princess geissler <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
hi all... i just have a quick ?... i have a lil preg. chihuahua. i am not a breeder and she is my only one, my ? is... she is due between the first and second week of july, she is my lil lap baby and ive been noticing shes putting off a really bad smell... is this normal???
Jaye <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:Thank you I would never breed Mija it would have been so
irresponsible of me to have over looked her disablities. I had her
spayed 5 days after I got her. Why the old owners didn't do this is
beyond me but she is fixed now. Her birthday is coming up June 30th
she will be 3 years old. You think she will be ok? they say spay
right after her first heat well she was a year and 1/2 old when I got
her. I sure hope she doesn't get cancer or nothing.
Jaye
--- In [EMAIL PROTECTED]ups.com , "marsha" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
>
>
> To those of you who have a well balanced breeding program, this is
simply
> something to share. But for those of you who are not breeders that
take a
> lot of pride in your breeding program, this is a reminder, please
spay and
> neuter all "pets" that are not carefully chosen as part of a
breeding
> program. I, as a breeder, have nothing against breeding when it is
done
> with a lot of foresight. But for those accidents, those backyard
breeders,
> ect. let this be a reminder to spay and neuter your pets
> Marsha
>
>
> >
> > My Mummy cries over all the stupid people who are back yard
breeders or
> who don't spay and neuter their dogs.... if only people could
understand...
> >
> > It is early morning at the Stanislaus County Animal Shelter. And
for
> > you, the animal care specialist, the day opens in minor chords.
> > You walk to the computer and print out the list of dogs that fill
> > dozens of the agency's kennels. You sit there with your coffee,
> > highlighting in yellow marker the ones that have been here for
five
> > days. They've all got a story.
> >
> > Someone stopped loving him. No one ever loved her. He got too big.
> > She started chewing on sprinklers. He bit a child. Her owner is
out
> > of town, and the house sitter noticed the dog got out but didn't
> > bother to call the shelter. Whatever happened, it doesn't matter
> > now: Their time is up.
> >
> > You move to the first noisy cage. As you open the door, a few dogs
> > try to escape, while others cram themselves into the far corners
to
> > avoid you. Everyone on the outside says the animals have no idea
> > what's coming, but you've seen too much proof to the contrary.
Yes,
> > on some sad level, they know.
> >
> > You squeeze into the cage and slip your leash, your noose, around
> > the neck of one. You lead him back to the gate and open it just
> > enough for you to squeeze through. You pull his head closer to the
> > gate, and get ready. Then you jerk him out quickly and slam the
door
> > so the others don't get out. He's scared and whimpering, looking
> > around frantically, but he does what he's told and follows you,
> > faithfully, to the end of the line.
> >
> > The killing room is a large, cold place with a small row of metal
> > cages along one of the concrete walls. There's a large, stainless-
> > steel table in one corner, holding syringes, needles and bottles
of
> > tranquilizer and Fatal Plus, a solution of sodium pentobarbital
that
> > usually kills within seconds.
> >
> > As a co-worker readies the syringe, you're kneeling, holding the
dog
> > still, cuffing one leg with your hand. Sometimes you have to fight
> > them. Sometimes the battle is so fierce, you resort to forcing
them
> > between a gate hinged on a wall, immobilizing them long enough so
> > you can get the needle in.
> >
> > But not this time. This one's calm. He trusts you. He even gives
you
> > his paw: He's obviously someone's pet. So you stroke his head
softly
> > as the co-worker finds a vein. Then, just like that, he melts in
> > your arms. You grab his paw again and drag his limp body to a
> > corner.
> >
> > One by one, you lay them out on the cement floor. One by one.
Though
> > county records show roughly 15,000 animals are killed each year at
> > the shelter, it's a number, like eternity, that defies
> > comprehension. But when one considers the solitary act of each
> > animal death, and the people who do the dirty work, the number
> > 15,000 comes into better focus. One death is a tragedy; anything
> > more than that is just a statistic.
> >
> > On this morning, and every morning, there will be about 15 to 20
of
> > these canine executions, not counting the ones that come in
> > throughout the day that are injured or unadoptable. As you walk to
> > the cages to retrieve another, the anger swells inside you.
