Sheila Saves the Day

Someone tried to force their way into a house down the street early this week. Big event. All the dogs in the neighborhood were worked up over it. 

The husband, a cop, had left for work. The wife was about ready to leave, to take the boy to school, and get herself to work. The doorbell rang. She answered it to a guy in a tux. A limo was
parked at the curb. She immediately could tell he was hopped up on something.

He said, "Where's your asshole husband?"

they argued a bit, then she tried to slam the door. He stopped her and shoved his way in. She
ran toward the back of the house, where the boy was, and a pistol. She was scared, as anyone would be.

There are 4 in that family. The dad, mom, boy, and Sheila. Sheila is a retired police dog, german shepherd, 95 pounds. That's big, even for a shepherd. She was sleeping on her mattress, in the corner of the main room, as all of this was going down. She knew the guy was bad news the minute the door opened, and growled to voice her opinion. The woman, while at the door, kept
giving Sheila the "Stay" command. So, Sheila stayed. But, when the guy forced his way in and the woman was running toward the back of the house, she gave the release command: "Attack!"

Sheila said that in all he years as a police dog she had never had to really mess anyone up before. Usually, a show of teeth and a convincing bark was all it took. "Oh, I've bit perps before," she told me. "But, always I was called off or hauled off before I could really get a
taste." No this time. Sheila laid into the guy. 

As trained, she got behind him and got hold of his calf. He screamed and headed for the
door, dragging Sheila. She let him go at the door, and watched him limp to the limo, dragging his ruined leg. "I almost tore the whole calf off," she told me. "It was hanging on at the top by a thread."

Cops were there in no time. Sheila doesn't know what the guy wanted with the husband. "Probably someone angry at getting arrested," she said.

She said, "You know, that was the first time that I have really gotten a good taste of human blood. I mean sunk my teeth and gotten a real good taste of it." I asked her what she thought of it.

"You know," she said, her muzzle and brow congested in thought, "I've tasted blood before, you know, licked the wounds of handlers, family, friends. But, this was different. It tasted . . . tasted like, I don't know, like foe. Foe and friend taste very different."

I nodded. I went to see Sheila in dog form. I spent 2 hours with her. That's how I got the story details. She was amazingly calm. She is on our pack's watch list, for potential recruits. She does not know that. Yet. The only problem is that she might be too old. 

I spent the rest of that day spreading the story to the rest of the dogs in this 3-subdivision area. A chihuahua on Grant Street was particularly ecstatic. "This calls for a fiesta!" he kept barking, over and over. The problem with that is it is very hard to get a bunch of dogs together for a party. Bu, we'll see.

For now, Sheila is the neighborhood dog hero.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Rick, Changes

Rick is getting violent. Jack had to take him to the ground last week.

Everyone was yelling and screaming. Rick was out of control, like a wildman. He scared even me. It was terrible. Times like that a dog just doesn't know what to do. Flecka hid. Bella too. They didn't want to see or hear it. The hearing, they had no choice.

Rick's violent mood swings have to do with his asperger's. He is very smart,has a high IQ, just made the Honor Roll at school. But, he has a low EQ - emotional quotient. The result is that sometimes the world overwhelms him. At those moments, sometimes, he flips out. 

Rick took him down without hurting him, using classic POW/LE technique. Rick was on he stomach, cheek smashed to the floor, before he had time to scream, "What the hell?!"  Jack kept his knee in Rick's back, and Rick on the floor, until Rick stopped struggling, his breathing slowed, a bit, and he promised to "chill out."

I did not know what to do. I sat to the side and watched. There is nothing for a dog to do in those situations. Inter-family violence is one of the worst obscenities I can think of. At least Jack did not hit or hurt Rick.

The boys are changing, turning into teens, and into men. No matter how many times I watch this, it also amazes and scares me. It is different in each boy, each individual, and, thus, you can never tell how it is going to go. 

Woof

Jack Sliding

Jack is not doing good. He cannot find any job leads. He has sent out 
hundreds of resumes, made hundreds of calls. He stays up late, drinks 
to fall asleep. He and Sherry fight a lot. The kids hear them, though they try not to. Every child in this area, probably in this country, lives in mortal fear of their parents uttering the "D" word.

Jack is gone now. I have no idea where, or for how long. It has ben very hard lately to get out at night, to patrol, make pack meetings, to check messages, post to this blog. 

