The song of the pig

They laugh, they dream, they don't tell porkies. So why are we such swine, asks
Jeffrey Masson

Three years ago, my family and I were visiting Auckland, New Zealand, when we heard
about a pig who lived on a beach. This pig was famous: schoolchildren came to visit, she
had been proposed for mayor, and her neighbours were fiercely divided between those
who thought a pig living on the beach was a bit of magic and others who feared she
would devour their children. We found the beach, but Piglet, as she was called, had
moved to a macadamia-nut orchard farther north. To cut a long story short, we met her
guardians and wound up buying a house on that very beach. We heard many stories about
this amazing pig who liked to go for a swim early in the morning when the sea was at its
calmest and who enjoyed having children sit on her side, as long as they gave her a
tummy rub before leaving.

She was immaculate, well-mannered, sensitive, intelligent, and kind to strangers. When
we finally met her, we could see that you could not ask for a better neighbour or
ambassador for farm animals. Her emotional life was particularly near the surface. She
always let you know what she was feeling; most of the time it was obvious from the
smile on her face, especially when she was swimming or playing with her small human
friends.

But there were more mysterious aspects to her as well. She was sensitive to music and
liked to hear the violin played. She especially seemed to enjoy music on the beach at
night when there was a full moon. One of her guardians took a picture quite recently of
her making the sweetest sounds during a night of the full moon, as if she were actually
singing to the moon. The picture of Piglet singing is photographic evidence of her special
affinity for music, water, night and moon.

It is another reason to believe that many animals ' pigs foremost among them ' may have
access to feelings that humans have not yet known. Perhaps if we listen carefully enough
to the songs that Piglet and her cousins sing at night to the moon, we may yet learn about
emotions that could bring us a new and utterly undreamt-of delight.

An old English adage claims: 'Dogs looks up at you, cats looks down on you, but pigs is
equal.' There is some truth in this. Pigs are more or less the same size as human beings
and resemble us in many ways. Their organs are so similar to our own that pig heart
valves are used to replace human aortic or mitral valves.

There is a quite wonderful quotation from W. H. Hudson, the great naturalist who lived
for some time in Argentina, that perfectly describes the pig's attitude towards us:

'He is not suspicious or shrinkingly submissive, like horses, cattle and sheep; nor an
impudent devil-may-care like the goat; nor hostile like the goose, nor condescending like
the cat; nor a flattering parasite like the dog. He views us from a totally different, a sort of
democratic, standpoint, as fellow citizens and brothers, and takes it for granted that we

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understand his language, and without servility or insolence he has a natural, pleasant
camaraderie, or hail- fellow-well-met air with us.'

The fact that pigs will become extremely friendly with human beings, given half a
chance, is something of a miracle, considering how we treat them. Perhaps pigs
themselves are aware of our resemblance and so regard us as cousins. Handled with
affection, even an adult pig might well become as friendly as a dog who has always lived
with the family.

One has to wonder why the pig came to be despised by both Jews and Muslims. Was it its
flesh that was distrusted, or the pig itself, as an animal? People have usually believed the
former, claiming that because pig meat was so easily prone to spoiling and trichinosis, the
consequent human diseases led them to avoid the meat.

But the late F. E. Zeuner, an expert on domestication, rejects this view, pointing out that
pork is no more likely to spoil than any other meat in a hot country, and in any event
there are tropical islands where pork is the main meat eaten. He proposes a human
interpretation. Nomads would once have despised the settled farmers who bred pigs, and
that feeling in some way transferred to the animals themselves.

It is undeniable that we share a great deal in common with pigs, though people have been
reluctant to acknowledge the similarities. Like us, pigs dream and can see colours. They
are sociable. (On warm summer nights pigs snuggle up close to one another and for some
reason like to sleep nose to nose.) The females form stable families led by a matriarch
with her children and female relatives. Piglets are particularly fond of play, just as human
children are, and chase one another, play-fight, play-love, tumble down hills, and
generally engage in a wide variety of enjoyable activities.

