Life is Good!

"Life is Good" is what Frankie's T-shirt says. This sweet girl wags her tail whenever she has the strength to get up and move around. She smiles and snuggles up to everyone she sees, canine or human. Although her skin is still hot to the touch, her fever has diminished and she's eating and drinking. She is deemed strong enough to start on her medication. Her two siblings began their treatment on Saturday. Donations of meds have begun arriving in the mail. We have pledges of about one third of the three hundred doses we will need.

When you think you've seen the worst...

 The writing and photos are lifted from a NorCal Collie Rescue Facebook posting earlier today. 

This is the group behind the dogs I foster.

NorCal Collie Rescue Many of our long-time friends remember Brook, our 7 month old puppy that came in March of 2011 with Generalized Demodectic Mange. After many months of treatment with Interceptor, Brook finally had a clear scrapping and was deemed cured after 11 months of care in February of 2012. Brook is happy and healthy today because of donations of Interceptor and funds provided by all of you.
Now our nightmare has tripled…..over the last two weeks we have brought in THREE 4 month old puppies with Demodectic Mange – all with MUTANT MDR1 genes. Therefore, Ivermectin can’t be used for treatment and Interceptor is off the market. One the puppies came in last night, septic with a temperature of 104.5. We are trying to stabilize her as I write this. The other two puppies are stable and on antibiotics to treat the secondary infections while we search for the best course of treatment for these 3 sweet, innocent little puppies.
Can you help? Yes you can! Cash donations are always helpful but medicine is what we are in desperate need of right now. Do you or anyone you know have a supply of Interceptor you would be willing to donate to help these puppies? We have collected about a 1 month supply for 1 puppy. We need at least a 6 week supply for all 3 puppies. If you can help, please let us know and mail your extra Interceptor to NorCal Collie Rescue, PMB #517, 270 Redwood Shores Parkway, Redwood City, CA 94065

Beautiful Brook

The end result of  a lot of caring. 

She is our Gold Standard of what we hope to accomplish for these puppies.

To achieve this, we need to come up with 300 doses of Interceptor, which they will be taking daily.

 

