Fwd: ScienceDaily: Why Do Pigs Die During Commercial Transportation?

This came across my radar recently, sent by a friend:

Why Do Pigs Die During Commercial Transportation?
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/12/081210091035.htm
Scientists have evaluated the factors involved in causing injuries or even death in pigs as they are transported to the slaughter house. The results show that the stress and suffering the animals undergo would be reduced if more time was spent on loading them properly onto trucks and the temperature was kept down.

I used to think this was not a problem. I changed my mind about it. A friend pointed out to me the large amounts of endorphins and other chemicals the body pumps into the body when in a state of fear, worse in a state of terror. The meat is, in effect, tainted. Bad for
whomever eats that meat.

You might ask: "Wait? You are a dog, a weredog. Have you never hunted?" Yes, I have, as a man and as a dog, and as a weredog a few times. But when a pack or lone hunter stalks and kills an animal, such as a deer, the kill is quick, with no time for the body flush with fear chemicals. What this article describes is very long periods that the pigs are transported, the entire time in a high-state of fear. Pigs are intelligent animals, I assure you. Some say smarter than dogs. I don't agree with that. Dogs are second only to man in terms of intelligence. But, pigs possess enough awareness to be terrorized, unlike steers and chickens, which more experience
discomfort, but not impending doom.

Years ago I worked in a meat packing plant in Omaha. That plant processed mostly steers, but also pigs and sheep. I thought it would be fun, surrounded by all the meat. But, it was not. After weeks I fell to a melancholy, the result being within and part of assembly- line slaughter. I have no problem with killing and butchering hundreds of animals.  But the assembly-line approach of the Kill Floor, of bloody animal parts being shuffled through shiny, metal chutes had its toll on me. It affected me on a primal level.

So, I guess there is this moral issue: Is there such a thing as correct killing? Does an animal deserve to be dispatched as quickly as possible? If Kant was right, in regards to the categorical
imperative, then all animals do. In nature there are cases of animals playing with their prey. Usually, it is to train the young, pups or cubs, to hunt and kill. But, for the most part, predators do not dally when killing. They do it as quickly and efficiently as possible.  To do otherwise is wasteful and depraved.

I believe that hunting is more humane than ranching. The prey in the open has a chance. The steer in the pen has none. And the meat is better from the wild, or open range, animal which is hunted, or killed by some other means other than long transport and entry into a slaughter house.

All creatures must eat. We must kill to eat. But, even wolves, I am told, have rules and ethics about killing and eating.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Home Alone

I am here alone. Just got back this afternoon. And Bailey and Rooster, the cats. Thank Dog for them. I would not be able to take the loneliness without them.

Jack and Sherry decided, spur of the moment, to take the kids to Colorado for a skiing Christmas. Friends called saying they had room in a house they rented in Vail. Price was right. Off they go. Jack, Sherry and the boys will not be back until after New Years.

I have to be careful, such as with lights. Jack asked the Jergens to "watch the house". The Jergens are not watchful people. But can't have too many lights on, or the TV or music too loud. Would be awkward to have the cops come knocking. But, I am practiced at this.

Bella, Flecka and Sparkle are at friends' houses. Jack took me to a kennel way south, out in the sticks. I did not go with Bella and Flecka because it is thought that I am too high-strung. Jack dropped me off at the kennel on Saturday morning. I never saw it coming. That worries me. That night I let myself out, stole some clothes from a nearby house, and started making my way home. I had some stops to make on the way.

I checked in with a few dogs and weredogs. Rece and I go back a long ways, real long. Another story. He is living in Stillwell with a woman named Donna who cuts hair and has three kids. He is working as a sheriff's deputy. It is close to time for him to transition. He is not looking forward to it, worries about leaving the kids, and the woman. "How do I let these things happen?" he said to me, head down, shaking, voice heavy with regret.

Rece also wanted to know what I know about two things: Jason and Jessica, and rumors of a new species. Had I met with them, Jason and Jessica? Dalton wanted to know. Had I gone on any ops with them? Had any other weredogs checked them out, or joined them? Should we worry about this? he asked.

I had few answers for him. He reminded me of the history of wolves and dogs, of Cros and Man. "I know," I said. I told him I would get word to him, arrange a meeting with Jason and Jessica, if he wanted it.

I stopped off for bar-b-q, twice, checked in with another weredog, who is currently a family pet in Olathe, and finally made it to Warin's. Warin was surprised to see me. I explained the situation, asked if I could stay the night there, last night. He said, "Sure."