As Karl Schwenke points out in his classic book In a Pig's Eye: 'Pigs are gregarious
animals. Like children, they thrive on affection, enjoy toys, have a short attention span,
and are easily bored.' He reports that when pigs were put into a small pen, as they are on
most farms, 'their world was instantly narrowed to each other, the food, and the sty, and
as they grew, their world became smaller and smaller. The tedium of their existence soon
became apparent: they were lethargic, exhibited ragged ears, had droopy tails, and rapidly
acquired that dull-eyed glaze that swineherds associate with six or seven-year-old
breeding hogs.'

One can witness the interaction and affection when pigs greet each other, snout to snout,
sometimes with love grunts ' soft, open-mouthed greetings given when a pig is feeling
amorous, or maybe just sweetly affectionate. Pigs can also be cliquish: an older new
arrival may not easily find acceptance.

Like humans, pigs are omnivores. Though they are often fed garbage, their food of choice
would be similar to our own. Kim Sturla, of the Californian animal sanctuary Animal
Place, tells me that when she offers her pigs mango or a head of broccoli, they will
always take the mango. She explains that they have a sweet tooth, and a pastry will

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always win over a healthy vegetable. Remind you of somebody?

They get easily bored with the same food. They love melons, bananas and apples, but if
they have had them for a few days, they will set them aside and eat whatever other food
is new first. We don't often associate pigs and cleanliness but, if permitted, they will be
more fastidious in eating and in general behaviour than dogs. When offered anything
unusual to eat, a pig will sniff at it and nibble gently.

Many people have found it disconcerting to look into the eye of a pig. One gains the
startling impression of another person looking back at you. Pigs have small, rather weak
eyes and appear to be squinting, as if they are trying to get a better take on the world.
They seem often to wear a wistful look.

Dick King-Smith, the author of The Sheep-Pig (turned into the much-loved film, Babe)
and who used to be a pig farmer, once said: 'Many times I've looked into a pig's eye and
convinced myself that inside that brain is a sentient being, who is looking back at me
observing him wondering what he's thinking about.'

When I recently visited Carole Webb's Farm Animal Rescue in Cambridge, I was
introduced to Wiggy, a gigantic male weighing nearly a thousand pounds. As I came into
his stall, he was busy picking out soft hay with which to line the straw in his self-made
bed. He grunted when I walked in, looked up, and fixed me with his eye. It was uncanny,
like meeting a person in the street whom you feel you know but cannot place. I looked
away for a moment, embarrassed by the naked intimacy of his glance.

Juliet Gellatley, in her book The Silent Ark, describes visiting a factory-farm shed where
she saw a large male boar, 'his huge head hanging low towards the barren floor. As I
came level with him he raised his head and dragged himself slowly towards me on lame
legs. With deliberation he looked straight at me, staring directly into my eyes. It seemed
to me that I saw in those sad, intelligent, penetrating eyes a plea, a question to which I
had no answer: 'Why are you doing this to me?' '

If we are to consider pigs as sentient beings with intelligence and a full range of
emotions, perhaps we should feel guilty when a pig gives us that look knowing he will
soon be off to his death.

This is an edited extract from Jeffrey Masson's The Pig Who Sang to the Moon (Jonathan
Cape, '17.99).
' Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson 2004.
From Books First, '14.39, plus '2.25 p&p (0870-160 8080).
Masson is a Freud scholar and psychoanalyst

The ones that got away

Pigs have touched the imagination and drawn the sympathy of the British before. Only
this week a wild boar made the headlines when it broke for freedom at Cinderford, in

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Gloucestershire, and vanished into the undergrowth of the Forest of Dean. But the most
famous porcine escapers were Butch and Sundance ' the 'Tamworth Two' ' who escaped
from an abattoir in Wiltshire in 1998, swam a river and went on the run.

Eventually they took cover in a thicket and refused to come out. Even the slaughterman,
Jeremy Newman, who sighted them five days after the breakout, admitted: 'You can't be
sentimental in this, but I say good luck to them. I reckon they got more sense than we
have ' they showed a lot of initiative when they escaped. As soon as they caught sight of
me, they made off as fast as their legs could carry them.'

After they were finally recaptured there were hundreds of offers to provide Butch and
Sundance with a safe haven for the rest of their lives. They now live in an animal
sanctuary where they need never again fear the slaughterhouse.