Because
> > you know most of this daily ritual easily could be avoided. Spay
and
> > neuter, people, you say to yourself.
> >
> > Spay and neuter!
> >
> > Time runs out on a mother pit bull and her puppies. When she
showed
> > up here last week, your only hope was that she wouldn't give birth
> > before her five days were up. But she did.
> >
> > You hardly could stand to watch her care for her pups, licking
them,
> > dragging them around to protect them. Finally, you gave in and fed
> > her treats, telling her, "That's a good girl."
> >
> > Because, sadly, you knew all her efforts were in vain. This day
> > always comes. Once you've got them all gathered in the room, you
put
> > her down first. Because you've learned the babies cry when they're
> > injected, and that only adds stress to the mother.
> >
> > One by one. One after another. You stack the singles into piles.
You
> > load the piles into 55-gallon barrels. You push the barrels into
the
> > walk-in freezer, where rows and rows of barrels fill completely
> > about twice a week. The barrels are emptied into trucks. It's
like a
> > factory here. And they call this a shelter?
> >
> > The stench of death permanently haunts the air: It's a dull
> > fragrance you won't forget the rest of your life. Someday years
from
> > now, you'll be served food at a restaurant, and something will
> > trigger the memory of that awful smell. Just like that, the meal
> > will be over. You wash your hands incessantly; trouble is, what
> > you're trying to clean doesn't go away with soap and water. That
> > would take a psychologist, better than the one you have.
> >
> > An hour into it, you're nearing the last of the morning's kill.
Next
> > up is an adorable pop-eyed Chihuahua you had thought someone might
> > claim. Or adopt. You start for her, but then you make a grave
> > mistake: You look into her eyes. In a flash, your mind
acknowledges
> > that this is a living, breathing thing. Damn dog, now she's under
> > your skin.
> >
> > Suddenly, you can't bring yourself to do it. Not this one. Your
back
> > yard already brims with the dogs and cats you've personally spared
> > over the years, and there's simply no more room. So, you sneak her
> > off the list and move her to another kennel. Your day off is
> > tomorrow, and you just put it out of your mind. That's all you can
> > do.
> >
> > Now, through the bars, you spot the big mongrel. You squeeze into
> > the cage, and he moves away. He's scared and hungry; he's not the
> > alpha male in this lot, so he hasn't eaten in five days. And who
> > knows what he went through before he ended up here? So you kneel
and
> > call to him in a pleasant voice. Now he's wagging his tail because
> > he thinks you're going to rescue him from this awful place.
> >
> > You get him outside and pet him to try to keep him calm. But he's
> > excited, jumping up and down, because you helped him out of the
> > chaos. You're his friend now; he'll follow you anywhere. So you
lead
> > him toward the room and he trots along happily.
> >
> > But halfway there, something shifts in him. You figure he's
starting
> > to smell that stench coming from the freezer. Yes, on some level,
> > they know. He starts jerking his neck back, using his front legs
to
> > try to pull you back. The more you fight him, the more he realizes
> > he should fight. So you drag him the rest of the way.
> >
> > Once you get him into the room, he's still fighting pretty hard.
> > Your arms are getting tired. To get him to the table, you both
trip
> > over piles of dead dogs that now cover the floor. Finally, you get
> > him stopped. The soft talk helps a little, and you're able to hold
> > him still enough for the co-worker to find a vein. Once it's in,
you
> > let go. He moves away, woozy. They don't always die immediately.
He
> > wanders over to the corpse of another dog, and sniffs it a little
> > before collapsing onto the floor.
> >
> > Spay and neuter, people!
> >
> > Leaving the room, you remember something you wanted to tell a co-
> > worker. She's working alone in the cat room, putting down several
> > dozen to start her day. You open the door, but the scene makes you
> > forget what you wanted to say. There she is, sitting in a corner,
> > crying, surrounded by dozens of dead cats that litter the floor.
You
> > make eye contact and get ready to say something, but she waves you
> > off. It's a quick shake of the head that says, "I'm fine; just
leave
> > me alone." So you do. For those who do this for a living, it's
> > mostly business as usual, life goes on. But there are occasional
> > meltdowns. Not to mention divorce, denial, alcoholism, nightmares,
> > antidepressants and all sorts of other ugly side effects.