"By the way," said Warin, "Someone named Diella is trying to get ahold of you." He wanted to know who Diella is. I told him. He became anxious.

"What's the matter?" I said. He said nothing.

So. I got back here this afternoon about 3:00. Rooster spent 2 nights outside, 1 in an ice storm. He was glad to get inside. Bailey was glad to see both of us. I think she is getting sweet on Rooster, at least friendly.

My plans, until the family returns, is to catch up on lots of messaging, planning, financial analysis, and blogging. And cooking. I like to cook. And eat.

So, I am here at home, in front of the fire, catching up on e-mails, texts and voice-mails, watching the Boise State v. TCU game. Bailey and Rooster are on the couches, nearby. They missed me. I miss Flecka.

Chester

Heading to the kitchen for another brat. Might cook this one. 

Memory: Joe

I can't stop thinking about Joe. I hate it. Maybe if I tell the story I can get it out of my head, for a while. 

After Korea, where I served as a man, I needed time to unwind. It was
time for me to switch to dog phase anyway. I went to Indiana, Muncie,
and chose a family with 2 kids. Kids are always one of my prereqs.

Their last name was Baggins. Bill and Natalie had 2 kids, a boy,
Steven, who was 9, and a girl, Susie, who was 7. They were good
people. Bill sold insurance, had fought in WW2, in Europe,
artillery. Natalie was tall, slender, with a head of luscious dark
hair. She was the daughter of a Philadelphia physician, raised in
privilege, and was the one who took care of us dogs, fed us. The kids
were . . . kids. Enough said.

Joe was a beagle-schnauzer mix. He was the alpha dog of the family,
there when I arrived. Often an alpha feels threatened by newcomers,
feels the need to fight back, lash out, in order to protect his or her
position in the family, the pack. Joe was not like that. He welcomed
me, explained things to me, explained things to me in ways I still
reflect on. He was not perplexed at all by my wereness. (Which most
dogs are, at least at first.) We became friends.

Joe was an even-tempered dog. He looked after the kids, stayed beside
Ella most of the days, all day. Bill liked to take us dogs fishing.
Joe would be moving all over the shore, checking on the kids, sitting
beside Bill, checking out any noise or scent that needed
investigation. I spent most fishing trips following Joe's lead. But,
when I was satisfied with the safety o the area, I tended to take a
lot of naps.

One day Ella was clipping Joe's claws. Joe's claws grew fast, got long
if not clipped at least once a month. This day Joe moved his paw, by
accident, and Ella clipped a claw too close. Claws, of dogs, and other
species, are filled with nerves. They hurt like crazy when they break,
snap, or are cut too close. Joe yelped and bit Ella. It was an
impulse. Joe loved Ella, would never hurt her intentionally. But, the
bite left a mark, a small red half-moon. Joe felt sick about it. He
whined about it all night, kept going to Ella. She just petted him,
kept telling him, "It's all right, Joe." But, Bill, on the other
hand, gave Joe dark scowls.

The next day Bill loaded both kids and both us dogs up in the car for
a drive. I knew something was up when Ella did not get in the car.
We drove off, left her crying at the curb. The kids were making
noise, messing with each other, singing silly kid songs, talking
nonsensically. Joe got quiet. He moved over by me and began whining
quietly. I tried to console him, tell him things were fine him. But,
could not really console myself.

We drove for an hour into the country, off the paved highway, onto
dirt and sand roads, past miles of pastures and fields, dozens of
barns, some newly painted, some falling down. The smell of various
manures and crops was intoxicating. I had my head out a window, and
was starting to relax, when Bill pulled the car over. The cloud of
dust billowed up to and past us as Bill got the kids and Joe out f the
car. Not me. Bill told me, "Stay." My heat sank.

Bill walked Joe and the kids back down the road, the way we had just
come, and stopped in the middle of the road. The kids were quiet.
They didn't realize it, but they knew something was up, sensed it.
They stood there, looking up at their dad, not saying anything,
waiting. Joe sat between them, expectant, silent, hoping.

The windows were open, my head was out, so I heard Bill when he said,
"We're leaving Joe here." The kids thought he was kidding. Bill
convinced him he was not.

"But, why, Daddy?" said Steven. Bill told them that Joe was a bad dog
and that he would not have a bad dog in his home, biting his family.
Then he took both children by the shoulder and guided them back to the
car.