The entire escapade was made into a film last year by the BBC, starring Kevin Whately,
Emma Pierson, Alexei Sayle and John Sessions.

The Story of Ugly

by: Wyandotte Animal Group <wag@heritage.com>
May 1999

Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident
tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say,
love. The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect
on Ugly. To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a
gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has appeared to
have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him
look like he was always turning the corner. His tail has long been lost, leaving only the
smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark
gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoulders
with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction.
"That's one UGLY cat!!" All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw
rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut
his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If you
turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit.
If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around feet in forgiveness.
Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his
head against their hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him up he would
immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.

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One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly,
and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to
rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life
was almost at an end. Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted
grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran down his front. As I
picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and
could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought. Then I felt a familiar
tugging, sucking sensation on my ear-Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously
dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of
my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear
the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-scarred cat was
asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.

At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen.
Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle
in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.
Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time
afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my
opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly.
Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or
talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarred
on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and
learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I cared for.

Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me, I will
always try to be Ugly.

What Wings Are For: The Story of Heart

By Kay Evans from United Poultry Concerns

On Christmas Eve 2003 I drove past a Perdue chicken shed and saw the doors open,
which meant the chickens had been taken away to slaughter. I went in and found a few
living chickens huddled in small groups and many dead chickens. I gathered up what I
thought were all the living ones and put them in my truck, but I continued to hear peeping
inside the shed. I followed the peeping to a very small, almost featherless chicken

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huddled under a larger dead chicken, and I brought him out too.

I drove straight to our vet’s office feeling that a few of these birds were suffering beyond
recovery. Four were euthanized, leaving me with ten chickens.
At home I settled them in with our other rescued “broiler” chickens and brought the little,
nearly featherless one inside with me. The next day I took him to my mother’s house,
where my sister named him Hearty, because she said he must have a lot of heart to
survive as he did. It is remarkable, especially because, as the majority of the chickens in
the sheds grow bigger, Perdue raises the automatic feeders and waterers higher from the
floor in order to starve out the birds who lag in growth.

I didn’t think Hearty would live, he was so stunted. His feet were really big and his head
and body were small. His only feathers were on top of his head and the quills at the ends
of his wings. Since it was cold outside, he stayed in our bathtub on soft towels at night
and on weekends. We wanted him to fit in with the flock, so on the first day the weather
broke, we put him out with the other chickens, but he nearly died of even that much cold,
so I put him under my shirt, against my skin, until he was warm.

On weekdays he came with me to my job on campus, and I took him outside several
times a day, into the yard in front of the building. I’d walk around slowly, and he’d walk
behind me, peeping the whole time. Hearty make a lot of human friends that way.
Everybody who saw him liked him.

His feathers gradually came in and he acted very proud of them. He seemed to spend
more time preening them than do most of the other chickens. As the weather warmed, we
moved him into a small pen with a large hen who had been saved by the Eastern Shore
Sanctuary from a broiler breeder operation in Maryland, and this worked well. On cool
nights, they both came inside with us. Hearty liked to get underneath the hen as much as
possible. He would cuddle up with her and peep because he was still a baby and wanted
his mother. He liked to be picked up and cuddled, and he loved grapes. One morning I
found the hen had died during the night, and Hearty was huddled against her body,
peeping just like the day I found him in the Perdue shed.

So we moved another hen in with him and they kept each other company. As Hearty
grew bigger, I shortened his name to Heart, and he was befriended by our dog, Jill. But in
March we knew something was wrong with him. He would come over to be picked up,
but as soon as I lifted him, he began struggling to breathe, no matter how gently I tried to
hold him. I got a small basket so I could move him to different places in the yard, but
even lifting him just briefly to put him in the basket caused him distress. His early
starvation in the Perdue shed had taken its toll on his developing kidneys and liver, and
he had developed the fluid accumulation in his body cavities known as ascites.*

I was never able to pick him up after that. Instead I would go into his pen and kneel down
and cuddle with him as best I could and talk to him. Heart died one Saturday afternoon in
mid-April, less than four months after coming to live with us. I held him then and
snuggled his body like I used to, and we buried him wrapped up in flowers.

