pit we can't get to go home chased him off.
But, if he comes by again, he's gonna stay. SNAP comes 'round monthly for low-cost neuters/spays (a blessing with all these strays around), and we're gonna get him fixed. And then? We're keeping him. I don't care that he's Crazy Jack's. His owner is a no-good fucktard that should be run over by his big, new, expensive truck (since he's so fond of doing that to any animal he sees).
Sometimes I hate people. Okay, I'll be honest: most times I hate everyone except for a select few. And, every single time, I'm justified in that sentiment.
Alright. That's my very long-winded rant for the night.