Tag Archives: animal rights

Raise Your Voice!

20 Oct

Raise your voice!

Don´t be played… like someone else´s board game
Don´t be classed out… like some desperate redoubt
Don´t be misled… you´ve got a lot on your head
And nobody´s gonna pay attention when you are dead

So…Raise your voice!

It´s the primary rule
you gotta want to be fooled
It´s our daunted restraint
that keeps us silent in shame
It´s our nature to be
adversarial and free
Our evolution didn´t hinge
on passivity

So… Raise your voice!

Tough Shit Mickey

20 Oct

foxes cower with their clubs, to escape the human race.

Rabbits run for life, deer take cover in the trees

The mother sighs with disbelief, then prepares the meat.

Liberate… Liberate…

Think what you’re doing

Liberate… Liberate…

The system’s set to ruin.

Liberate… Liberate…

Their life is not for profit

Liberate… Liberate…

We’ve got to fucking stop.


Because before too long there’ll be nothing left alive

not a creature on the land or sea, a bird In the sky

they’ll be shot, harpooned, eaten or hunted too much

vivisected by the clever men who prove that there’s no such

things as a fair world with live and let live

the Royal family goes hunting, what an example to give!

to the people they lead and they don’t Include me.

I’ve seen enough pain and torture of those who can’t speak

so I’m gonna speak for them In an all out attack

and if someone tries to whip me, then I’ll fucking whip’em back.

Coz I’ve had enough of the madness. In their theatres of hell

enough of them hounding the fox to the kill

or baby seals being clubbed, their mothers cut up.

They satisfy their greed, their wealths built on blood.

Of their slaughterhouse haunting the back of the mind

the gas chamber of farm life, the end of the line.


It’s a shame about that mouse

Magic the Miniature Mare

8 Oct

Magic the Miniature Mare

By Katy Steinmetz Monday, Mar. 21, 2011

"Magic" is a well known certified therapy pony

William Thomas Cain / Getty Images

Sometimes heroism can come in the quieter, more unassuming guise of a miniature therapy horse (such as the one seen above). Magic, a blue-eyed mare, regularly visited patients who needed comfort, whether in group homes, hospitals or hospice-care facilities, but one particular interaction gained her recognition as AARP’s Most Heroic Pet in 2010. Magic went to visit a patient who had lived in an assisted-living facility and hadn’t spoken to anyone during her three years there. But the moment she laid eyes on Magic, she said, “Isn’t she beautiful?” Those first words caused the staff to break out in tears, and she continued to communicate from that point onward. The Florida program that brought the two together, Gentle Carousel Miniature Therapy Horses, continues to work its magic in the Sunshine State.

Stray Dog in Nairobi Africa Saves Abandoned Infant

7 Oct

 A Stray Dog in Nairobi

Saves an Abandoned Infant 

Stray Dog in Saves Abandoned Baby in Kenya

In Nairobi, Kenya, a stray dog saved the life of a newborn baby girl abandoned by her 13yr old mother immediately after giving birth. The heroic stray upon finding the abandoned infant in a forest took action.  Being a mother herself the homeless hero somehow carried or dragged the infant across a busy road and through a barbed wire fence to a secluded spot where she lived with her litter of puppies. A nearby resident who was walking near by heard a baby crying and went to investigate. The concerned citizen crouched down and saw to his disbelief the small space with our heroic stray, her litter of puppies and a newborn infant. A dog with nothing and noone fending for herself in a harsh environment, dutifully raises her litter of puppies. With all that hardship and without help she cares for her litter, yet still has the strength and compassion to adopt the baby of another species, bringing the baby into her den with her puppies and caring for her like it was her own. Now that is my choice for the mother of the year. Beautiful what an amazing girl. 

The Worlds Bravest Dog Born From Homeless Canines Love for a Friend

5 Oct

The Worlds Bravest Dog

A Homeless Canines Love for a Friend

A stray dog risks his life to rescue an injured friend on a busy Chilean Highway.

 A tragedy played out in the streets of Chile when a homeless dog roamed onto a busy highway and was struck by a car. He lay badly injured in the 3rd lane with heavy, fast moving traffic. When the worlds bravest dog runs up the shoulder of the freeway trying desperately to get to his injured friend. The homeless hero starts towards his injured companion then leaps back toward the shoulder narrowly avoiding being struck by the fast moving vehicle. Starting again towards his injured friend, risking his own life to save the life of a friend. The canine hero at one point appears to be run over by a truck then miraculously emerges unscathed. Driven by the love of a friend and super human courage the second dog makes it to his badly injured companion who lies “alive but motionless” in a center lane. He then raps his front paws around the injured dog’s body and begins dragging him across two lanes towards the safety of the shoulder. With every ounce of strength that he had, the homeless hero dragged the injured dog little by little across the road. All the while cars fly by narrowly missing the pair. Somehow our couragious canine gets his injured friend to the safety of the shoulder. A road crew witnesses the whole event and comes to help. Unfortunately our hero runs off when the road crew arrives. The injured dog was taken by road crews to a veterinarian and later died.