Liberty

Life continues here, although not much blogging. For the moment I'm feeling creatively fulfilled in other ways, with some client projects, one in particular. I've been documenting before and after with progress photos, as we change the style of a previously-ugly house. Our second container of stone just arrived from France and the scope of the project keeps growing. Needless to say, there are time demands. This has become the hobby, and passion, of this client. He's one of the nicest people I've worked with for a long time. He even forgave me not recognizing his Aston Martin, which he'd so proudly shown me. I did like the raspberry red leather interior, including dashboard. Usually, when he has an hour or two gap in his schedule, and calls to see if I can meet him, 98% of the time, I go running.
The 2% unavailable responses, were on two recent occasions when I was driving in the other direction to rescue our latest collie. Libby was brought into a shelter with another dog, a couple of weeks ago. The other dog was micro-chipped, the owner located and, although Libby had been living with them since he found her a few weeks previously, he took his dog home and left her behind.
Most shelters will call breed-specific rescue groups, if a recognizably purebred dog comes in. The breed rescues take on veterinary expenses and can spend some time evaluating dogs and people to come up with perfect matches so that dogs find wonderful forever homes. Many dogs adopted directly from shelters go to well-meaning people who have no idea of the commitment they are taking on, or specific characteristics inherent in different breeds. A significant number end up back at the pound six months later, with health or behavioral problems.
Libby had been held for the legal waiting period, to give any owner time to find her, and her photo popped up on the Pet-finder website as an available dog, bypassing any outreach to Collie Rescue. Someone emailed us and our fearless leader, Karen, called the shelter. They didn't want to release her to rescue. They have an unwavering set of procedures and no flexibility to change the way they do things. They needed someone to come in, pay the adoption/spay fee and return a few days later to collect the dog.
Next step, which has been successful in the past, go through all of our waiting adoption applications, to see if a qualified adopter was a match for a six year old collie girl. Find someone who could drop everything and go get her. All of this done at speed because we wanted to make sure Libby was safe. People were out of town, tied up in meetings, yada, yada, yada...
All I had planned was a DMV appointment to renew my driving license and a desk full of the usual obligations. The decision had to be made, as the shelter in question was across the Bay; up past Oakland and Berkeley; part way to Sacramento. A ninety minute drive, if I didn't get into commute traffic. I mapped out my directions, cancelled the DMV appointment online and buckled up for my mission.
"Pick a bridge, any bridge," to cross San Francisco Bay, from my starting point.... That pleasant ten minutes accomplished, with cormorants eying me from their perches along the way, I had to concentrate to pick the correct entry point onto the snarly, truck-infested East Shore Freeway. Not helped at all by the enormous blind-spot created by the dog crate crammed into the back of my little car, I had to be very strategic about any passing or merging maneuvers. Thousands of cars and trucks channeled side by side between the dingy, institutional-beige sound walls, exhaust stained the color of grief.
I got really lucky. Listening to the radio for traffic reports, my ears kept tuning in to the numbered freeways I would be using. Each time I heard of an incident, it was in the opposite direction to mine. I made it to the shelter with time to spare before they closed.
The Pinole shelter is quite modern. The dogs are in small side rooms, divided up into five or six kennel-runs per room. The obvious advantage is that any illness is more readily contained and the noise level is greatly reduced, so that it's not as scary for the dogs. There are windows to the outside and to the hallway; As bright and cheerful as such a place can be.
I was sent to look at "Curly" as they'd named her. She came forward with a tentative tail-wag and a downcast demeanor. She had spent some time rolling in cow manure, from the smell of her, and one eye was red and weepy. I tried to talk them into letting her come home with me but "rules is rules". I filled out paperwork, paid for her spay surgery, and agreed to collect her five days later from the clinic, in another town.

I spent the drive home reflecting on a new name. She was almost a "Glory" but that was too much name for the shy girl I'd just met. Liberty gave her the choice of the softer Libby and would fit whoever she turned out to be.
Two weeks later, her surgery incision all healed, she's had a bath and settled in. My car has been Febreezed and my office floor washed down with bleach. We had to wash our hands each time we petted her. I've never had a dog so relieved to be cleaned up.
Libby came to the beach with us yesterday. We walked along to the fishing boats and bought some live Dungeness crab, to cook at home, then we waited for an outdoor table at a restaurant frequented by almost as many dogs as people.
This morning she had her first off-leash playtime with some other dogs. She's sweet and flirtatious, all puppy-bows and big, carrosel-pony, gamboling canter strides with the best grin on her face. Life is looking up in a big way.

All in a day's work...

Emma and Brook are my office helpers. I "Macgyvered" some additional play space for them with the help of an ex-pen. They get a long walk before work and several short outings during the day so that they don't get too bored. They are both sleeping behind me as I type this. I must always check before I set my chair in motion as they are usually only inches away from me.
It has been interesting to see how many adoption applications came in for Emma. She was at the shelter, without hope for three months. She was to have been euthanized if we didn't take her. Admittedly, it was in the middle of a very rural area and her photos were very unhappy looking. In addition, she was head-shy and afraid of people in general.
Emma has turned into a star. She's put on a couple of pounds, found her smile and wags her bushy tail more every day. We've had six good applications from would be adopters and narrowed it down to two interviews and home checks.
Emma will begin her new life tomorrow, with a young couple who live near my business. I took Emma to their house to meet them and they came to her the next day and took her out for a run. They're in love with her and we're set to do the paperwork and hand her over for their first weekend together.
I just heard that Emma's new person was telling her Mom all about her new dog when her Mom said "I know that dog!". The Mom lives across the street from me and we see her every morning as she walks at the same time we do. She always stops to pet the dogs. There are thirty miles and multiple densely populated communities between my work and home. The chance of linking up with a Mother and Daughter like this is highly improbable, unless you believe in Collie Magic.