Joe sat for a moment, trying to be obedient, but afraid of what was
happening, trying to figure out what was happening, what to do. They
were ten feet away from him when he barked and ran to them. He barked
and aran around them, trying to get their attention.

"Don't look at him," said Bill. "Don't say anything to him." The
children started crying. Steven was sniffling. Susie was sobbing.

Joe was barking desperately as we drove off. I barked too. "Don't
worry!" I barked to Joe. "I'll come back for you!" Joe ran behind
and kept up with the car for nearly a quarter of a mile, his short
legs moving like a bumblebee's wings. Then, gradually, he disappeared
in the cloud of dust. The kids were still crying when we got back to
the house.

I went back for six weeks, nights, looking, but never found Joe. I
searched as a dog, as a man, often as a weredog, sometimes all three
in the same night. I asked around, of coyotes and foxes, of local
dogs, and even cats. But, nothing. I never found any sign or telling
of Joe. He just disappeared. I like to think that someone, a farmer,
rancher, or some city family visiting country kin, picked him up and
adopted him. But, I don't know. And it still bothers me. It is one
of my many memories that still bother me.

It is no small irony that there is no word or scent for "betrayal" or
"loyalty" in dog consciousness. It would have never occurred to Joe to
betray or abandon Bill or Ella, or the kids. He would have given his
life, gladly, for any of them.

So, that is Joe's story, at least the part of it that haunts me. I cannot imagine that Jack would ever do anything like that. But, Jack is no Bill. Thank God. Jack is more the type of guy who would bury a boot up the butt of someone like Bill. And, I could not not intervene or get involved in any way. Because, I am a dog. Mine is to serve. Not judge. And I do that with pride and a deep sense of duty and pride.

And I still have big problems with anyone named Bill.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Party Aftermath

Just now I am able to post this. Everyone's gone, except us dogs.

I'm still exhausted. What a crazy weekend.Had a party here Saturday night. What a party it was. Itt was for Aaron's 40th birthday. Aaron and Sherry used to be lovers. They are still
friends. He is an out-of-the-closet gay who does sales for a medical equipment company, does mixed martial arts competitions on the weekends, and teaches cooking on Tuesday and Friday nights. He and Sherry are still friends so they can complain to each other about men.

I was sent to stay the night with friends who have a golden named Goldie. She's a good dog. Not too bright. Thinks rabbits are deformed puppies, eats her poop for snacks (like Flecka), and lays on her back to beg. Like I said, not too bright.Bill is the husband. He runs our of gas all the time due to forgetting to put gas in his car. So, I knew slipping away would not be a problem. Bill put me out and I waited half an hour, then shifted and slipped away. I went to Warin's and changed clothes. Warin was not there, and there was an odd odor in the house that I could not  quite identify.I went to the party, my own house, trying to act like I had never been there before. Weredogs do not tend to be good actors. So, it was a challenge.

Interesting mix of people - neo-yuppies, metroxsexuals, rednecks, old, young, white, black, brown, tan, you name it. Some were loud; some were quiet. The music was loud and the wine, beer, and vodka was overly abundant. There were so many smells and scents. Most of the people had good or OK scents. There were two I kept my eye on the entire night.I told Sherry that I was a friend of Aaron's. I told Aaron I was a friend of Sherry's. Jack asked what I was doing there. I said, "You invited me." He nodded. "Glad you're here," he said. "You can help
me tend bar and keep an eye on things." So, I helped pour beers and wine, picked up dirty plates, and mingled.

A woman named Tabitha liked my scent and started giving me the eye. I liked her eye. But, I could not allow it to go anywhere. I had to get back to Goldie's that night and be ready to be picked up the next morning to go home. Rooster would be waiting for me, hungary.

Jack and Sherry never looked at each other. You would not have known they knew each other, much less were the hosts of the party. The only time he did watch her was when she was dancing and grinding with some young pup. I decided early that I would intervene if Jack went over the edge, got pissed, let out his wolf.Some blonde in a red dress started doing lap dances. I happened to be sitting on the right couch at the right time and got my dances. It was hard to have that booty in my face and not sniff it. A young women named Mindy told me afterward that whores and strippers are all the rage, that most women have fantasies to do, at the very least, lap dances for a strange man. She said it has to do with raunch feminism. I had never heard of such a thing. How can those 2 words go together?