If this family comes apart I don't know what I will do. I assume I would be sent with the boys, and not Jack. The boys would need me more. Maybe. I love them to much to watch them self-destruct. I may, instead, stage my disappearance and transition early back to human form. 

It is the dog's burden to suffer the pains and heartaches of their families, the people they love, and also sometimes the frailties and abuses.  But, part of the dog's life and lot is to also feel love, or at least attachment, and obedience to the abusive humans. It has to do, partly, with who fills the feed bowl.

Bella will be gone soon, claimed by the cancer. So, she will be spared all the pain. Flecka, I don't know. She is old, feeble, has 2 bad wheels. 

If not for the cleansing effect of transitions, I would have gone insane a long time ago.

Woof

Dog Transport

I did a dog transport today, with Jason. He was hauling 3 dogs. Said he does it ever so often. 

I met up with him in Raytown. Left my vehicle at a McDonald's. The dogs were coming from Texas, going to Minneapolis. They were loose in the vehicle, not in crates. Jason said it was better that way. 

Dassey, the oldest, stared at me most of the way. She wanted to know what I am. I told her I am friend, not to worry. The other 2, Killa and Sizzle, looked out the window and whined the first half of the leg, slept the other half. Dassey finally accepted me, relaxed, put her head on my lap and slept.

Jason said he was ready to launch. "Launch what?" I said.  

He said he's targeted 8 puppy mills, mostly in Missouri, a few in Kansas. "We have the people in place, and are ready to move," he said. 

"I want you on board," said Jason.

"Why me?" 

"I don't know. But, you got something. Skills, instincts, I don't know. But that raid you were with us on that op in September..."

"August."

"Whatever. I watched you, You knew what you were doing. And I sensed something about you when we were on target. It scared me.  I don't know what it was, but I want it on my side."

I shook my head. "You're gonna get someone hurt."

"Damn right."

"I mean someone other than the puppy mill operators. I mean innocents."

"There are no innocents."

"You prepared to whack a cop?"

"I am prepared to do whatever it takes to get this done," he said. "That is what people of vision and commitment do - whatever it takes."

I told him, "Kid, you don't know how many I've heard that, and how much it scares the shit out outa me."

We linked up in Spur, Missouri, passed on the dogs to the next leg driver. Dassey said she wanted to go with me. I said no. Explanation would have been wasted.

I am back at the house.  Jack and Sherry and the boys get back tonight. No telling when. So, I am heading back to the kennel. I will, miraculously turn back up in my cage, or a cage, tomorrow morning. I love a god joke. On the way back out there I am going to go stop by and see Warin. We need to talk.

Chester

chester.weredog@gmail.com

Xmas Visit

I went outside last night, in weredog form, to check on whatever it was making the cats, Rooster and Bailey, and I edgy. There was something, or someone, out there. I went to check it out.

I did two sweeps of the perimeter before I froze on the east side of the house, where the trees and bushes crowd, make it dark and hard to see at night, the best spot for an ambush.  I sensed them, felt them, even before I heard or smelled them. I snarled and jacked a round in the chamber of the .40 cal. 

"Wait," said a female voice.  "We come to talk."  Three dark figures emerged from the trees and brush. I did not raise the .40, but tightened my grip. The lead figure came into the small cone of light, enough for me to see.

"Diella."

"Glad you remember me."

"You'd be hard to forget. Who are these guys?"

Diella introduced her friends.  One was named Harod. The other was Pilet. Werewolves do have some formidable talents. Choosing names is not one of them.  Harod was small and overly friendly. Pilet was larger and not happy to be here. Both smelled distinctly of werewolf.

"Can we come in?" said Diella.

"Come . . . in?" I said. "To my . . . house?"

"You got a cave nearby?"

I had to hear what they had to say. So, I invited them in. Rooster was not happy. Bailey disappeared. 

I pointed them to the large couch in the family room, next to the fire. I wanted them sitting together. Easier to keep an eye on all three. "Want anything to drink?" I said.  "Coffee? Beer?  RC Cola?  Egg nog?"

"Got anything stronger?" said Harod. All six of their eyes shined expectant for my answer.

"Yeah."  So, I shared my damn Talisker with three damn werewolves.  

After a sip of the Talisker, and smacking of lips, Diella said, "Have you thought about what I said?"

"You mean about this new species you claim is moving in, that is a threat to us all?"  

"Yes."