Christmas in Rescue Land

I'm in an email group with some others who are involved in collie rescue. I see information shared about specific dogs or people who apply to adopt them. There's a lot going on behind the scenes and at least 50% of dogs are matched with new homes without ever being posted on the rescue web site. Others are taken into foster care until medical or behavioral issues are dealt with and some seniors or dogs with serious health problems are supported by a sanctuary program that pays their bills for life, long or short, and they often stay with their original foster parents. This means that some people in our group have up to nine or ten collies at one time. Mostly it stays at three or four, but we do get to hear from each other about special characters. 

There's a young and naughty collie named Brooke who was found, cold, wet and scared in a huge thunderstorm, in the Spring of this year. She's white with a sable head, very sought after markings, but she had one of the worst cases of mange anyone has ever seen. Brooke's treatment has required daily doses of a medication that is hugely expensive and, once again, someone stepped in to help. A drug rep from the company that makes the product went to her bosses and they agreed to help by supplying six months' worth of the medication. Not your usual story about pharmaceutical companies. If I knew the name I'd share it here. 

Brooke has taken over the home in which she's been living. She is bossy and rude to the home pack and gets into all kinds of trouble. Her foster mother's email this morning described her living room, festively decorated and with ex-pens arranged around the perimeter to keep Brooke from the tree and the gifts. Why don't those home decor shows ever include this kind of thing? 

Another email was not about a collie at all. A friend of a friend in poodle rescue was reaching out to ask if anyone was driving up to Lake Tahoe for the holidays and was willing to transport an old dog who had been saved from euthanasia at the pound and matched with an elderly couple who couldn't make the drive.  In less than an hour, someone had volunteered to pick him up and deliver him. 

I've re-posted the Starfish story below. I think it is inspiring. We all have opportunities to make a difference somewhere, in some small way. That's my Christmas Wish, for those in need and those who can help. Small things add up and you have to start somewhere.

Starfish-Making a Difference (writer unknown)

Once upon a time there was a wise man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking the beach before he began his work. One day he was walking along the shore and as he looked down the beach, he saw a human figure moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself to think of someone who would dance to the day. So he began to walk faster to catch up. As he got closer, he saw that it was a young man and the young man wasn't dancing but instead he was reaching down to the shore, picking up something and very gently throwing it into the ocean. As he got closer he called out, "Good morning! What are you doing?" The young man paused, looked up and replied, "Throwing starfish into the ocean". "I suppose I should have asked, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?" "The sun is up, and the tide is going out. And if I don't throw them in they'll die." "But, young man don't you realize that there are miles and miles of beach, and starfish all along it. You can't possibly make a difference!"

The young man listened politely. Then bent down, picked another starfish and threw it into the sea, past the breaking waves and said, "It made a difference for that one."

One Hit, One Miss

How hard can it be to keep a hair appointment on a Saturday morning?

Abbey and I had a lovely walk this morning, before the heat took hold of the day. Circuiting the community park, the baseball coaches were doing extra watering and dressing of the field, before the kids showed up to play. There were a few other walkers, as well as the Tai Chi Group and the "Exercise with BIG Swords" Group, on the tennis courts, complete with Chinese music coming from a tinny sounding cassette player/radio that had seen better days, but fit the age group perfectly. Some construction workers were hammering noisily away on a new project right next door to a residential nursing home, at 7 am on a weekend. I hoped, for their sakes, that the patients had less than acute hearing.

Dog duties taken care of, I still had time to drive up the canyon in search of a fresh supply of Bay leaves, to dry and then use as a seasoning. The bay trees start a little higher past the reservoir and then it's just a question of finding a safe place to pull over, not slip down the hill and avoid coming in contact with poison oak.