  Many calls came in with offers to adopt the homeless dog. A search was conducted for what the chilean people dubbed there hero dog. Months later officials called off the search claiming to much time had passed. The dogs were strays and probably one another’s only friends in the world. A homeless dog in an act of pure love and unflinching courage demonstrates his willingness to lay down his life for a friend.

Most people wouldn’t be fit to pick up that dogs poop

Watch the video  captured by a highway traffic cam

“Bella” A Staffordshire Bull Terrier Dies A Hero in Her Owners Arms

5 Oct

“Bella” A Staffordshire Bull Terrier 

Dies A Hero in Her Owners Arms

"Bella" Dies a Hero in Her Owners Arms.

 Nicole Russell, who lived in Johannesburg, South Africa, was about to leave for work one morning when a car pulled up and four armed men jumped out and demanded her keys and purse. Nicole held both arms out so that they could take her jewelry and keys. Scared and confused she rushed to comply with their demands not realizing that she had mistakenly handed them her house keys.

 The men became agitated and violent when the keys would not unlock the car. When one of the men grabbed her and began dragging her towards the car Ms. Russell (in fear for her life) screamed.  Russell’s mother, alerted by the screams pushed a panic button in the house and ran into the garden.

 There she was confronted by an attacker with a knife.

 Bella, the family’s 4 year-old Staffordshire Bull Terrier, was with the mother and immediately lunged at the knife wielding attacker. Bella bit the man several times on the leg and was then shot in the head by one of the mans accomplices. In spite of her injury Bella continued to defend her family until the men panicked and fled.

 There was a point when one of the men (having just shot at Bella) turned his gun on Nichole and pulled the trigger. But either the gun misfired or Bella had taken the bullet intended for Russell.

 When the men were gone Bella sat down and rolled over and as Nicole held the hero dog Bella in her arms. Bella looked at her quietly for a few moments and died.

 An autopsy showed that Bella’s heart had been completely drained of blood in her fierce battle to protect her family.

On November 8, 1997 “Bella” was awarded posthumously a seven ring rosette trophy for her selfless heroism defending her family.

"Bella" Awarded Medal for Bravery


18 Aug

A man in Grand Rapids, Michigan incredibly took out a $7000 full page ad in the paper to present the following essay to the people of his community.


The Dog that you Dumped at the Shelter

When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was “bad,” you’d shake your finger at me and ask “How could you?” — but then you’d relent and roll me over for a belly rub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because “ice cream is bad for dogs” you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love. She, now your wife, is not a “dog person” – – still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy.

Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a “prisoner of love.” As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch because your touch was now so infrequent and I would’ve defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway.

There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered “yes” and changed the subject. I had gone from being “your dog” to “just a dog ,” and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.

Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You’ve made the right decision for your “family,” but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said “I know you will find a good home for her.” They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with “papers.” You had to pry your son’s fingers loose from my collar as he screamed “No, Daddy! Please don’t let them take my dog!” And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a good-bye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too. After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked, “How could you?”

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you that you had changed your mind that this was all a bad dream.. or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me.

When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited. I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days.

As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured, “How could you?”

Perhaps because she understood my dog speak, she said, “I’m so sorry.” She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn’t be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself — a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my “How could you?” was not directed at her. It was directed at you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of you. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.

A Note from the Author: If “How Could You?” brought tears to your eyes as you read it, as it did to mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the millions of formerly “owned” pets who die each year in American & Canadian animal shelters. Please use this to help educate, on your websites, in newsletters, on animal shelter and vet office bulletin boards. Tell the public that the decision to add a pet to the family is an important one for life, that animals deserve our love and sensible care, that finding another appropriate home for your animal is your responsibility and any local humane society or animal welfare league can offer you good advice, and that all life is precious. Please do your part to stop the killing, and encourage all spay & neuter campaigns in order to prevent unwanted animals.

Please pass this on to everyone, not to hurt them or make them sad, but it could save maybe, even one, unwanted pet. Remember…They love UNCONDITIONALLY.

Now that the tears are rolling down your face, pass it on! Send to everyone in your address book and around the world! This IS the reality of dogs given up to shelters!

By Jim Willis, 2001


He is your friend, your protector, your dog!

You are his love, his life, his leader.

He will be yours loyal and true to the last beat of his heart!

You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion!

Animal Angel Videos

22 Jul

A collection of videos about animals, animal rescue, animal activism, animal tributes etc.

  • angel animal acts of love, devotion, courage, compassion, intelligence, communication, grief and emotion.
  • Videos of Animal Activism and about Animal Rights.
  • Funny Animal Videos (Clips & Compilations)
  • Animal Tribute Videos
  • Animal Related Music Videos
  • Links to Full length movies about animals.
  • Cute Animal Clips & compilations
  • Animal Training Videos
  • Animals (giving there abusers what they deserve)
  • Wildlife Videos
  • Pet Videos

“Buddy” the Hero Dog of Knight Island Alaska

22 Jul

Buddy is a touching story with a tragic ending. Bill Hitchcock was the sole caretaker of a remote lodge on Knight Island, Alaska. While out cutting firewood, Hitchcock was struck by a piece of timber and died. For the next two weeks, his faithful four-year-old black lab, Buddy, paced between his owner’s body and the shoreline looking for help. He managed to survive the brutal February temperatures that reached -23°F before leading searchers to his owner.