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*Ascites syndrome is a disease of the cardiovascular system in young broiler chickens
resulting from forced rapid growth and oxygen-deficient mechanical incubators and
confinement sheds. The strain on the heart and lungs to supply the body’s abnormal
oxygen requirements, combined with low oxygen and polluted air in the production
environment, causes high blood pressure, weakened heart valves, and leaking blood
vessels. The birds are usually found dead on their backs with bloated stomachs reflecting
the accumulation of blood vessel fluid in their body cavities. A clear description of the
ascites syndrome process appears in UPC President Karen Davis’s book, Prisoned
Chickens, Poisoned Eggs: An Inside Look at the Modern Poultry Industry, pp. 94-96

The Rhino With Glue-On Shoes

Vets share their wild animal stories

Santa Cruz Sentinel, Isaiah Guzman, October 17, 2008

Can eels get depressed and lose their appetite? Take one away from its favorite bartender
and apparently it can.

That's just one of the unique stories in world-renowned wildlife veterinarian Lucy
Spelman's new book, "The Rhino With Glue-On Shoes," a compilation of true stories
from her and other wildlife vets.

Spelman, the field manager of the Mountain Gorilla Veterinary Project in Africa, spoke
on Thursday evening at the Seymour Marine Discovery Center to kick off the center's fall
lecture series. "We don't always think that you can have that kind of connection between
a person and a fish," Spelman said, "unless you're a fish owner."

**

Formerly the director of the National Zoo in Washington, D.C., and a consultant for the
Discovery Channel, Spelman also spoke at length about her work with mountain gorillas
in Africa. Her studies are showing that the animal's health is linked to human and
ecosystem health. The animals, of which only 750 remain worldwide, share 98 percent of

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our genes, according to Spelman. She's positive about the species' outlook but worries
about the effects of war in Congo.

The Long Road From Exile ... Run Forrest Run

printer friendly, larger print version

Oh but for the the day we are civilized and do not banish breeds -

Good evening all...

Until now, the story of Forrest and Kane has been told in verse thru emails and phone
conversations.

Unless you were there... I guess some of the mystique is lost in translation. Being in the
infant stages of anti BSL and the world of bully's... this was a life altering experience for
me.

It is my hopes to convey this experience the best way I know how... video.

For you veterans, many of the images will be all to familiar and "home".

Returning to Southern California.. . I knew the experience had to be shared with others,
and with no further ado, I present to you:

Run Forrest Run... The Long Road From Exile.

http://www.youtube. com/watch? v=J2BGRvdy2JQ

Sincerely,

Chef David Edelstein

THE HARDEST CHOICE

by Ken White

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 Special to The Examiner
08/13/2002

I frequently am asked to answer a question that has no answer: When is it the right time
to end the life of a loved animal? It's a legitimate question, but a lousy part of my job.

I first faced this question with Hamish, the much-loved dog of my roommate, 20 years
ago. As is so often the story, Hamish went, in what seemed like moments, from an
amazingly happy, goofy pal to an old friend in obvious pain. Suffering from cancer, he
got to the point where every motion was labored, his nights endlessly restless. Still, he
continued to smile when he heard his name, and to sigh with that wonderful full body
sigh when he was held.

It was not my decision to make -- to end Hamish's suffering by ending his life -- but I
don't think I would have been any better at it than was my roommate. Every time it
became clear that he was suffering, one more procedure was suggested, another treatment
option looked worth trying. A good hour seemed to erase a day's discomfort. We loved
him, like each of you now reading these words loves somebody sniffing your feet or
rubbing your elbows. The nightmare of his illness, although only weeks long, was an
eternity.

Finally it was clear that Hamish didn't just hurt, he was in real pain. There was no relief
available. No more drugs, no miracles, no happiness left. Finally, it was clear that we had
waited too long.

I went out and bought him a pepperoni pizza, extra cheese, and fed him by hand, his head
on our laps, his smile reminding us of who he had been, the Hamish of before. On our
way to the doctor we stopped at the beach, Hamish's favorite place. Unable to stand on
his own, I ran with him in my arms. We chased some waves, splashed a bit in the surf,
and then sat quietly in the sand for awhile, this wonderful dog and a few of us who had
been lucky enough to know him. All of us, including Hamish, I think, knew what was
next.