As I turned out of our street onto the canyon road I saw a small baby bunny off to the side of the main road. There is lushly irrigated lawn on one side, in front of a row of townhouses, and the dry scrubby hillside, interspersed with homes, rises up on the other. The temptation is obvious. I slowed to make sure bunny wouldn't panic and run the wrong way and end up under my wheels. He moved aside but didn't scoot away up the hill, as I'd hoped. 

Ten minutes later, my little car pungent with a bouquet of fresh bay leaves, I rounded the bend on the way back down to see a cluster of worried, spandex-clad cyclists who had halted their ride to see to the bunny. One man had poured some water on the ground next to the baby, but they were obviously at a loss as to what they could do next. They don't include bunny rescue pockets in the aerodynamics of those brightly colored clothes.

The cyclists were thrilled when I stopped and scooped up the little one. His nose was bloody but his limbs were all functioning. He even wriggled a bit in my hands. I thought he might have a chance after all. I gave them my card so that they could call to find out the outcome. My intention was to get him to Animal Services in the town where I was to get my hair cut. The shelter there has a wild life section.

A quick detour back to my house to equip a kitten sized pet carrier, (one I bought when I was raising Sparkles the kitten), with some dry grass for a nest and to dig out a mini baby bottle and get some water into his little mouth, which he took voluntarily. We climbed into the car and headed north. 

My rising hopes were knocked back down as he started kicking wildly in what I assumed was a seizure. He had another one and then was still. When I arrived at my destination the light had gone from bunny's eyes, although he still looked so pretty, I had to pick him up to be sure. I think bunny had a concussion or brain swelling after being hit, or just tumbled at high speed whilst crossing the road. Now I have to break the news to the cyclists when they call, as I'm certain they will. 

A few seconds after sitting in the Salon chair, there was a huge crash outside. We went out to see what had happened. A car had pulled out without seeing another one coming and the second car had been seriously crunched. The driver of the car that was hit was a young woman and the airbag, which had certainly saved her from serious harm had hit her hard, as well as burning the skin on her wrists and arms. She was in tears and trying to catch her breath. We didn't want her to move, of course, but the car was smoking and looked like it was catching on fire. 

I understand that 911 (999 in U.K.) operators can talk and type at the same time, but I really had the impression that the person who answered my call was not immediately summoning help, as she kept asking me the colors of the two cars. I reiterated the need for ambulance and fire and she got the message. The young woman got out of her car and we pulled a chair out of the salon, onto the sidewalk for her to sit down on. She had me call her boss to explain why she was late for work and the police and other services showed up very quickly after that. I grabbed my camera so that she would have pictures to show her insurance company. She didn't have to be hospitalized but I'm sure she'll be sore for a few days. Both cars were eventually towed away and the street was reopened to traffic.

By 10:30 this morning I had a nicely refreshed hair cut and color and was wondering what the heck else the day could bring.

Flight to Nowhere.