After people heard of Buddy’s story, over a thousand letters, calls, and emails were sent by people hoping to adopt him. Finally, Bill’s neighbors, Roger and Marilyn Stowell, decided that Jim Brewer, the mayor of the Alaska Peninsula village of Chignik would get him.

Less than a month later, Buddy was dead. Brewer who had initially told reporters that “Buddy will just become part of our family,” had Buddy put to sleep. According to Brewer, Buddy had difficulty transitioning to his new life and, after the dog bit him, he decided to surrender him to Anchorage Animal Control. Buddy was labeled “ineligible for adoption” and euphonized. The Stowell’s, who had told Brewer that he could return Buddy if it did not work out, were heartbroken as were the 999 other people who had expressed an interest in Buddy.- Darcy Logan

Uncovering the Roots of Dominionism

12 Jul

Uncovering the Roots of Dominionism

An Interview with Jim Mason from No Compromise Issue 21

Jim Mason is a pioneering author within the animal liberation movement. In 1980, he co-authored Animal Factories with Peter Singer, which served as an eye-opening expose of the conditions on factory farms in the United States. Mason’s next groundbreaking book, An Unnatural Order, was published in 1993. An Unnatural Order traces the roots of humanity’s dominionistic ways back to the advent of agriculture. This startling link provides incredibly important insight into the root causes of oppression in our society.

In An Unnatural Order you talk about dominionism. What exactly is dominionism?

It is the worldview of the human supremacist: The view or belief held by one species, Homo sapiens sapiens, that it has a divine right—a God-given license—to use animals and everything else in the living world for its own benefit. This worldview is strongest in Western traditions, but it has spread to Russia, China, Japan and most of the rest of the world along with our industrialism, consumerism, and modernism.

How did the development of “animal agriculture” impact the way humans relate to animals, nature and each other?

Before animal agriculture began 10,000 years ago, people regarded animals with fascination, awe, and respect because they were lively and active, and were thought to harbor many of the powers and forces of nature. Those people had a strong sense of kinship with animals, which gave them a sense of belonging in the living world. Animal agriculture—or the enslavement of animals for human benefit—turned it all upside down. Animals had to be taken down off their pedestals so that they could be controlled, worked, and bought and sold. The old sense of kinship with the living world was replaced with fear, loathing, dread, and alienation. Western history and “civilization” began c. 3,000 BC in the land now called Iraq with wars, slavery, inequality, and women’s subjugation.

To what extent do you feel this is tied to how desensitized humans in western culture have become from the way our society treats animals?

100 percent. We couldn’t very well carry on the cruelties inherent in animal slavery if we clung to the old ideas of kinship with and respect for animals. So, early agri-societies constructed sets of myths to maintain animal slavery and the subjugation of the nature for agriculture. One set of myths I call “misothery,” literally (from Greek), hatred of animals. Misothery breaks down into all of the lies and denials about animals that we deal with every day: Animals are often vicious, dangerous, sneaky, threatening, or evil– and always beneath our regard. Misothery not only desensitizes us, it gives us false and unscientific ideas about animals and nature.

What sorts of lessons can anti-factory farming activists learn from the history you trace in An Unnatural Order?

That history is helpful not only to activism against factory farms, but all activism for animals. Our movement is struggling against some very old traditions, and I think it is helpful to understand those traditions from their roots. More specifically, two of the big issues in AR today are:

(a) Factory farming, handling, shipping, slaughter–which account for about 98 percent of all animal suffering–and killing. If we understand the history, then we understand the myths and other underpinnings of modern animal agribusiness. And activists on other issues should understand that animal enslavement for farming is the mother—or father—of all animal oppression, because it set up the many myths that make up the dominionist worldview.

(b) The property status of animals. Western concepts of property probably grew out of animal slavery in the ancient world. Animals were probably the first form of money, property, and wealth. For example: Capital, a word for wealth, derives from capita, Latin for head; the wealth of a herding tribe, such as the early Romans, was measured by the head count—how many cattle (or sheep, goats, camels, etc.) it owned. To this day, ranchers say things like, “We hauled a couple of hundred head to market yesterday.”

What impact has our alienation from nature had on the way we live our lives, and what sorts of problems does it present?

Too many to list here, but start with consumerism: People buy stuff like there’s no tomorrow—most of them not knowing or caring where it all comes from. People are oblivious to the mining, lumbering, damming, and rampant industrialization of the earth. Under dominionism, every living creature is regarded as either resource or pest.

For another, consider the problem of sex and our bodies. We have a tradition of shame and loathing about these aspects of life because they remind us of our mammalhood—our kinship with animals and nature. We deny and distort the most essential elements of human life in order to maintain the unbridgeable gap between our species and all others.

To what extent do you see racism, sexism, homophobia and colonialism as being rooted in dominionism?