Jack and some guy wearing a ruffled black shirt almost got into it. I think the trigger was politics. The other guy was about 10 years younger, 10 pounds heavier, an inch taller, had sideburns all the way down his jaw, and lots of attitude. He did not have a bad scent, particularly, just drunk, or young, or both. Jack shut him up by saying that he was about
to rip the guy's head off, shit in his lungs, then boil his head till the skull shined, and drink the rest of the vodka punch out of it. I love a lot of things about Jack, and his creative use of language is one of my favorite of his talents.

I linked up out on the deck with a bunch of guys talking about Nam and Iraq. I had to be careful, I always do, when talking about past wars and soldiering.  One guy, Jerry, was Army, 1st ID, and shows signs of PTSD. He was loud, near yelling, in conversation, and tossing down vodka punch and beers like their were doggy treats. He started telling a story about going to see a guy who was in his unit over in Iraq, who lost an arm, and about how they go into an argument over crack, how to cook it. He was yelling in his telling. I was sure everyone in the neighborhood could hear him. Another guy asked him if he could not yell so much. He said, "What do you mean?" But, his scent was good.

I went to go get my coat in an upstairs bedroom and got ambushed. Tabitha grabbed me and pulled me into a bathroom ad commenced to trying to undress both of us at the same time. I have to say, I was impressed. But, what really got my attention was her aroused scent. It was not altogether human. And there was something about her eyes, the coloring of the iris. And she was much stronger than she should have been for a small woman, which she is. I had to draw on some werestrength to disentangle myself. She was not happy when I slipped
back into the hall.

Sunday Sven and Rick came to get me. I was sleeping next to Goldie under the kitchen table. She is warm. I was tired. There is nothing as comfortable as sleeping with a dog, even for a dog. They never even knew I was gone the night before, just figured I was digging around in the yard.The whole day was spent doing post-party clean-up: pressure cleaning carpets with a rented Rug Doctor (the sound it made was worse than vacuums), washing and hand drying dishes and glasses, picking up, spot cleaning, laundry, taking down tables and chairs, loading it all up into vans and trucks to be returned, etc. I, of course, just napped, or tried to, through all the noise and commotion. Flecka and I napped together upstairs, out of the way. Bella spent the day hanging out in the kitchen, waiting on scraps to fall.

Jack and the boys took us to the dog run about middle of the afternoon. It was getting cold. I loved it, ran around like a wild dog. There was a dog there that looked just like Joe, a dog I used to know.

Monday, yesterday, Jack was home all day, looking for work online, making calls, searching sites, sending off and posting resumes. He was not in a god mood the whole day. Bella, Flecka and I each tried to cheer him up by putting our head on his leg. Didn't work. Each time he told us to go away. Jack is also short with the boys, tending to yell more and more. He told me last week at the bar that he hates this, but feels powerless to stop it.

I heard something late last night, went out to investigate, in human form, because of the doorknob. It was snowing, small, fast moving flakes. They left a crust of white on the ground. On the east side of the house I found tracks. Wolf. Not werewolf. Wolf. It didn't make sense. Why would a werewolf assume wolf form in suburbs? Only werewolf and human made sense in cities. I quickly did a perimeters sweep. No more tracks, other than those going in, and going out the same way. The scent was cold.

Today Jack has been gone since just after 9:00 am. It is still snowing outside. The flakes are large and falling slow. Drifts are collecting on the deck. Various and numerous birds are coming to the feeder on the deck, which, thank God, Jack remembered to refill with seeds this morning. Fleck and Bella have slept most of the day. I
slept some, but had much to catch up on. 

I called for a pack meeting. I need to report about the tracks, and about Tabitha. 

Tonight Warin and I go out tracking, in the fresh snow and frigid temps.

Chester

Dogs and Sensuality

I was at the bar tonight with Jack. He was pounding beers like Flecka
goes through doggy biscuits. I bought Jack a Jack, straight up.
Didn't take long for him to start opening up about misery at home.
Before I sensed her incoming, a woman named Jalecyn homed in on him
and his unhappiness like a shark on fresh blood.

Jalecyn had cougar tattooed on her inner thigh. I could smell it. She
had come in with a friend, a blonde with hoop earrings big enough to
shoot three pointers through. The blonde left and Jalecyn stayed. It
took her less than 3 minutes to be standing at the bar next to Jack.