The veterinarian gently gave the shot into a vein on Hamish's front leg. We held him as
he went. Surprisingly, his dying was without drum roll, without thunder. His death was
peaceful. As we watched him and cried, it was clear that we had waited too long.

I know little more today about the best "how" and "when" to decide to humanely end the
life of someone we love. I do know that, in all sorts of ways, it is a gift we are responsible
for giving to the animals who give us so much, and that avoiding the decision -- as
understandable as that is -- is selfish. I also know that there is probably never a right time,
and that each time I've made the choice I've wrestled afterwards with questions such as
"Did I wait too long?" or "Did I act too soon?"

The decision has to be made with the animal in mind; that is, we should have been
thinking more about Hamish and less about how much we would miss him, how much his

9
absence would hurt. Knowing that he's not the kind of guy to hold a grudge, I stopped
feeling guilty. Mostly, then as now, I feel happy to have been with him. I remember
Hamish as he lived much more than how he died. And I know that everyone loved lives
forever, perhaps in a literal way, and surely in the hearts of those who love them.

Ken White is president of the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA, now in its 50th year.
Its programs include adoption, wildlife rehabilitation, education and advocacy,
community outreach, and animal control, including rescue and investigation. White is
one of three writers whose columns appear in The Examiner's weekly Animal Kingdom
column. Email: kwhite@sfexaminer.com.

Sid's Story

It was the last day of a self funded trip to Sri Lanka in 2005, and my friend Morag and I
were feeding the strays near our hotel before flying back to the UK. Suddenly a gangly
flea ridden dog staggered towards us collapsing at our feet. We had never seen him
before, but knew we had to get him to the vets quickly. The dog had been badly beaten by
locals and his front legs appeared broken. Part of his paw was also severed. The dog
sensed we were his last hope and as we rushed him to the vets we decided to call him Sid.

As well as his injuries, Sid was infected with Dirofilaria Repens, a serious disease in dogs
which is transmitted by mosquitoes. He was emaciated, dehydrated and covered in ticks
and mange mites. In view of his neglected state, the vets were cynical about Sid's chances
of survival. But we decided to give him a chance of life and paid to keep him there for as
long as it would take to make him well again.

We had little time before our flight home, but before leaving managed to give Sid his first
ever bath, gently removed the ticks from his ears and fed him a hearty meal and some
fresh water.

We gave him a final hug as we left and Sid howled pitifully. He broke our hearts and we
never thought we would see him again.

But this courageous dog pulled through and we decided to bring him back to the UK. It
was an emotional journey, but Sid's battle for life was not yet over. During the first
month of his quarantine he started passing blood from his genitals. He had a large
Transmissible Venereal Tumour (TVT) missed by the Sri Lankan vets. The quarantine
vet refused to administer the chemotherapy (Vincristine) to cure him and tried to
persuade me to have Sid put to sleep. But I refused because I knew about this disease
from my work in Sri Lanka, and the treatment is highly effective. After some harrowing

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weeks, my own vet agreed to help Sid and fortunately his premises met with DEFRA's
approval. Animals in quarantine are strictly regulated and any movement outside the
quarantine premises has to be authorised by DEFRA. The veterinary costs for the
chemotherapy and transport to the vets were huge and this was in addition to the hefty
quarantine costs, all funded from our wages. Sid was also found to have a tick borne
disease -Ehrlichiosis, which had also been missed by vets in Sri Lanka. But, despite
everything life had thrown at him, this brave boy sailed through all his treatments and is
now healthy, although he remains disabled due to leg injuries.

A Mother's Love...
by Karin Morrison

Last month, on a very hot day I noticed that the bird feeder was empty. It holds about 5
pounds of birdseeds and needs to be refilled every three days. I was not in any hurry
because I felt that the birds could find bugs to eat, due to the warm weather. What I did
not think about was to refill their water dish, which was a large, deep iron pot, setting on
a metal fence pole. When I finally remembered to do so, I found a dead female cardinal,
with a grasshopper in her mouth, inside of the pot. When I looked closer, I noticed 2
small dead baby birds underneath her, dried to the bottom of the pot. At first I was
puzzled, but quickly got the sad picture.