Racism grows out of misothery—hatred and contempt for animals and nature. We transfer our misothery to people whom we regard as closer to animals and nature than us. Sexism, or male supremacy, is a fixture of the patriarchal culture invented by the warring, herding societies who dominated the rise of Western civilization in the ancient Middle East. Homophobia is one of the by-products of patriarchal culture, which sees human breeding as so all-important that every kind of sexual gratification is outlawed unless it places male sperm near female ova. Colonialism is dominionism applied to other peoples and their lands. In its earliest stages, Europeans regarded native Americans, Africans, Pacific Islanders, and others as “savages” and sub-humans—animals, in other words. The Europeans’ misothery guaranteed that they would be treated accordingly—as slaves.

What would you say to activists from other causes who are fighting various forms of oppression of their fellow humans, but who still dismiss concerns about animals as irrelevant?

Read An Unnatural Order, particularly Chapter Three, “Animals: The Most Moving Things in the World” and Chapter Nine, “Beyond Dominionism.” Animals are basic to our worldview—or any other worldview, for that matter. Misothery—hatred of animality and nature—feeds racism and fosters unhealthy attitudes about sex, gender, and our bodies. Intellectuals have been discussing the problem of alienation and other parts of the “Nature Question” for a century and a half, making no progress because they have a blind spot (because of hostility because of misothery) regarding animals. We simply cannot come to terms with nature unless we come to terms with animals, for animals are central to the entire Nature Question.

If all these forms of oppression are linked and so heavily integrated into our culture, how can we help foster a new ethic that will not be focused on dominionism?

Expose the lies and de-construct the myths about animals, nature, and human beings. Science can help a lot if we use it properly, so let’s not be anti-science. Science is already helping us (well, those of us who read and think anyway) understand our very real, biological and evolutionary kinship with animals. Of course this scares and infuriates a lot of people, loaded up as they are with misothery; they consider it the gravest insult even to be mentioned in the same breath with animals. Science also is telling us a lot about the realities of animals’ lives—their sentience, their emotions, their social bonds and many other aspects of life that we have historically denied in them and reserved exclusively for ourselves. Good science exposes the lies and myths about human and animal life that have built up over nearly 100 centuries of animal slavery.

Expose and destroy lies and myths about the living world, to include us—Homo sapiens sapiens—living in it. That’s what we must do. To destroy all of these is to destroy misothery, which props up dominionism (let’s just call it human supremacy) and maintains a void or a gulf instead of a sense of kinship between humans and other animals.

At the same time, we ought to think about some of our habits and traditions formed by a long period of dominionist (human supremacist) culture–things like our consumerism/materialism, our sprawling cities, our gluttony for water and energy, our urge to breed, our population growth, and all of our ways of living that are destroying forests, coastal wetlands, wilderness, the oceans, the atmosphere, and too many of the species of non-human beings who live therein.

If you would like a goal to keep in mind, let’s say bring the planet’s human population and consumption impact back to the levels it was on the eve of agriculture 10,000 years ago: five to ten million people using a very small amount of all-biodegradable stuff in a lifetime. That was the last time that the human species lived on the planet more or less in equilibrium with all other life. Of course, we would want to make this change humanely and fairly; no taking of lives–just good, effective birth control and industrial management.

Author Unknown

Tang the Hero Newfoundland

12 Jul

Tang, a Newfoundland dog, saved 92 people from a sinking ship in a horrible storm. During a snowstorm in December 1919, a ship called the Ethie crashed into rocks off the shore of Newfoundland, Canada. Ninety-three people were trapped on the ship as the ocean pounded it into the rocks. The crew tried to throw one of the ship’s ropes to people on the beach, but they missed. Then one of the sailors took the rope and jumped into the ocean. He tried to swim to the beach with the rope, but he was carried out to sea and never seen again. Then the ship’s captain saw Tang, a Newfoundland who lived aboard the Ethie. The captain knew Tang was their last hope. He gave the rope to Tang. With the rope in his teeth, the dog jumped into the sea and swam for land. In the huge waves and strong winds, it must have been hard for Tang to swim—the undertow tried to drag him out to sea and the water rushed into his eyes and ears. But he swam on until he reached the shore. People on the beach ran into the water to pull Tang onto dry land. They took the rope from his mouth and tied it to something strong. The rope was used to bring the people on the sinking ship to land. All 92 people on the Ethie were saved. History books don’t say what Tang did once he’d made it to land, but it isn’t hard to imagine the excited dog looking for his human companion, greeting every person that came from the ship. Lloyd’s of London, the famous insurance company, gave Tang a medal for bravery, which he wore for the rest of his life.

Adapted from Dog Heroes, by Tim Jones. Seattle: Epicenter Press, 1995.

