Hope

So, reading Hints From Heloise in the Washington Post today, I came across this great idea: if you’re not able to adopt one of the millions of puppies and kittens who desperately need a home—puppies and kittens who have been abandoned, abused or are simply without a home—then make one phone call to somebody who maybe can help: a friend, a relative; as Heloise says, anyone who wants to ‘brighten their heart’.

The One Call Saves One Life campaign has been developed by the Little Shelter Animal Rescue & Adoption Center in Huntington, New York, and I went to their web site [Little Shelter] to check them out.

Brilliant!

Little Shelter rescues puppies and kittens, houses them, provides first-rate medical care, finds nice folks to adopt them, and foster homes while they wait. And, failing all else, Little Shelter has a one-hundred acre sanctuary in upstate New York where they provide lifetime care for those puppies and kittens that are too damaged by their experiences to ever find new homes. Because the Little Shelter never, ever kills a puppy or a kitten that comes into their care.

Check the site to discover all of the many different ways you can help. And, meanwhile, you don’t have to live in America to make that One Call that can Save a Life. There are shelters almost everywhere in the world simply bulging with puppies and kittens that need loving homes.

Brighten your heart!

It only gets scarier!

Officially, the number of puppies and kittens who have died after eating contaminated pet food in North America stands at 15. But, as you can see, some vets in the US are worried that thousands may have been hurt or killed.

The ABC News report (which you can read by clicking here, ABC's scary story) says that on the Veterinary Information Network web site, 104 deaths have already been reported. And, get this: In Canada, a woman who tried to encourage her puppy to eat by nibbling some of the food herself became violently ill!

PS: I got chicken for my supper last night…

Why puppies should always be fed cooked chicken

Have you been reading about the pet food scare in North America? Turns out that a kind of rat poison—something very nasty called aminopterin—has been found in stuff made by Menu Foods, a company in Ontario, and sold throughout Canada and United States under more than 90 brandnames, including some of the posh ones like Hill’s Science Diet, Natural Choice and Eukanuba. Menu Foods has so far recalled at least 60 million cans and sachets of wet food—you know the sort of thing, ‘prime meaty chunks in thick gravy’; yeah, sure!—and that’s because 14 puppies and kittens who ate this junk have died of kidney failure, and many, many more got really sick.

I’m not making this up. If you don’t believe me, check out the latest information from the New York Times, no less, at Scary story in the NYT

Now, this grim news happens to coincide with my campaign to get my mum and dad to feed me cooked chicken for my supper—because I really love chicken, even if it’s not gumbo fried. As my dad has pointed out, I have some obstacles to overcome, obviously:

My Dad: You don’t live in North America, Josie.
Moi: Okay, but the threat could spread to Europe, couldn’t it? Like bird flu?

My Dad: You’re not fed wet food, Josie, you get kibble.
Moi: So? If they put rat poison in wet food by mistake, why couldn’t they put it in kibble?

My Dad: Josie, you eat your kibble very quickly, which suggests that you may actually like it.
Moi: The allegation that I eat my kibble very quickly only tells you that I’m hungry; doesn’t mean I really like it, does it?

My Dad: A kibble diet is nutritionally balanced, and good for your teeth.
Moi: So kibble is good for me? Fine, give me chicken and kibble. I’m prepared to make the sacrifice.

My Dad: Cooking chicken for a puppy is a chore.
Moi: A chore? Surely, you mean an act of love? What are puppies for?

How’s my campaign going? Well, so far, I only get kibble for my breakfast and, for my supper, I get a little bit of chicken with lots of kibble (sigh!) every other evening. So, so-so.

Early days…

R.I.P. Lucille

Very sad news, I’m afraid.

For years and years, my mum and dad have helped support a puppy called Lucille, who was looked after by the Dogs Trust, the largest puppy welfare charity in the UK. The Dogs Trust finds new homes for thousands of puppies that have been abused or abandoned—but there are some ‘difficult’ puppies that can’t be found new homes, apparently. Like Lucille. And that’s where my mum and dad came in, by helping to pay for her upkeep and her loving care.

Today my mum and dad got news from the Dogs Trust that Lucille has passed away. A lump on her side turned out to be a tumour on her spleen which had spread to her small intestine. She went to sleep for the last time peacefully, with her carers by her side. My mum and dad are very, very sad.

But now they have a new puppy to sponsor, and doesn’t he look great?

His name is Shane, apparently, and he’s four years old, and he likes walks and food—and I can certainly emphasise with that. He’s now living at the Dogs Trust shelter in West London, and my mum and dad can visit him. Maybe I can, too? Maybe, one day, he can come and live with me?

If you want to help the amazing Dogs Trust—which never, ever condemns a healthy puppy to death—and/or adopt or sponsor a needy puppy that will be your friend for life, then check out their great web site at Dogs Trust.

I think you should, don’t you?

On the bed at last!

The only problem is, that’s not me—and nor is it ‘my’ bed! No, this is Molly, who lives with her mum and dad—June and Alan—in Tennessee, which is in America, apparently. My mum and dad have known J&A ‘forever’, as my dad says, when they were all living in Florida where J&A were cops chasing bad guys, and my mum and dad were writing about them for one of their books. In fact, Alan—Al for short—still appears as a real-life character in the thrillers my dad now writes when he’s not taking me for walks. Here’s a sample:

Al Singleton was indelibly labelled ‘Blade’ by the more irreverent members of the Metro-Dade Homicide unit he ran for twenty years because, they said, he was so skinny he could dress up in green and go to a fancy-dress party as a blade of grass…

I think that’s pretty funny, don’t you? Anyway, the reason I’m telling you all this is that Molly, like me, is a ‘rescued puppy’. There she was, abandoned, homeless, skinny and starving, walking down the road, when Alan came along in his car, opened the door—and she hopped right in. Since then, they’ve been inseparable and June says that Molly is now ‘his baby girl’. Quite right, too!