The babies must have flown into the empty pot, but could not fly back out. The pot got
too hot from the sun and the Momma bird was desperately trying to feed her babies, who
had died from the heat. Finally the Momma bird died as well, because she refused to
leave her babies, still with the grasshopper in her beak. This little bird was braver, more
faithful, than any human I ever saw and made me feel very ashamed and small.

And if anyone ever tells me that animals don't go to Heaven, I can tell them honestly that
they are totally mistaken! I KNOW for sure, before any human will ever enter the gates
of Paradise, this Momma bird will beat everybody there...EVERYBODY

I only wish I would have done my job and filled the pot up with water sooner. I might
have been able to prevent her and her babies suffering and dying.

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LITTLE GIRL TORTURED
Written by: Steve Irwin Jan. 2000

In 1997, on a balmy still September night in the tranquil Australian bushland of the
Northern Territories Tomkinson River (near the township of Maningrida), a gorgeous 16-
year-old girl named Annie is alerted to the dull mechanical thud of a vehicle heading her
way. Feeling nervous and a little insecure, Annie quietly slips into her home and listens.

The noise of the oncoming vehicle is piercing and threatening in her normally quiet
peaceful harmonious Aussie bush home. It keeps coming louder and louder, closer and
closer. She waits and listens anxiously. Her nerves and adrenaline heighten to a point
where she cant take it any longer. She has to look. As she takes a peek, a bright spot light
temporarily blinds her. Completely confused and dazed she's not sure what to do. Before
she can react, a searing pain strikes her in the neck as two long sharp barbs of steel
penetrate deep into her flesh. She reels in pain back into the security and familiarity of
her home. Tearing at the barbs deep in her neck, she feels the strain of a cord running
from the barbs to the vehicle and male voices of excitement.

Four desperate adult men pull at the cord as they shout, "We got her. We got her. Hang
on to her. Keep the strain on!" They tug on the cord knowingly. Those men know she
cant get the barbs out and its just a matter of wearing her down and dragging her to them.
Struggling and resisting with all her might, the poor helpless girl is dragged to what she
fears is certain torture and death. Exhausted, breathless, totally blinded by a spotlight
that's right in her eyes, she is so weak she can hardly move, so starved for energy and air
she's virtually frozen in fear and pain. Being dragged by the neck from her home is so
traumatic; she doesn't feel the noose go around her head.

Exhilarated by the hunt, revelling in the thrill of the chase and amused by the fight of
their prey, totally oblivious to her pain and fear and without remorse, the men mercilessly
pull her into the vehicle. They gaffer tape her legs together; tie her arms together behind
her back; tape her eyes shut and have her mouth gagged. Very, very happy with their
prey, they head for their hideout. The most beautiful of girls is bound so tight that she
goes from numb to excruciating pain, yet unable to utter a sound. Almost totally
incoherent from cramps and searing pain, she hears the men shout, "There's another one.
Lets get her!" Whack they drive in the barbs and reel another in. She's even younger and
barely an adolescent, easily manhandled, bound and thrown in the vehicle.

'Imagine poor little Annie's nightmare and torment as she lies in pain and fear when they
pull up.' The men manhandle her to a dusty old shed; throw her on the ground and mill
around smoking and laughing for what seems like hours. Then she hears it! Sssskkk a
rifle is loaded and cocked. Annie feels the cold steel of the barrel touching her head. "No
not there, you have to shoot them here one man exclaims." "Here?" the other man
questions. "Yeah. That's it, now angle it up towards her brain." "Yeah, that's it" he
directs. BOOM! Her torture and torment is finally over but while she's still twitching,
they skin her.

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No one mourned the death of Annie. No one will shed a tear at her passing or even
remember her. No one cares that Annie died so horrifically because Annie was a
crocodile.
-Steve

Just A Dog

by Richard A Biby, Broken Arrow, Oklahoma

From "The Versatile Hunting Dog" NAVHDA's Magazine; February 2006

From time to time, people tell me, "lighten up, it's just a dog,"
or, "that's a lot of money for just a dog."

They don't understand the distance traveled, the time spent,

or the costs involved for "just a dog."