Bum A Friend of Shorty’s

11 Jul

The True Story of

Bum, A Friend of Shorty’s

 A remarkable tale that should stand as a lesson to us all about the true nature of love and friendship. Shorty was a burro and the beloved town mooch who had lived in Fairplay, Colorado in the early to mid 1950’s. Shorty never had it easy, though he did have the freedom in his later years that he had never known in his prime. He began life in Fairplay as a miners mule. These mules that were forced to slave in the mines in those days rarely saw the light of day. The life of a mule in the mining industry was one of backbreaking labor, merciless hours and cramped, dark living conditions. Luckily for him, the mule became obsolete in the coal mines and he was no longer needed. Shorty’s stubby legs and low slung back combined with the years of backbreaking labor affected his health and so rather than being cared for by those he had worked so hard for, he was discarded. Shorty was now homeless and left to fend for himself. During hard winters Shorty suffered terribly. With his grazing ground covered in snow he had to go hungry for long periods of time. To make his situation worse the old burro started to go blind. Enter the homeless mutt that a local family affectionately named Bum. No one knows where Bum came from he just showed up one day on the streets of Fairplay. Bum and Shorty became fast friends and Bum would often lead his blind friend down the city streets to the edge of town where the good grazing was found and would patiently wait while Shorty grazed grass. Where ever Shorty went his best friend Bum was always with him. During the winter the pair had to resort to living off hand outs. Bum quickly learned which places and people were friendly and kind hearted and which were not. Bum would lead Shorty to a door and Shorty would bray to let the folks inside know he was there. Bum would take what food he was given and lay it down in front of Shorty, only after Shorty had eaten his share would Bum himself eat. The pair made a lasting impression on the people of Fairplay.

Sadly… in the year 1951 Shorty was struck by a car and passed away . A testament to Shorty’s popularity in Fairplay, he was buried on the courthouse lawn. His best friend Bum was so grief-stricken that he laid down on Shorty’s grave refusing to eat or drink. The devoted dog Bum died soon after his beloved friend.  Shorty’s grave was dug for a second time so that Bum could be laid to rest (and rightfully so) with his best friend Shorty. So devoted to his friend was Bum that he followed Shorty even into the after life.


Delta (Hero dog of Pompeii)

11 Jul

Delta the Hero Dog of Pompeii


There is no doubt that there have been animal acts of love, devotion and  compassion dating back millions of years before recorded history. However the story of Delta is easily the oldest confirmed animal angel story I have found thus far.

This is what we have learned of the

Animal Angel named “Delta”

 In the year 79 A.D. there was a cataclysmic volcanic eruption of  Mount Vesuvius near the ancient city of Pompeii. Pompeii was a large trading port and home to many thousands of people. Everyone in and near the city of Pompeii at the time of the volcanic eruption perished on that fateful day so many centuries ago. The city was discovered under many feet of earth and volcanic ash.

 What was eerily unique to this discovery was that the bodies of all the victims decomposed in the packed sediment which left a hollow cavity freezing in time the moment of there deaths, in a sort of 3 dimensional negative image. When another hollow cavity was discovered a cast was made by filling the void with plaster, creating an impression of the last moments of life for another soul. While archaeologists were making plaster casts of these cavities Delta was discovered. The cast of Delta’s body was found lying over the body of a young child. Also found in the bottom of this hollow cavity was a silver engraved collar with the dogs name “Delta” the collar also said that the dogs owner was named Severinus and that Delta had saved his life on three separate occasions

  1. The first time Delta had pulled him out of the sea and saved him from drowning.
  2. The second time Delta had defended Severinus when she fought off 4 attackers who had tried to rob him.
  3. Third she had defended him from a wolf that tried to attack him somewhere near the city of Herculaneum.

 Delta the hero dog tried once more (in vain) to save the life of a child, in all likely-hood the child Delta sacrificed her life trying to protect was the sibling of her owner Severinus. Delta may have been unable to save the life of that child but she gave her life trying and even with her dying breath Delta never once thought of herself.


A Wolves Tale

11 Jul

An amazing true story of friendship

between a wild wolf and a 3yr old little girl

With all her big brothers and sisters off to school, our ranch became a lonely place for our three-year-old daughter, Becky. She longed for playmates. Cattle and horses were too big to cuddle and farm machinery dangerous for a child so small. We promised to buy her a puppy but in the meantime, “Pretend” puppies popped up nearly every day. I had just finished washing the lunch dishes when the screen door slammed and Becky rushed in, cheeks flushed with excitement.“Mama!” she cried. “Come see my new doggy!“I gave him water two times already. He’s so thirsty!”I sighed. Another of Becky’s imaginary dogs.

“Please come, Mama.”

She tugged at my jeans, her brown eyes pleading,

“He’s crying — and he can’t walk!”

“Can’t walk?” Now that was a twist. All her previous make-believe dogs could do marvelous things. One balanced a ball on the end of its nose. Another dug a hole that went all the way through the earth and fell out on a star on the other side. Still another danced on a tightrope. Why suddenly a dog that couldn’t walk?

“All right, honey,” I said. By the time I tried to follow her, Becky had already disappeared into the mesquite.

“Where are you?” I called.

“Over here by the oak stump. Hurry, Mama!”

I parted the thorny branches and raised my hand against the glare of the Arizona sun. A numbing chill gripped me. There she was, sitting on her heels, toes dug firmly in the sand, and cradled in her lap was the unmistakable head of a wolf! Beyond its head rose massive black shoulders. The rest of the body lay completely hidden inside the hollow stump of a fallen oak.

“Becky,” My mouth felt dry. “Don’t move.” I stepped closer. Pale-yellow eyes narrowed. Black lips tightened, exposing double sets of two-inch fangs. Suddenly the wolf trembled. Its teeth clacked, and a piteous whine rose from its throat.

