Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Life As A Dog Means Faster Mutations

This has to do with weredogs and werephysiology.

Life As A Dog Means Faster Mutations
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2007/05/070510090442.htm

This relates to some previous posts.

It may be hard to see that the Chinese crested dog is descended from the wolf, but it's easier to grasp that two poodles of different sizes are related. Now there is reason to believe that dogs of the same breed differ more genetically than was previously thought. But, dogs and wolves are closer genetically than some humans of different cultures. 

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Moscow Stray Dogs
















This crossed my radar recently. Have to pass it along:
http://englishrussia.com/?p=2462

If this is true, there must be some weredog involvement. But, the dogs in these photos seem much to comfy with the people on the trains to be strays.

The rules are changing. Dogs are changing. We're adapting. Canines have always been real good at that, nearly as good as humans. And we've been at it a lot longer. 

Chester

Back Home

It's good to be home.  I was gone nearly 4 months. 

I got Snowball and Lucky to Denver and t a good home. In doing that I made my way back to KC, and home, and passed right through.

I spent a day trying to come up with a plan to get home.  In the end I just went up on the front porch and barked.  Sven opened the door to me.  He about split my eardrums with his yelling. Sparkle and Rooster are not letting me out of their sight.

Flecka has not stopped sniffing and licking me since I got back. Jack has been feeding me so table scraps that I swear they are cooking extra portions for me at each meal. Sherry hasn't complained once. And I am still hungry.

I have napped nearly constantly since being back. My favorite places are under the big window in the front room, under the table in the kitchen, and on the old couch in the basement. And I am still tired. 

I don't plan to take human form for some time, as long as I can go. Wereform is different. I need to make a pack meeting. Soon. I am in weredog form right now, so I can use these keys. But, soon as I am done here I'm back to dog. There is no better sleep than a dog's sleep. 

I need to find out how Jason is, meet with Warin, and Holly, and Sosser. It will take me weeks, at the least, to get up to speed on everything around here. I need to find out what that lab said about the dead neo we brought in months ago after the ambush at the puppy mill.

Sparkle and Rooster are telling me to get some sleep. Time for it.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Home

I am home. Finally. 

I just took the direct approach. I was too tired for and fancy plans. I went up to the front door and barked. And barked. And barked. Finally, Sven let me in. 

It's along story of the last 2 days. Hell. It's a long story of the last 3 months. 

The boys went nuts when they saw me, yelling and screaming. Sherry knelt down and burried her face in my shoulder and would not let go for a awkward amount of time. Jack cried. He saw me, sank to his knees, took my face in his hands, and cried. 

I'm exhausted. I plan to sleep all day tomorrow. I need to go out tonight, to report to the pack, check in with everyone. But it will have to wait. I'm tired. 

I will tell details later. 

No more roadkill for me for a while.


Friday, May 22, 2009

On My Way Home

I am in Omaha tonight, staying with a weredog who I have known a very long time. Tomorrow I will be back in KC. Not sure how I am going to return home, if I will just show up at the front door, or let myself be picked up by Animal Control. I'm not keen on the AC route. My bones are not up for anymore concrete floors for a while. I might just call myself in. I mean call the house and say, "I got your dog," which is, technically, correct. I am their dog, so I got their dog.

Need to see if I can get ahold of Holly, to get a home update. 

Chester

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Vane's Iraq Story

I met a weredog in the Badlands named Vane. I spent a lot of time talking with Vane. He's seen a lot lately. Here is Vane’s story.  


He was serving in Iraq with the US Army, as a dog. He arrived in-country at the first part of 2005.  


Rumors were that they had started drowning dogs in late 2004. Some said it was because stray dogs were a nuisance. Others said it was out of fear and revulsion. During the Battle for Falluja Marines told of stray dogs eating the dead, mostly Hadjis, since we killed around twelve-hundred of them, and lost in the neighborhood of sixty of our own. 


He and his handler had taken to caring for a litter of puppies that were living in a drainage ditch near their compound, inside their FOB. Every morning, on their exercise run, they would divert to the ditch to feed the puppies MREs that his handler had appropriated.


This went on for a few weeks until one morning they arrived in time to see a backhoe burying the ditch, and the puppies alive. They heard one desperate yelp, that was cut off by a bucket-load of dirt.


Civilian contractors were hired to kill nonmilitary dogs on US FOBs. Each dog had a bounty, like wolves in the old days. Not just strays, mind you - nonmilitary dogs. That included pets.


General Order 1-A prohibits military personnel from adopting, befriending or caring for stray or indigenous animals when deployed. They are very serious about this in combat AOs, and particularly picky about this in Iraq.  The harder the fighting the less they want the soldier’s violent resolve melted, even a little, by furry friends. 


A sergeant took in a female stray and talked the handlers in Vane’s unit into hiding her in their kennels. She looked enough shepherd to pass for a military dog. Her kennel was next to Vane’s. They sniffed, talked, became friends. They were even taken out to the exercise yard a few times. She said she wanted to go with Vane on patrols. He told her that, no, she did not. 