There was an injured crow down on the road, not far from my house, on Sunday. I parked my car and walked back to see if there was anything to be done. The family who live right there, were just maneuvering to get around and into their driveway without running over the hapless bird and there were anxious cawings from a pair of wheeling parent birds.
The resident triplet boys had scrambled out of their mini-van and were looking to their parents with a whole list of "How" "Why" and "What"s multiplied by three. My guess is that they are around five years old. I see (and hear) them often in the afternoon as they tear up and down the sidewalk on a variety of  foot and wheel-propelled contraptions, with their matching triplet friends from around the corner. It took me a while to realize that this was not an underground day-care center run amok just two families trading kids, alternating periods of havoc and recuperation.
The focus of our attention was an immature crow. He looked almost grown up and my guess is that he tried to fly and landed hard. The nest must be in one of the tall Redwood trees behind the houses. His untrained trajectory had left him bleeding and unable to use his legs. I was pretty sure he was not salvageable and, although one side of my brain was cataloging the possible tools I have that would help me hand feed an injured bird until he recovered, I didn't want to prolong his distress in any way. I decided to get him into more natural, sheltered surroundings and let Nature take its course so I picked him up, to a chorus of complaints from the watching birds, and I laid him beneath a bush in the raised garden near by, assuming his end was imminent.
After work yesterday, on my way back from a nice long walk with the dog, I crossed the street to see if the crow was dead and/or gone. The rustle in the bushes led me to him, alert to strangers but still dragging his legs. I was amazed at his tenacity. I thought he deserved a fighting chance.
It was after 6pm when I started by calling animal services. Recorded instructions for after hours referred me to the Sheriffs' office who gave me a number to call for my jurisdiction. The woman who answered the phone told me that if I could get there by 7 pm, I could take my charge to the Wildlife Center of Silicon Valley. I had 45 minutes, which was not a sure thing by any means, to head South on one freeway, traverse San Jose from West to East and change freeways to loop around the bottom of San Francisco Bay and head out towards the less populated hills and parkland.
I grabbed a kitten sized cat carrier from the garage, padded the bottom with a clean towel and clambered onto my neighbors' garden wall to retrieve  the Simp (new knowledge acquired; this is the official appellation for a juvenile crow).
I watched the minutes ticking away on my dashboard clock as I rejoined commute traffic, headed into unfamiliar territory. The radio traffic reporter was announcing a new roll-over crash somewhere but the street names meant nothing to me as I evaluated whether the California Highway Patrol would be sympathetic to my use of the carpool lane in this life or death situation. Things were flowing along respectably, giving me confidence that I might make it in time, until the brake lights ahead suddenly rushed up at me. Multiple lanes of merging traffic almost at a standstill and suddenly the street name on the signs above the road were familiar because I'd heard them on the traffic report.
Ten precious minutes later we drew level with a car, all four wheels in the air. Two humans beside it, thankfully, upright and talking to a CHP officer who had sirened by on the shoulder a short while ago. Not their best day, I'm sure, but it could have been worse.
Speeds picked up again and I started paying attention to the directions I had been given, hoping they were accurate. Mentally checking off each landmark that was where it was expected to be, it was 6:56, and counting, as I dropped back down to the surface streets. A right at the light; red, of course, with others in front of me; a burst of open road and another light, preventing me from turning left. I considered some illegal moves and kept my fingers crossed we were getting close. A sign for the park that I was looking for but, as I turned into the parking lot I realized that the driveway to the Wildlife Center was just a bit further. A speedy U-turn and a prayer that I would not be faced with a "right turn only" order at the exit and I scooted into the dirt parking area next to a Humane Society vehicle.
The Wildlife Center office is housed in a mobile home type structure. I ran for the door, without even trying to take my passenger with me, hoping someone was still there. The Humane Society Officer was doing the paperwork to check in a Possum in a cardboard Pampers box and two Cormorants who were malnourished and parasite infested. She managed to exude a certain poise and glamor, despite the, on anyone else, unflattering brown uniform and pervasive perfume of many a past skunk. Bouncy, curly hair, lipstick and a South African accent. The unspoken possibility that this competent woman might have wrangled lions and come out on top.
Back to reality, I fetched the travel crate and handed it over to the young woman who worked there. I caught a glimpse of multiple towel-shrouded cages in the back room as she stepped through the door. They have hundreds of young animals in their care at this time of year; squirrels, birds, skunks, possums; all in need of nurture and repair. I took a card with my crow's identifying case number on it so that I could call to find out if he was going to survive or not. As I wound my way back home, I passed a monster traffic jam in the opposite direction. The topsy-turvey car had turned many commuters' evening plans to dust, with a back-up stretching for miles. I was happy to be going the other way.
Crow: record number 1063, 5/23 didn't have a chance at rehab. He was determined to have a spinal injury and was humanely euthanized. At least he didn't spend another night waiting to be eaten by predators or suffer a slow death by dehydration.
I gave it my best shot.