“It’s all right, boy,” Becky crooned. “Don’t be afraid. That’s my mama, and she loves you, too.”

Then the unbelievable happened. As her tiny hands stroked the great shaggy head, I heard the gentle thump, thump, thumping of the wolf’s tail from deep inside the stump. What was wrong with the animal? I wondered. Why couldn’t he get up? I couldn’t tell. Nor did I dare to step any closer. I glanced at the empty water bowl. My memory flashed back to the five skunks that last week had torn the burlap from a leaking pipe in a frenzied effort to reach water during the final agonies of rabies. Of course! Rabies! Warning signs had been posted all over the county, and hadn’t Becky said, “He’s so thirsty?” I had to get Becky away.

“Honey.” My throat tightened. “Put his head down and come to Mama. We’ll go find help.”

Reluctantly, Becky got up and kissed the wolf on the nose before she walked slowly into my outstretched arms. Sad yellow eyes followed her. Then the wolf’s head sank to the ground. With Becky safe in my arms, I ran to the barns where Brian, one of our cowhands, was saddling up to check heifers in the North pasture. “Brian! Come quickly. Becky found a wolf in the oak stump near the wash! I think it has rabies!”

“I’ll be there in a jiffy,” he said as I hurried back to the house, eager to put Becky down for her nap. I didn’t want her to see Brian come out of the bunkhouse. I knew he’d have a gun.

“But I want to give my doggy his water,” she cried. I kissed her and gave her some stuffed animals to play with.

“Honey, let Mom and Brian take care of him for now,” I said. Moments later, I reached the oak stump.

Brian stood looking down at the beast. “It’s a Mexican lobo, all right.” He said, ” And a big one!”

The wolf whined. Then we both caught the smell of gangrene. “Whew! It’s not rabies,” Brian said. “But he’s sure hurt real bad. Don’t you think it’s best I put him out of his misery?”

The word “yes” was on my lips, when Becky emerged from the bushes. “Is Brian going to make him well, Mama?” She hauled the animal’s head onto her lap once more, and buried her face in the coarse, dark fur. This time I wasn’t the only one who heard the thumping of the lobo’s tail. That afternoon my husband, Bill, and our veterinarian came to see the wolf. Observing the trust the animal had in our child, Doc said to me, “Suppose you let Becky and me tend to this fella together.” Minutes later, as child and vet reassured the stricken beast, the hypodermic found its mark. The yellow eyes closed.

“He’s asleep now,” said the vet. “Give me a hand here, Bill.” They hauled the massive body out of the stump. The animal must have been over five feet long and well over one-hundred pounds. The hip and leg had been mutilated by bullets. Doc did what he had to in order to clean the wound and then gave the patient a dose of penicillin. Next day he returned and inserted a metal rod to replace the missing bone.

“Well, it looks like you’ve got yourselves a Mexican lobo,” Doc said. “He looks to be about three years old, and even as pups, they don’t tame real easy. I’m amazed at the way this big fella took to your little gal. But often there’s something that goes on between children and animals that we grownups don’t understand.”

Becky named the wolf Ralph and carried food and water to the stump every day. Ralph’s recovery was not easy. For three months he dragged his injured hindquarters by clawing the earth with his front paws. From the way he lowered his eyelids when we massaged the atrophied limbs, we knew he endured excruciating pain, but not once did he ever try to bite the hands of those who cared for him.

Four months to the day, Ralph finally stood unaided. His huge frame shook as long- unused muscles were activated. Bill and I patted and praised him. But it was Becky to whom he turned for a gentle word, a kiss or a smile. He responded to these gestures of love by swinging his busy tail like a pendulum. As his strength grew, Ralph followed Becky all over the ranch. Together they roamed the desert pastures, the golden-haired child often stooping low, sharing with the great lame wolf whispered secrets of nature’s wonders. When evening came, he returned like a silent shadow to his hollow stump that had surely become his special place.

As time went on, although he lived primarily in the brush, the habits of this timid creature endeared him more and more to all of us. His reaction to people other than our family was yet another story. Strangers terrified him, yet his affection for and protectiveness of Becky brought him out of the desert and fields at the sight of every unknown pickup or car. Occasionally he’d approach, lips taut, exposing a nervous smile full of chattering teeth. More often he’d simply pace and finally skulk off to his tree stump, perhaps to worry alone.

Becky’s first day of school was sad for Ralph. After the bus left, he refused to return to the yard. Instead, he lay by the side of the road and waited. When Becky returned, he limped and tottered in wild, joyous circles around her. This welcoming ritual persisted throughout her school years. Although Ralph seemed happy on the ranch, he disappeared into the surrounding deserts and mountains for several weeks during the spring mating season, leaving us to worry about his safety. This was calving season, and fellow ranchers watched for coyotes, cougars, wild dogs and, of course, the lone wolf. But Ralph was lucky.

