The Battel of Gettysburg

Today, July 3rd, in 1863, the Confederate Forces withdrew, ending three days of brutal fighting, which ended what most consider the most important battle of The Civil War. 

Twelve dogs lost their lives over those three days. Thirty-two weredogs died. The dogs were mostly local farm dogs, drawn in to the smells and sounds of the fighting by curiosity and concern. Most dogs were smart enough to head for the hills. The thirty-two weredogs who died fought as soldiers on both sides. It was great tragedy amongst weredogs.

It was not the first time weredogs had fought on opposing sides of a battle or war. But this was different or several reasons. One, was that we thought The United States of America was different. We had never seen anything like it before.  Two, was the carnage that modern warfare was capable of visiting on the battlefield. We were not prepared. No one was. 

In the past weredogs had been able to avoid killing or wounding other weredogs. But, not at Gettysburg. The distance and confusion and ferocity made it next to impossible. 

Werewolves mostly stayed out of that war. We called them cowards for it. There were times, afterward, I wasn't sure about that.

Werewolf Rising

Werewolves are on the move.

Werewolf activity has risen dramatically. All weredogs are on Alert-Reaction Status. We have to be ready to react, or go, on a moment's notice. I have a "Go Bag" stashed in the bushes on the side of the house. In it are 3 bottles of water; a small 2-way radio, with 2-mile range; a .40 cal, with 5 clips; 100 ft. of parachute cord; a 6-inch Randal fighting; a skinning knife; 20 lbs. of beef jerky; an MP-5 with 10 mags; a Warren Zevon CD; and a 18-inch maglite. A few other items. But that's the jist of it. I have another "Go Bag" at Rex's that similar with only a few additional items, like a larger bottle of Tobasco, a GPS, and a sawed-off 12 gauge. The makings of a real party. 

We are to patrol in groups no fewer than three, preferably five, in any form of our choosing. We are to take no chances. If we smell trouble or danger, we are to assume weredog form. The change is quicker from dog form, so people have been seeing lots of packs of stray dogs running and sniffing around the area recently. 

Jason and Jessica have both been calling me. They want to recruit me. I may recruit them. Rex and I have discussed it, several times. Something about them draws me. Rex says Jessica would be good, but that Jason is to heavy with hate. Rex thinks it makes Jason unstable. Emotions can do that. Jason thinks killing evil people will make him stable. I see it. Seen it before.

Sven snuck out the other night. I cam home, from a patrol, to find he was gone. The moment I came into the house I could smell he was not here. I immediately called Rex and we went right back out. We found him and four other kids down on some swing-sets along the trail. It was secluded by trees. None of the nearby houses could see them. Few could hear anything. 

I got his scent in the back yard, went right to them. They were sitting in the swing, smoking cigs, talking about girls and vids. Watching them from the brush I smelled it, something moving on the other side of the playground open area. I could not make out if it was wolf or not, but it was definitely trying to get close to Sven and his buds. "I smell it too," Rex said.

I went in in dog form. Sven, of course, saw me and freaked. I barked a coupled times and ran off. He ran after me. Rex went in in human form and told the other boys they needed to go home. I had circled back, in case Rex needed support, and without Sven knowing I went back. Rex got them to all to their homes. 

Bella has cancer. She has several months to live. This has cast a pall over the house. It is hard for everyone to accept. She is the "alpha dog" of the family. Ony Flecka doesn't understand. And she won't, until Bella is gone. Then she will come to me. And I don't know what I will tell her. 

Dogs Get Some Helmsley Bucks

Today's paper shows that Leona Helmsley left billions to dogs.

Leona died last August. She let an estate and a charitable trust worth billions. The trust is worth $5 to $8 billion. 

She left $12 million to her dog, Trouble. All $5 to $8 billion is to go to dogs. That money could help a lot of dogs. But the terms of the will and trust are being contested. You can bet it is werewolves who are trying to get their claws on some of that. Filthy beasts.

Here's the whole article"

Helmsley . . . Left Them Billions

Does that seem odd, that a woman known as "The Queen of Mean" would leave billions to dog charities and nothing to people charities? Not to me. I have seen it many times, people, often women, who lose faith in people, and find it in dogs. 

