Voice your support to save wild horses

Dear Animal Advocates,

As we informed you two weeks ago, the U.S. Bureau of Land Management (BLM) has been conducting mass roundups of wild horses on public lands this month. On July 10, the agency used helicopters to run terrified horses over miles of scorching Nevada desert, resulting in the deaths of more than 20 horses, including three foals. Unbelievably, the BLM plans to continue these summer roundups in spite of July 10’s disastrous outcome.

In order to convince the Department of the Interior and the BLM that they can no longer sweep this issue under the rug, Congressmen Nick Rahall (D-WV) and Raul Grijalva (D-AZ) have drafted a letter to Secretary of the Interior Ken Salazar. The letter asks Secretary Salazar to halt the current roundups, along with any other pending wild horse gathers, until the BLM can demonstrate that it has addressed the failings of its current program for managing wild horses.

Congressmen Rahall and Grijalva need as many members of the House as possible to voice their support by signing the letter.

What You Can Do

Your elected officials need to know that as a voter, the humane treatment of our wild horses is important to you. Visit the ASPCA Advocacy Center immediately to contact your U.S. representative and urge him or her to sign this important letter to Secretary Salazar.

Thank you for your continued support of the ASPCA and our nation’s animals.

Charlie, "Just another black dog..."

My husband and I found each other a year and a half ago, sharing many interests and passions, including our deepest passion--our love for animals.


I knew that there were plenty of unwanted dogs at the shelters, and I told my husband that we should go to the shelter and let one find us.

We headed out to the Animal Humane Society in Golden Valley, MN, and walking through the shelter's cages, we were greeted by a barrage of excited and anxious dogs barking in every cage, every cage but one. Surrounded by several dogs who were barking and growling territorially at each other was "Richard", a little black lab mix curled up in the back of his cage. I leaned down to his level and called out his name. His breathing was labored and his movement was slow, but gentle and willing. He wagged his tail and licked our fingers, staring at us with his dull yet gentle, hopeful eyes. It was just moments before I knew he was our dog, and my husband quickly agreed.

It was evident that "Richard", now named Charlie, had lived a rough life full of neglect and abuse. He came to the shelter with kennel cough, worms, scarred legs and shattered teeth from being kicked or chewing his way out of a concrete cage.

He stole our hearts, and is now nothing like that sickly, brownish, tired dog we saw before. He loves to go to training, give "hugs", sleep on his three beds, and go on long walks. He is the happiest, most well-behaved dog most people have met, despite his experiences. His companions are our rescued rabbit and blind foster dog, never to know suffering again for as long as he lives. He is not "just another black dog."

Jill Damron
Woodbury, MN

Cheyenne

My baby sister sent this to me in an email.  My first reaction was "Egads Sharon...just because you're retired and have so much time on your hands doesn't mean I can squander my precious time reading another silly story that I've probably seen a dozen times before.  But I started reading it.  Not sure why.  I couldn't stop.  Turns out I hadn't seen it before.  I am now so glad I read it.  Yes, it made me cry.  Sob even.  But I am just a little bit wiser and richer having read it.  I hope you take a few moments.  You will be glad you did.  Thanks Sharon.

Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!' My father yelled at me. 'Can't you do anything right?' Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle. 'I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving.' My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then, turned away and settled back.

At home, I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.

What could I do about him? Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day, I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned and then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation.  It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon, I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation.. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session, he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day, I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, 'I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.' I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one, but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small, too much hair.

As I neared the last pen, a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.

I pointed to the dog. 'Can you tell me about him?' The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. 'He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him; that was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.' He gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in, I turned to the man in horror. 'You mean you're going to kill him?'  'Ma'am,' he said gently, 'that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog.'  I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. 'I'll take him,' I said. I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house, I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.  'Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!' I said excitedly.

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. 'If I had wanted a dog, I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it' Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. 'You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!' Dad ignored me. 'Did you hear me, Dad?' I screamed. At those words, Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.

We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when, suddenly, the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him.. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.

Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then, Dad was on his knees, hugging the animal.  It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together, he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then, late one night, I was startled to feel Cheyenne’s cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe, and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.

Two days later, my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

The morning of Dad's funeral dawned, overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And, then, the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.'

'I've often thanked God for sending that angel,' he said.

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article.

Cheyenne’s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter… his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father… and the proximity of their deaths. And, suddenly, I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all. Life is too short for drama; petty things, so laugh hard, love truly, and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity. Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.

Bill for Nationwide Puppy Mill Reform Needs You!‏

Dear Animal Advocates,

As you may already know, there is a large loophole in the federal law concerning USDA oversight of large-scale commercial dog breeders (known as “puppy mills”). Currently, breeders who sell to brokers and pet stores have to be licensed by the USDA, while those who sell puppies directly to the public do not.

Introduced in Congress in late May, a bill called the Puppy Uniform Protection and Safety (PUPS) Act will bring all commercial dog breeders in the United States under federal oversight by requiring any breeder who sells or offers to sell more than 50 dogs annually to the public—including over the Internet—to be licensed and inspected. The bill will also require all licensed breeders to exercise every dog daily.

The PUPS Act is extremely important humane legislation that will improve the lives of thousands of dogs across the country. We hope we can count on your support to help us get it passed.

What You Can Do

Now more than ever, it is vital that members of Congress hear that puppy mill reform is important to their constituents. Please visit the ASPCA Advocacy Center to email your senators and representative to urge them to support and cosponsor the PUPS Act.

Thank you for your continued support of the ASPCA and our nation’s animals!

I Saved Sally So She Could Save Me

I have always felt a kinship with animals and volunteered occasionally to help out when I could to ease the passion I have for animals till I was adopted by Sally. When I decided to foster Sally with her seven siblings I did not know that she would change my path in life. This entire littler was incredible. All the puppies except Sally were growing and developing beautifully. I took her to the vet on many occasions only to find that she had digestive issues and could not process her proteins. Her medications were going to be extraordinary and she still was at a very high risk of not surviving.

Sally had a special gift of being sweet and loving and she became my constant companion and friend, In order to try to get her healthier I chose to go holistic and cooked special foods and treats for her. She was fed every two hours by spoon for almost eight weeks. I have never seen an animal try so hard to improve her little worn out body. Her siblings were adopted to wonderful families but she was not ready to find her new home. Throughout the next three months Sally has thrived and was finally put up for adoption and although it was the hardest thing I have ever done my little girl found the perfect family.

Just last week I watched, with tears in my eyes, her walk away, very healthy (no residual effects) with her new Mom and Dad. I am not sure I saved her life I believe she has saved mine. I now work for PRBJ doing what I have a passion for. Sally's plight and love will impact so many because I now will be able to help so many other animals. Thank you Sally


Karen DeLaPuente
Sanford, FL