During Ralph’s twelve years on our ranch, his habits remained unchanged. Always keeping his distance, he tolerated other pets and endured the activities of our busy family, but his love for Becky never wavered. Then the spring came when our >neighbor told us he’d shot and killed a she-wolf and grazed her mate, who had been running with her. Sure enough, Ralph returned home with another bullet wound. Becky, nearly fifteen years old now, sat with Ralph’s head resting on her lap. He, too, must have been about fifteen and was gray with age. As Bill removed the bullet, my memory raced back through the years. Once again I saw a chubby three-year-old girl stroking the head of a huge black wolf and heard a small voice murmuring, “It’s all right, boy. Don’t be afraid. That’s my mama, and she loves you, too.”

Although the wound wasn’t serious, this time Ralph didn’t get well. Precious pounds fell away. The once luxurious fur turned dull and dry, and his trips to the yard in search of Becky’s companionship ceased. All day long he rested quietly. But when night fell, old and stiff as he was, he disappeared into the desert and surrounding hills. By dawn his food was gone. The morning came when we found him dead. The yellow eyes were closed. Stretched out in front of the oak stump, he appeared but a shadow of the proud beast he once had been. A lump in my throat choked me as I watched Becky stroke his shaggy neck, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll miss him so,” she cried.

Then as I covered him with a blanket, we were startled by a strange rustling sound from inside the stump. Becky looked inside. Two tiny yellow eyes peered back and puppy fangs glinted in the semidarkness. Ralph’s pup! Had a dying instinct told him his motherless offspring would be safe here, as he had been, with those who loved him? Hot tears spilled on baby fur as Becky gathered the trembling bundle in her arms.

“It’s all right, little . . Ralphie,” she murmured. “Don’t be afraid. That’s my mom, and she loves you, too.”

Author unknown

Sorry I lost the name of the author

Bobbie (The Wonder Dog of Oregon)

9 Jul

This amazing true story explains how this unassuming Collie earned himself the title Wonder Dog of Oregon.

If you were a young lad and became separated from your friends in a strange land, 2500 miles from home, where you could only make yourself understood by signs, do you suppose you could manage to travel–most of the way on Foot-back to your own home? And what if you were a dog?

This is the story of Bobbie, the “wonder dog of Oregon,” as he has been fitly called, after the most extraordinary achievement of intelligence, persistency and loyalty ever recorded to the glory of dogdom and to the confusion of those stupid people who still say that a dog is only a dog, chiefly interested in bones.

Here follows the tale as set down by his master.

My wife, my two stepdaughters, Nova and Leona, and myself, were living at a farm on the Abiqua when we bought Bobbie, a naturally bobtailed Scotch collie with a mixture of a third shepherd. He was then just six weeks old, a rollicking, full-of-fun puppy, and we all loved him. He was not the only dog in the house, for we had a fox-terrier, Toodles, who had made the journey out to Oregon with us when we motored there from Indiana, and won our hearts by his watchfulness and faithfulness. Bobbie and Toodles became great friends.
The farm we rented was “In hops,” and as we had come West to be outdoors and regain our health, we all worked in the hop fields, both dogs playing near and having the time of their lives. We moved often, following the market demands, and very soon Bobbie began to show aptitudes which were to stand him in good stead later. He was a natural “heeler.” When only two months old he would heel cats, horses and people, driving them ahead of him wherever he wanted them to go. At one place he was bringing in a horse who was lively with his hoofs, and before Bobbie knew it, he was sailing through the air with a well-placed kick. He blinked and caught his breath and the next second was up and after the rebellious equine, keeping at a safe distance, but worrying him until he was safe in the corral. This left a mark over the dog’s eye, which helped to identify him at a future day. Our next stop was a fruit farm, where they used a tractor. Bob was asleep, quite unconscious of danger, when the machine caught him. His leg was crushed into the ground, which, fortunately, being deeply cultivated, was very soft and kept him from serious injury, but the mishap left another scar. His third accident came from an encounter with an old gopher. While digging furiously to get at the “varmint,” he broke off parts of two teeth.