I once went on a dog run with Jack in Lee's Summit. Afterward, we hung around with some of the runners and dogs, drinking energy drinks and doggy mineral water. I hate that stuff. Anyway, Jack was trying to make time with this morose women dressed in black running shorts and tank top. I had never seen goth running gear before. Listening to her talk made me want to call the morgue and ask if they were missing any corpses. But, when, somehow, the conversation shifted, and she, somehow, was able to start talking about when mankind would wipe itself out, and dogs would inherit the earth, she was absolutely luminous. Her dead, eyes took on a twinkle. Her fish mouth blossomed into a smile. Her back straightened and her head went back. Jack and I both were mesmerized. 

I was also mesmerized by her Irish Setter. Her name was Corine. I wanted to recruit her, to weredom. I wanted to mount her, right then and there, with all those other dogs around, and howl at the sun. I wanted to have puppies with her, to see how our coats and eyes and howls mixed in them. 

Then Goth Girl shattered it al by asking Jack if he wanted to go someplace and have sex. He just stared, his mouth gaping. She said, "But, I only do it doggy style. And me on top. Always." 

I have to hand it to Jack. He hardly missed a beat when she said that. He told her he had to get home. Corine snarled at me. I told her, "I think you got a mange spot on your on your rump." That was close.

Anyway, Helmsley and Goth Girl are not unique. There are many people haters in the animal movements. And there are more than enough animal, and dog, haters to go around also. But, that is another post.

Dog Rescued from Sewer

This was in today's paper:

"A frightened dog was found in a 60-foot-deep sewer hole in a field just south of Berkley Park on Tuesday afternoon. 

He sat alone - whimpering - until the Kansas City Fire Department came to his aid."

Click here to read the entire article.

This is why I keep my faith in humans, this kind of story. Sure, we dogs get concerned from time to time. People often exhibit a determined insistence to destroy themselves, everyone they love, and the entire planet. Humans love war. There is no doubt about that. Lust, greed and avarice often seem like the primary human values. Then I read something like this. By the way, dogs like firemen. Once you get past the strong odor of smoke, you can smell that firemen are just good guys. 

And it is not that simple. Jack and Sherry both have their challenges. Neither are perfect. Neither will Ricky and Sven be. But, they are good people. Like firemen. It's just that sometimes they put out the wrong fire, or fan the wrong flames.

Dog rescues can take this off on a hundred different roads. Like the puppy mill rescues, Jason and Jessica. Much more on that later.

Dog Days, Hot Days

Dog Days begin on July 3rd.

The Dog Days are a period of 40 days that begins on July 3rd and ends on August 11th. They are names in honor of the Dog Star, Sirius, which rises with the sun this time of year. Ancient cultures associated the rising of The Dog Star with the hottest days of the years. Thus, The Dog Days. 

This little, 4-line poem is in honor of The Dog Days.

Dog Days bright and clear

Indicate a happy year.

But when accompanied by rain

For better times we hope in vain. 

       - Anonymous

Actually, to be honest, every day is dog day. To a dog any day that includes food is a great day. And a walk. Walks are good. Walks are great. Even in human and weredog forms I love to walk. I don't understand why more people don't walk. So many people seem to lump walking right in there with taxes. Matter of fact, if McCain or Obama got up behind a podium and declared, "Read my lips! No new walking!" he would win by a landslide. 

Actually, if either if them tried that, he would get whacked. There is too much corporate wealth riding on the explosion of obesity and diabetes in this country. Therefore, walking is bad. And if any serious effort managed to turn the tide of flab sweeping over this country, Madison Avenue would come out with a robust campaign that reframed obesity and sold the idea that skinny people are neo-communists, whatever that is. Liberals, I guess.

Anyway, have to go. Sheila is here. We have to go to a pack meeting. By the way, she just assured me that Dog Days are not for all dogs. Sheila is a malamute, and the most gorgeous weremalamute you ever saw. Maybe that will get me lucky. Wish me luck. 

Fresh meat.

Jason and Jessica

Leaving soon for a pack meeting. Catching up on e-mails. Better tell about Jason and Jessica before Rex gets here. 

Jason and Jessica are the heirs apparent of the small but tenacious band of puppy liberators. Allen was the founder and formal leader. But, he has issues with the hard things that Jason claims must be done. Oh brother, always the hard things, I thought as I listened.

There were fourteen of them, in this merry band, all dressed in black, half of them armed. Lydia, a woman in her late 40s, told me, "We used to just wear jeans and dark sweatshirts." She explained that for years Allen maintained the "No violence" rule.

Allen is a lawyer. Civil rights has always been his main game. He started twelve years ago with the puppy rescues, going out just to talk to the puppy mill owners, trying to convince them of the error of their ways. He, by his own admission, did not ever have much luck. So, he changed tactics.