Within 5 minutes Jack was smiling, all misery forgotten, telling
Jalecyn lies and intimacies, things I did not even know. Finally, to
my amusement, he began telling all about his dogs. And call me
biased, but he talked more about me than Bella or Flecka. So, I sat
there on my stool and listened to Jack tell all about me, how I bark
at everything, am a picky eater, love to pick fights with larger
males, have the most gorgeous yellow and gold coat, and noble muzzle.
I almost said, "Oh, stop."

Jalecyn was transfixed. What do you know? I thought. She's a dog
person. Or an animal person. Or something. She said she thought men
who understand dogs are sexy. Jack's nostrils and pupils dilated to
about the size of my eating bowl. She went on at length, describing
her doberman, how she likes to let him sleep on her bed, especially in
the winter, even though she knows she shouldn't, how she like to sleep
late with him weekend mornings. She described petting him, around his
head and tummy. She was turning Jack on. Hell, she was turning me on.

This ties in with the common knowledge that you can tell how sexual a
woman is by how she is with animals, particularly dogs and cats.
Watch a woman, or a man, and how she or he is with a dog, how she
touches the dog, pets the dog, and you know a lot about that woman's
sensuality, how she would be horizontal. People who feel compassion
and attachment for dogs tend to be the same with people. People who
will not allow themselves to love animals are probably stingy with
their love for other people. They see love as a liability, not a
liberation.

I figured at one point that I would have to throw a bucket of water on
Jack. But he turned to me and said, "Time for home." I said, "Right
behind you." Then I remembered that I had to go home on four paws and
slip back into the backyard before Jack got there. Jaclecyn could
tell he was wrapping up. She tried to get him to stay, with looks and
eyes and yearning, and said, "Why don't you stay?"

Crap. Someone is coming downstairs. It's Rick. Gotta shift.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Fwd: Man Barks at Judge

This was in the news recently.  It is about a guy who robbed three Dunkin Donuts. (Don't those dumb SOBs know that cops hang out there.)  In court, before the judge, he started barking. Mr. James also barked on the phone when talking to another legal authority.

This is a link to the story: http://www.miamiherald.com/news/florida/AP/story/801428.html

I found a vid of him in court. His bark is pretty authentic. Maybe he is a werewolf, or weredog gone nuts, and is asking for a translator.

Chester

chester.weredog@gmail.com

Hard Times

Jack gave up looking for work. I know because I use his laptop and
read his e-mails. It's OK, though. Someone needs to watch over him.
So, he is out of the employment game. For now. No one hires this time
of year anyway. And Christmas is on our backs, as Jack says. Sherry
is freaking out, about parties and presents and decorations and
appearances and being able to enjoy it all. Enjoy Christmas. Yeah.
Right. I've been through too many Christmases to buy that bridge.

Anyway, Jack will start again in January looking for work. He will
have to put up with Sherry's griping until then. Or maybe Christmas
will be enough distraction for her.

Jack thinks he has it bad, he and lots of other people now. They
spent all day looking for work online and think they have it bad. I
spent The Great Depression in Wyoming, in the valley north of
Jackson. It wasn't bad. Times were tight. Sure. But, overall, life
was good. I lived with a rancher's family. We had cattle, and some
hogs and chickens. Sheep were also easy to come by locally. We grew
our own vegetables. Everyone did.

There were som foreclosures. But, not as bad as other parts of the
country, like Oklahoma. Everyone knew how to sew. Mending and
patching were necessities. We threw out nothing. I was also a fair
cobbler. A good pair of boots was nearly as valued as a good horse.
Canning was also a necessity. I still love pickled beets. I'll even
eat them as a dog. Yes, I was also in human phase during that time at
the foot of The Tetons. I was a dog on a ranch, and then was a cowboy
on that same ranch. That is another story.

Folks were still talking about the war, The Great War in Europe. Many
of the men fought in it, as did I. Few believed that it had been the
war to end all wars, especially the men who fought in it. They saw
it. They knew better.

I fell in love in Jackson. First with an Irish setter named Sheila,
them with a nurse named Pauline. Both had beautiful coats and limbs.
And both broke my heart. Another story.

It was then and there that I also first met and got to know a
werewolf. I spent much time in the woods, with my people, my family,
my friends and cattle. It was a warm spring day, I was collecting
steers to be inoculated. I looked up and saw a wolf, sitting,
watching me. I knew it was a werwolf. But, it was not displaying any
signs of aggression. She was just sitting there, watching me.

Jack should have been back by now. He's been gone a long time. I
wonder what he is up to.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com