When Bobbie was about a year old our dear little Toodles had a paralytic stroke and passed away. We buried him back of the barn. Soon after we bought the Reo Cafe in Silverton, and realizing that it was no fit place to keep a dog used to running at large in the country, we sold him to a friend who was to live on the farm we were leaving. But Bob soon located us and came into town every week-end, going back to the farm Monday morning.
Then my wife and I decided we would go back East on a visit and take Bob with us. So we repurchased him at three times the amount we had sold him for, and one fine morning left Silverton in our touring car, the dog riding on the running board or on top of the luggage. How that dog enjoyed the trip! When we were going slow enough or stopped for a bite to eat, he would dash off after a rabbit or on an exploring expedition over the hills, coming back after an hour or so, panting and grinning to tell us all about it. We reached Wolcott, Indiana, and stopped for our first visit. Leaving Mrs. Brazier at the house Bob and I went to the filling station to get the car “tanked up.” I was inside when I heard the dog give a yelp, and rushing out, saw him rounding a corner with three or four snarling curs at his heels.
Thinking he would take care of himself as usual, I went back to the car, expecting to find him at the house when I returned. When after an hour or so he had not appeared, we began to get anxious, and as Bob knew the sound of the horn and would come running whenever I sounded it I drove slowly all around town, honking at frequent intervals, never doubting but that presently I would see him bounding toward me. It was midnight before I gave up, very much depressed, as you may Imagine. The next morning still saw no Bob, so I got busy on the phone, calling up everyone in and around Wolcott, but no one had seen our pet. The weekly paper went to Press that day, but I got in touch with the editor–a mighty fine fellow and a great lover of dogs- and he made room for an advertisement which was to run as long as we were in that part of the country, though with out result. We visited around Indiana for three weeks, motored into Ohio, then back to Wolcott and resumed our search, but at last turned our faces toward home, sick at heart over our loss, leaving word that if the dog turned up he was to be secured and shipped back to us.
Exactly six months later, my youngest girl, Nova, and her chum were walking down a street in Silverton when suddenly my daughter gasped and seized her friend by the arm, exclaiming, “Oh! look! Isn’t that Bobbie?” At the words a shaggy, bedraggled, lean dog just beyond them turned his head and the next moment fairly flew at Nova, leaping up again and again to cover her face with kisses and making half-strangled, sobbing sounds of relief and delight as if he could hardly voice his wordless joy.  It was Bobbie, sure enough, and it was a glad and triumphant procession which hurried on to the restaurant, where the dog hunted out my wife and Leona, and told them how happy he was to be home again.
But there was someone else he wanted to see. Paying no attention to the crowd of curious and sympathetic bystanders, he rushed through the rooms in search of me. As I take charge of things at night, I was sleeping upstairs, and was awakened by a whirlwind which burst in at my door, con! posed of my excited wife and dog. “Look who’s here,” she cried. I could not believe my eyes. But it was no dream, for a wet tongue lapping feverishly at my face and two dirty paws resting on my shoulders, told me it was not a ghost, but Bobbie sure enough, who had miraculously re turned. When the welcome was over, he dropped on the rug at my side, tired and worn, and had a bit of sleep, in which I joined, to be awakened presently by my faithful friend licking my hand. Then I jumped up and we went downstairs, where he had the choicest meal the place afforded, a thick, tender, sirloin steak and a pint of cream.

Poor Bob was almost “all in.” For three days he did little but eat and sleep and would look at us so pitifully as if to say, “My, but I am just worn out. Can’t you help me?” He would roll over on his back and hold up his pads, fixing us with his eyes to tell us how sore his feet were. His toe-nails were down to the quick, his eyes inflamed, his coat uneven and matted, and his whole bearing that of an animal which has been through a grilling experience. When he first came back he would eat little hut raw meat, showing that he had depended for sustenance chiefly on his own catches of rabbits or prairie fowl.
One day we took him out to the farm where we formerly lived. Bob inspected his old bed on the porch and ran all around sniffing at familiar spots. Suddenly he seemed to recall something and darted out to the barn, we following to note what he would do. He went straight to the spot where Toodles was buried, and I must say the tears stood in our eyes to see him, digging as hard as he could, trying to get down to his old friend. If anyone had doubted that it was the same dog, that little scene would have convinced them.
Bobbie was three years old when just six months to the day on which he disappeared in Indiana, he turned up in Silverton, 2551 miles by speedometer. This does not include detours which we know he made, because we have received letters from people who housed and fed him on his homeward way. His “dog sense” and his love for us led him over three thousand miles, across river and prairie, through towns and wilderness, straight to his own folks. There was no doubt as to its being Bobbie, for he was fully identified not only by his behavior, but by his three scars. In addition, since his return, we have had many letters from persons who saw him at different stages of his journey. He would turn up at some house where we had stopped or some town we had passed through, his eyes half closed and red with strain, his feet bleeding, ravenously hungry, so tired he was ready to drop. Some friend of dogs would feed and doctor him and he would rest for a while, but just as soon as he could, he would be up and away again. Or perhaps he would jump in a car where there were children and go home with them. He would run all over the house, searching upstairs and down, before he would eat, then he would accept a lodging for the night and be off in the morning before breakfast. We are told he was always looking for someone and always in a hurry.

Bobbie has had many honors, as he fitly deserves. The Oregon Humane Society gave him a silver medal, engraved with the record of his long-distance journey. The presentation was made at Eugene Field School, (left) by Mr. Robert Goetz, superintendent of schools, and a large crowd witnessed the ceremony.
A month later the Portland Realty Board held a home beautifying exposition in that city, and a local contractor built Bob a miniature bungalow, which weighed about nine hundred pounds, with eight windows curtained with silk and every convenience which even a traveled dog could wish. Bobbie and his new house were on exhibition all that week, and one evening he was formally presented with a deed to his domicile. He was also given a silver-plated collar, suitably inscribed. Over a hundred thousand persons petted Bob during that week. He was the honored guest of the show, but I must add his head was not at all turned by the reception. Nor is this all. He received presents almost daily, with requests for his picture; has had columns and columns of newspaper stories printed about him, and his photograph has appeared so many times that we have had to get a special scrapbook for all the articles and pictures.

Bob, we hope and believe, will never leave us again. He is dearer to us than ever, and as for his proud “folks,” you could not match us in any State of the Union. Do you not agree with us that he fully deserves his title of “the wonder dog of Oregon”?