The first time he snuck in to the dilapidated kennels of a mill, he was dressed in work clothes, slacks and a tie. It was a whim, after a few beers. He snatched just one puppy - Bastian. That dog is still with him, 15 years old now. Over time he got more bold, brought others into the crusade. They got better and better at rescuing more and more puppies. 

Then came Jason and Jessica.

Jason is an Iraq vet. Infantry. 82nd Airborne Division. Jessica was a chopper mechanic. She's done three tours. He's done two. He has some of the worst PTSD I've ever seen. She is just lost. 

Allen recruited them both last year. Both needed to blow off steam. Both brought new ways and attitudes to the team. Jason convinced Allen that a few needed to be armed, for safety and security reasons. He had heard all of Allen's stories about being run off and shot at by mill owners with guns. Jason reminded Allen of those stories, and made promises that they would never happen again. Jessica brought the group together, organizing parties and dinners, for planning and socializing. She formed the loosely knit, hodge-podge of neo-hippies into a tight-knit, focused team of determined puppy liberators. 

So, Jason brought the tactics and Jessica brought the cohesion. Jeans were replaced with fatigues. Flashlights were replaced with rifles. Idealism was replaced with pragmatism. Allen was still the leader. But Jason and Jessica were calling many of the shots. 

Time to go. Rex is here. Family's asleep. The pack calls. Time to howl. And I have to be back in the morning before they get up for church. 

Fresh meat.

Puppy Mill Raiders

Found some new friends. They shoot people and rescue puppies.

I have been gone since beginning of last week. Rex and I were sent to recon some rumors in "the sticks".

There had been stories in the news, newspaper and TV, about some killings in central Missouri. Word got around amongst weredogs that the killings were of puppy mill owners. Rumors started to run that it was werewolves.

Now, I am no fan of puppy mills. Most of the people who run them are lower than puppy poop. But, it was decided that if werewolves are hitting puppy mills, killing people, even if they have it coming, then it is our job to look into it, and probably to stop it. 

We met at the largest attended Grand Pack Meeting that I can recall in a long time. There were more than a few dogs who argued to let the werewolves deal out the justice. But, even if we could turn a blind eye to werewolves killing humans, we could not ignore the possibility of wide-scale werewolf recruitment. If they are adopting all these puppies they liberate, and converting and indoctrinating them to the ways of the werewolf, then that is a situation we must address.

So, of course, it was decided that Rex and I go check it out. I always feel bad when I take off for a few days. Sherry and the boys worry, a lot. And it's a bit embarrassing to come back to see my face plastered to every telephone and light pole for a two mile radius. 

Just to be clear, there is no good puppy mill. Doesn't exist. There are good breeders. But, mills are not run by honest breeders. Want to see what a puppy mills is about? Click here. There are worse vids online to be found. But, worse than this and you might want to hut someone. If you are a weredog, that's a bad idea. I don't want to spark that.

Anyway, Rex and I sniffed around for a week, until Sunday night, until we finally crossed a scent. It wasn't wolf. It was human, a pack of them. We came up on them at night, late, in position around a puppy mill south of Jeff City. They were tactical, wore all black and carried weapons. 

Forget the movies. Weredogs and werewolves can be killed with lead bullets. So, Rex and I went into tactical mode ourselves. We located and moved up behind the control group. There were five of them, in a cluster in trees, on a small rise above the house. Lights were on in the house. We listened long enough to learn that they were divided on how to proceed. A young woman, who smelled of bacon, was arguing not to harm the people in the house. A young man, who smell of anger, was arguing that they had it coming, just like the others. An older man, who I picked to be the official leader, was torn. His confusion was palpable. 

We allowed them to sense us. We came in slow, hands in sight. "What are you doing here?" the woman asked. The young man was eyeing us suspiciously. I gave him a good sniffing. No wolf.

We said we were there for the same thing, to free the puppies. They were surprised, but happy for the extra tails, so to speak. "Why don't you have weapons?" said the young man."

"Don't need weapons when you got teeth," said Rex. The young man smiled. I jammed an elbow into Rex's ribs, hard.

"Our one condition," said Rex, "is that no one gets hurt." The older man agreed.

The old couple in the house were no trouble. They were scared. They had heard about the recent killings and did not want to end up same. Afterward we went for an early breakfast with our new crew of friends. 

Here is a pic of one of the rescued puppies.

More later.