I said I had. They wanted to know if I had talked about it with my pack, and we in turn had passed the information and invitation farther up the weredog latter, to other packs and leaders. I said I had taken the information to my pack, that we had discussed it, and that my pack alpha was taking it to other alphas, and I have not heard anymore than that.  They volunteered that there had been an incident at the casino. 

"Incident?" I said.  Diella would not elaborate. We talked more about what this new species might look like, how it might behave, how it might be identified. And we sipped more Talisker.  Before long we were watching It's A Wonderful Life and White Christmas on the TV and roasting marshmallows.  We drank all the egg nog, and nearly finished off my brand new bottle of Talisker. Rooster sat on the back of the couch and watched Pilet warily. Even Bailey returned, and sat in a corner, watching Diella.

Hard and Pilet fell asleep, curled up on both couches. Diella and I sat on the floor.

"Do you really hate us?"

"Missou fans?  No, not really."

"I'm serious"

"You're not like any werewolf I have ever known."

"How many have you known?" 

"A few."

"You're not like any weredog I've ever known either," she said. "We need you." She leaned toward me. "I need you."  Before I could respond, Pilet yelled. He had awakened to find Rooster sitting on his chest. "He likes you," I said.

"We have to o," said Diella.

So, I spent Xmas eve with 3 werewolves, and shared my Talisker with them.

I cannot cover or remove their scent. Belle will have a fit when she gets back, barking and whining all over the place, wanting to know what the hell has been going on around here. I better come up with a story to tell her.

I got a few hours sleep after they left. Got up about 11:00, was antsy, knew what I had to do.

I went to the dog run. I drive Sherry's Lexus there, parked a hundred meters past the dog run parking lot, in a picnic area, no one else was there. Go figure. I went into nearby wood, shed my clothes, changed into dog form, and cavorted in the dog run for nearly two hours. Temperature was perfect. Amazing how many dogs and people were there on Christmas Day. Every time someone would say, "Whose dog is that?  Who is with him?", I would dart off to another part of the run.

Home now. Lots more to do. Much to catch up on. But, still, I am lonely, in spite of Rooster and Bailey.  I miss the boys.  I miss Sherry and Jack.  I really miss Flecka, even Bella, bossy little bitch that she is. 

But, I have lots to do around here. Might go out on patrol with Warin tonight. If not, wonder if there are any good movies on tonight. And I wonder how much Talisker we left. Not much, I think. 

Chester

chester.weredog@gmail.com

Xmas Eve

Here we are, Bailey and Rooster and I, just the 3 of us, at home, alone, on Christmas Eve.

I made a nice beef stew. Cats don't eat stew. Go figure. I miss Flecka. She loves stew.  Bailey sat on my lap. I've never heard of that before, a cat sitting on, or going anywhere near, a weredog lap.

I went out today, drove Sherry's Lexus. Pumped two gallons of gas to cover. Only went to get some things for the stew, and something for me.  That thing was Talisker single malt scotch. I like scotch.  Single malt is the creme of scotch. So, I ate the stew, Rooster and Bailey ate. . . well, nasty cat food.  We watched Christmas movies. I got a fire going. And I sipped some Talisker.

Rooster has been edgy since about 9:00.  He said something, or someone, was out there.  He was freaking. Fine, I said.  I went out, did a perimeter sweep. I froze me ass off, but I did it.  I took the .40 cal.  I found nothing. But, my hackles did rustle. And when your hackles rustle, when they stir, you should not ignore it.  I went out again, two more times. Something is out there. And one of two options are possible. One, they do not know what I am, and they will regret it.  Two, they do know what I am, are here for me, and still they are going to regret it.

We watched Bad Santa. Now we are watching the Vatican Christmas Eve Mass (prerecorded). It is interesting, I have to admit. But, I also have to say that this thing humans have for religion, we dogs, weredogs, will never understand.  Humans and religion is something weredogs cannot get our minds around. Sure, we have a sense of "Almighty" and powers beyond ourselves.

Ever wonder what dogs are doing when they howl at the moon?  Praying.  That's what we're doing. When we howl we are praying. Not like humans pray. We dogs, and all other animals, lack the key ingredient for human religion: guilt. No other animal species does guilt like people do guilt.

Hold on.  Rooster is freaking out again. Now Bailey is too.  Something is out there. Something is up. I'm changing to weredog form. Where are those extra 2 clips for the .40 cal?  I'm going out.

Merry Christmas.

Chester

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