Some of my proudest moments have come about with "just a dog."

Many hours have passed and my only company was "just a dog,"
but I did not once feel slighted.

Some of my saddest moments have been brought about by "just a dog,"

and in those days of darkness, the gentle touch of "just a dog" gave me comfort
and reason to overcome the day.

If you, too, think it's "just a dog," then you will probably understand
phrases like "just a friend," "just a sunrise," or "just a promise."

"Just a dog" brings into my life the very essence of friendship, trust,
and pure unbridled joy.

"Just a dog" brings out the compassion and patience that make me a better
person.

Because of "just a dog", I will rise early, take long walks and look longingly to
the future.

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So for me and folks like me, it's not "just a dog" but an embodiment of all the
hopes and dreams of the future, the fond memories of the past, and the pure joy
of the moment.

"Just a dog" brings out what's good in me and diverts my thoughts away
from myself and the worries of the day.

I hope that someday they can understand that it's not "just a dog",
but the thing that gives me humanity and keeps me from being
"just a man or woman."

So the next time you hear the phrase "just a dog"

just smile...
because they "just don't understand."

Written by Nancy Campbell after a particularly trying week at the vet hospital where she
works. Feel free to pass it along, but she asks that you include her name.

It's Just a Bird

If it were my brother, I'd find an allergist to help him with his allergies, no matter the
cost. But they tell me; it's just a bird.

If it were my sister, I'd find the best laser eye surgeon so she could see again, no matter
the cost. But they tell me; it's just a bird.

If it were my mother, I'd hire a staff of oncologists for the disease that is stealing her
away from me, no matter the cost. But they tell me; it's just a bird.

If it were my father, I'd find the best orthopedic surgeon to enable him to walk again, no
matter the cost. But they tell me; it's just a bird.

If it were my husband, I'd hire every medical professional necessary to put him back
together after that terrible accident that almost took him away, no matter the cost. But
they tell me; it's just a bird.

If it were my child, I wouldn't skimp on health care, no matter the cost. But they tell me;
it's just a bird.

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If it were my best friend, I would go with her to the doctor, every day that she needed me
to help her through the worst pains in her life, taking off work if necessary and putting
my own needs aside, no matter the cost. But they tell me; it's just a bird.

If any member of my family were dying, at that moment I would pull out all the stops and
do whatever was in my power to save their life, no matter the cost. But they tell me; it's
just a bird.

Just a bird.

Just my friend.

Just my family.

Please my bird no matter the cost.

It Makes A Difference

"Loren Eiseley tells the story of a writer who is vacationing in a hotel on the coast and
decides to take a break from his work by strolling along the sandy beach. In the distance,
he spies a person whom he believes is dancing, and is so intrigued he investigates further.
As he approaches the "dancer", he realizes it is a young man and he is not dancing, but
throwing objects from the beach into the ocean.

He gets closer still and discovers that the man is picking up starfish from the beach,
where thousands have been stranded by low tide, and is throwing them back, one by one,
into the ocean.

The writer asks the man why he is undertaking such a task and the man replies that if he
does not, the starfish will certainly die.

At this the writer scoffs and informs the man that there are miles and miles of beach and
tens of thousands of starfish and he can't possibly believe that what he is doing will make
a difference.

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The young man pauses and gives thought to this observation. Then, picking up another
starfish from the beach, he tells the writer as he throws it back into the water... "It makes
a difference... to this one."

Science

"Some time ago, a scientist was filled with joy, because he taught a fly how to do figures.
The scientist told other scientists to come and have a look. And so they came...The
scientist asked the fly :"Four times four?" And the fly tapped 16 times with its little paw.
Then he asked :"One plus one?" And again the fly gave the right answer. This went on
for some time and every time the fly gave the correct answer. After a while, all the
scientists returned home...completely amazed.

"Now", the scientist who was left behind with his fly, thought..."Now for the next stage
of my experiment." And he started pulling out all of the fly's little paws. As soon as he
pulled them all out he asked the fly again :"Four times four?" Unable to do anything, the
fly just laid motionless. Again the scientist was filled with joy and said to himself :"See!?
I knew it...A fly's ability to hear is in its paws!"

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