A plan was hatched to get her out of Iraq. It had taken the help of several dog groups in the U.S., numerous Army, Marine and CPA folks, quite a few favors, bribes, promises and several bottles of Jack and Canadien Club passed hands. All the benevolent sergeant had to do was get her on a plane at the Baghdad Airport. 


The road to the airport is dangerous. Very. It was a smorgasbord of old IED blast points, wrecked vehicles, stains of all sorts. The sergeant smuggled her to another FOB where he had arranged a 3-hummer convoy to the airport. He was worried she would bark or whine and give her presence away, that some LT would hear her and order her shot on the spot. Didn’t happen. They made it to the airport. 


The sergeant had all her vaccinations and orders in order, made it all the way to the tailgate of the aircraft. They were waiting on the strip to board the aircraft when one of the civilian bounty hunters came up, grabbed her leash, pulled her from the line, and shot her right there on tarmac. The sergeant had to be restrained, not to kill the bounty hunter.


When Vane heard of her shooting he went a little nuts. He let himself out of his kennel that night and slipped away. He wished he could tell his handler goodbye, leave him a note. But that was not possible. 


There were other litters and strays that he had been helping out and caring for, nights, covertly. He collected them all and set out to find sanctuary for them all. I won’t go into the details here. Too many, too long. And his story is both beautiful and ugly. He crossed a few lines. Broke some rules, some very hard and fast rules. A main problem in his effort is that most Arabs do not like dogs. He got most of his dogs to safety. Some to the U.S. Some to other places. 


Vane returned to the U.S. during the summer of last year, 2008. He has spent most of that time with the Robinson werod, recovering, cleansing, waiting to forget. I told him he is a hell of a dog. He looked at me a moment, scratched, and said, "You don't know what I've done." 


Whatever he's done, I say he's a hell of a dog.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Waerwulfas, Rae and Roland

I am in a truck stop in Alliance, Nebraska, using a trucker's laptop. He did not agree when I first asked him if I could use his computer. But, when I said I need to check my porn site, he gave a knowing sneer and agreed. It is hard getting computer access when  you are a dog on the road.

I just spent the last nearly 3 weeks in the badlands of South Dakota and in the hills just to the northwest of Ft. Robinson and Crawford, Nebraska, with 2 different werods. A "werod" is a troop or pack or werefolk which has some sort of mission or purpose.

Been sleeping outside a lot lately. Been chilly. I was amongst wolves and dogs, werefolk and non. How I got here is a bit of a long story. I'll try to be brief.

I said goodbye to Dionna. It gets harder each time. We had several real good days together. 

At a rest stop outside of Byers, Colorado, off I-70. I stopped to drain the crank. I was on my way back home, to KC. Had I known I was being tracked by waelwulfas I might have chosen a different route. 

I heard the door open of the restroom, and sensed the group of them come in, one after another, the file of them. The door was a long spell open. I was in human form. I had rented a car. My hackles went up. 

They came in and surrounded me.

"Who are you?" I said. "What do you want?"

They all snarled with their mouths closed, that snarl from the back of the throat that few dogs and men can do. "We have been sent for you," said the largest.

Waerwulfas. Shit. I'm screwed, I thought. 

I woke up in a trunk. It was black, no light. I was sore from the fight. I hoped I at least got some licks in of my own.

It was not that long after that the vehicle stopped and I heard fighting outside, weapons fire, snarling, howls, claw and tooth slashing through air and skin. Yes, my hearing is acute enough to hear claws through wind. 

There was an enormous blast. Then it was quiet. Then the trunk came open and a female weredog was telling me, "Come on! Hurry!"

They were Rae, a dog, and Roland, a wolf. I rode with them in a '98 beat-up Bronco all the way to Cheyene. They played a lot of Warren Zevon and Johnny Cash. They let me drive, but would not tell me where we were going. "Just drive," Roland told me. Rae could only sleep if she changed to her dog form. She slept on her back, in the backseat, wrapped up in jackets and wool blankets.  

In  Cheyenne I was passed off to Willa and Gart. We continued east.

"Will you tell me when we get there?" I asked Roland when we were somewhere between Cheyenne and Casper. He smiled. "Sure."

I was taken to the Badlands, in the southwest corner of South Dakota, to a werod of werewolves or weredogs readying for war. I spent my time there talking and discussing, everything.

"You need to find your hildelayoth," one weredog told me one morning. I asked him what that is. He only said that having your hildelayoth is the only way to stave off the morgancollon, the morning terror.

I left the Badlands and was led to the werod northwest of Ft. Robinson. More talks, discussions, questions.  

I may never get home, back to Jack, Sherry, and the boys. To think that I passed right through KC 3 weeks ago, less than fifteen miles away from home.

But, right now I am on my way home. No telling if I will get there. 

Did I mention that it is hard staying connected as a dog on the road?  I have not even seen this blog since Denver.