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.

New Book: Sharp Teeth

A friend recommended a book to me recently. It is called "Sharp Teeth". Good book. 

It is one long poem, free verse, the entire novel, broken up into chapters. It works. And it gives some interesting insights into werewolves. One can never know one's foe too well. I am reminded of Patton having read Rommel's book on armor warfare, and that having been a factor in Patton's being able to defeat Rommel in North Africa. 

I am no poet, but I know what I like. And the poetry that makes up this story is amazing. If it were written in prose I do not think it would have the same power. It howls in this form. Yes, that's a nod to Ginsberg. I think he would approve. 

There are some glaring fictional liberties. One is the tendency of the werewolves in the book to kill and eat their opponents. And I mean all of them, every bit of skin, fur, gut and bone. Now come on. I'm a weredog. I have a big appetite, and I never heard of such a thing. I once knew a weredog named Drok. He was an enormous Ovcharski weredog. He stood over seven feet tall in weredog form, and was nearly as wide. I once saw him polish off three slabs of ribs, at one of our grand pack meetings. But he could not move for an hour. And he left half the bones. Anyway I guess it works for the story.

I am curious if the author, Toby Barlow, is a werewolf, or just the tool of werewolves. We'll have to have someone look into that. 

About Healed

I am nearly healed. A few more days and I will be squared away. I am so rested I can barely sleep, day or night.

Sherry thought I got into a dog fight. Jack thought I got hit by a car. Rick and Sven cleaned my wounds. And Flecka. She licked me smooth, nearly.

Everyone is away, the boys are camp, Sherry at work, Jack out of town, and Braden in Iraq. So, I have the place to myself, to check e-mails, cry about investments, cruise other blogs, check in on other weredogs, and post here. Sherry made me a nice little nest of old blankets downstairs, in one corner, near the kitchen, and water bowl. One of the blankets is one of Jack's old wool Army blankets. That and worn out camouflage poncho liner are two of his most cherished possessions. It is so comfy that I struggled to drag myself up and around today. But, I have a lot to catch-up on.

Flecka has ben worrying over me. She keeps sniffing me front and back. I tell her I am OK. She says, I believe you. When do we eat?

Jack's been drinking. Not much, so far, just enough to help him sleep nights. On walks he and Sherry barely talk at all lately. There is a lot of tension between them. And it finds its way into the leash. Sometimes I want to change so I can tell him, "Dude, lighten up on the leash, will ya? Damn. I mean, I know I am high strung and like to fight other dogs. But, give me a break."

Yes, as a dog, I like to fight other dogs. Please, don't ask me to explain it. I can't. I don't like to fight in human form. Which is, I guess, kind of odd. All that I can offer is that I am three individuals - dog, man, and weredog, my true form. Each has its own unique personality. 

I have noticed the same, over my years, in humans. Jack is the same guy wherever he is. But, I have known lots of guys who were a different guy at work than they were at home. I once dated a teacher who was a tight-assed puritan at school. But with me she was more of a beast than I am. And I pride myself on my beastliness. 

I should be able to head out in the next couple nights, get back on patrol. We'll see what happens.

Dog Missing, Dog down

Godiva is missing, as of last Thursday, five days ago. No scent or sign of her. Rex went to the house, in human form, to see if he could find anything. His excuse was that he claimed to be involved in a class action law suit involving siding, and he wanted to check theirs. He smelled something there he did not like.

Werewolf.

We will probably never find Godiva, or what is left of her.

Then, two nights later, Rex and I were coming back from a meeting downtown and were ambushed by five werewolves. I got two of them good. But one of them got me good, a slash across the abdomen, and a bite on the neck, too close to the neck. 

So, I am convalescing, resting the getting my strength back. While doing that I am catching up on my reading, and other things.

Jack is more surly than ever. Money is tight and his wife is stepping out. That's enough to make any man surly. And until I heal some more, I can't protect them from themselves. I can't even change forms. I am typing this now with paws. Much slower than fingers, let me tell you.

Found an interesting new book. More on that later. I got to call Rex, check on him. He is a warrior, but with so many werewolves out there, I worry.