> >
> > Walking away from the cat room, a simple question forms in your
> > head, one that plagues you often throughout your days here: Does
> > anybody care about animals? Anyone at all?
> >
> > Inside, you know there are thousands of people, just like you, who
> > cherish their pets and treat them like family. Or even royalty.
> > Working here, you rarely see those folks. They take care of their
> > animals.
> >
> > Instead, you get the people who â?" before business hours â?"
drop off a
> > cardboard box of mangled kittens that were used to train pit bulls
> > to fight dirty. Usually, they just toss the dead alongside the
road
> > somewhere, but for some reason, someone brought these in. You open
> > the box to discover all but one are dead, and the only one alive
is
> > using its front legs to crawl toward you because its back legs are
> > crushed.
> >
> > Or you get the people whose hobby is trapping feral cats and
> > bringing them to the shelter. Once you asked about strange lines
> > etched into the stick they use to hold the trap shut, hoping you
> > were wrong. But, yes, like notches in a gun, that's how they track
> > how many cats they've captured. It's a game to them.
> >
> > Or you get the man who brings in three kittens in an ice chest he
> > placed in his trunk. In the middle of summer. When you open the
lid,
> > most of the horror has played out. You look up and scold him,
asking
> > him what he was thinking. And he shrugs. Not like it matters, he
> > says, they didn't belong to anyone.
> >
> > Or you get the people who pull up in a moving van to drop off
their
> > family pet, saying that they can't take the dog with them and that
> > they were unable to find the animal a home. They drive away,
> > conscious clear, leaving the dirty work for you. Like you're some
> > kind of sin-eater.
> >
> > And to think, you took this job because you wanted to save
animals.
> > Standing there at the kennels, lost in the flashbacks, you ask
> > yourself again: Does anybody care?
> >
> > Anyone at all?
> >
> > A friendly face pops into your mind. Yes, there is one, you
finally
> > remember, trying to cheer yourself up. That poor young woman from
> > the west side, the one who's been coming by twice a week for the
> > last six months, looking for her beloved red Doberman pinscher.
She
> > keeps asking you, "How long should I keep looking?" And you keep
> > telling her, "As long as your heart needs to." Who are you to take
> > away hope?
> >
> > And now, come to think of it, you did notice a nice-looking
Doberman
> > in the back kennels this morning. Nah, couldn't be, you think. He
> > disappeared six months ago. But, needing a miracle, you go and
check
> > anyway. You look him over for a while. There is some red in his
> > coat, but you're not certain.
> >
> > Cautiously, you have someone call the woman. Be sure to tell her
> > we're not sure, you say, but let her know we might have her dog.
An
> > hour later, the woman is scurrying through the hall toward the
back
> > kennels. You can barely keep up with her.
> >
> > I think I hear him, she keeps saying excitedly. She keeps calling
> > out his name. All you hear is what you always hear: the deafening
> > din of scores of barking dogs. When you get to the back kennels, a
> > lowered metal guillotine door is keeping everything outside. So
you
> > raise the door, and 80 pounds of frenetic dog come bounding
inside,
> > wildly running around the cage. You think to yourself, how would
he
> > even know she was coming? Yes, on some level, they always know.
> >
> > Just like that, this huge dog plasters itself against the chain-
link
> > fence, licking the fingers of a woman who's pressing herself
against
> > the fence, too. The scene is reminiscent of lovers on a beach.
It's
> > him, it's him, she keeps saying. All the while, this enormous dog
is
> > emitting the strangest high-pitched yipping you've ever heard,
> > almost like a puppy.
> >
> > Overcome with emotion, the woman sinks to the cement gutter and
> > starts sobbing into her hands. You sit next to her to offer some
> > comfort. Then, before you know it, you're right beside her,
bawling
> > uncontrollably. She's crying because her life is complete again.
And
> > you're crying because, after working this job, your life never
will
> > be the same. Because for every animal that leaves with its owner,
> > half a dozen are hauled off in garbage trucks.
> >
> > No, you think, wiping away the tears, this is no place for an
animal
> > lover.
> >
>
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