But the story doesn’t end there. Alan and June have rescued two more puppies, AJ (guess where that name came from?) and Truman, and a rescued kitten called Smokey (who looks quite a bit like two of my kittens). They used to have another rescued puppy called Dot, but she got really sick and Alan put her to sleep himself because he couldn’t bear for anyone else to do it—and then he and June cried for three days. And, believe it or not, a few weeks ago Alan found a seagull with a broken wing, and he rescued that as well! Makes you think, doesn’t it? A tough old Homicide cop with a great big, soppy heart!

This is another picture of Molly on the bed with her dad, and a picture of AJ and Truman (AJ’s the one with the brown patches on his face):

By the way, my mum says the reason why AJ and Truman seem to be sitting at attention is that their dad was a Marine: 'Sir! Yessir!'

Now, mum and dad, about this ridiculous business of me not being allowed on your bed…

Give Pete a break!

So, if you’re a regular reader of my blog (and if not, why not?) you already know that I have some Very Important Friends. Well, here’s another of them: Commissioner Peter Hendy, Commander of the British Empire, no less—or ‘Uncle Pete’ to Moi. And today’s his birthday, so I hope you’ll send him your very best wishes.

Now, ‘Commissioner of What?’ you might ask—and, if you live or drive in London, the answer might make you just a teeny bit reluctant to open the champagne on Uncle Pete’s behalf. That’s because he’s Top Dog of Transport for London and, my dad says, that means he’s responsible for all the things you hate: over-crowded tube trains; ‘bendy buses’ (whatever they may be); black cabs that are never available when you want one; bus lanes, cycle lanes; and, yes, you’ve guessed it—the dreaded congestion charge. That’s why, my dad says, some people call Uncle Pete ‘Stalin’.

Well, if that’s the way you feel, I think you’re being horribly unfair. I happen to know that Commissar Hendy is a very nice man, who is very kind to his two kittens and who sends Moi very nice emails—and, anyway, who wants congestion? I mean, what we need to do, surely, is close all the roads in London and replace them with…puppy lanes! Don’t you think?

So, get over it, and join me in wishing Uncle Pete A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Fame

I think I’ve already mentioned that my blog is now famous, because The Nation newspaper in Barbados wrote about it. Well, Laura, my Barbados mum, has sent me the clipping to prove it, and here it is:

So, my dad says, I’ve got to start a ‘clippings book’, whatever that might be. My dad also thinks I should volunteer to become The Nation’s canine correspondent in France and that maybe I could get off to a flying start by reporting on the French presidential elections. I think this is a ridiculous suggestion. I’ve checked, and there are no canines running for president!

What does ‘Sorry’ look like?

Isn’t that just amazingly cute? I don’t know the puppy’s name, or who the photograph belongs to—and by publishing it on my blog without permission, I’m probably contravening the Geneva Convention, or something—but I just couldn’t resist. [Please note this very boring disclaimer from my dad (Sigh!): ‘If you own the copyright to this photograph, and object to it being used on Josie’s blog, please post a comment and I’ll remove it. Alternatively, let us know your name, and the puppy’s name, and Josie will give you all due credit.']

Well, if I’m going to go to jail for copyright infringement, whatever that may be, I may as well make it worthwhile. Reading The Times of London this morning—as one does, of course—I came across this review of the latest book of poems from the wonderful Ian McMillan, who never fails to make a puppy laugh.

In this book (I Found This Shirt, published in the UK by Carcanet) one of Ian’s poems is called My Dog and this is how it goes:

April is the Cruellest Month
might seem like a strange name for a dog,
and sometimes I think it is
when I’m shouting her name
on the high moors
in the driving wind.

‘April is the Cruellest Month!’
I shout,
‘April is the Cruellest Month!’
and my dog runs up to me,
barking, wagging her tail,
and I feel slightly, ever so slightly
embarrassed.

But then when people say
as they walk by me
on the high moors
in the driving wind,
‘Can a month bark?’
‘Can April wag its tail?’
I swell with pride
because my dog’s name
is image, and metaphor, and poetry.

So,
'April is the Cruellest Month’
I shout, and
‘April is the Cruellest Month’
and the words roll round in my mouth
like Easter Eggs in a Shopping Basket,
which is the name of my cat.

A cat named Easter Eggs in a Shopping Basket! Don’t you think that’s wonderful? Inspired by Ian, I’m looking for new names for my three cats. Any ideas?

BUY IAN’S BOOK—and, then, maybe he won’t sue me. At this point my dad wants me to add another boring disclaimer, but I’m simply too tired. I think I’ll go to sleep, and dream a poem…

Excellent news!

This is complicated so please pay attention. Turns out that I have two cousins called Hooch and Finn who live in Hull, England, and they have two friends who are Vizslas—and who are therefore, technically, also my cousins—who live in Melbourne, Australia, where, you might remember, I have two other cousins called Poppy and Millie. All clear, so far?

Well, Hooch and Finn sent me an email to say my first cousins in Melbourne (the Vizslas) sometimes get to go to The Dog Café where their mum and dad buy them each a ‘puppachino’, which is warmed lactose-free milk sprinkled with shavings of liver!

Now, I have to admit that I thought Hoch and Finn might be pulling my paw: a café for dogs? Yeah, right! But since I’m a trusting soul—and one has to live in hope—I passed the email on to Poppy and Millie and asked them to check it out. And guess what? There is a place called The Dog Café in Melbourne where dogs can take their owners for what the chef, Andrew Blake, calls ‘a unique dining experience’. Really! I’m not making this up. Check it out for yourself at the following link: The Dog Cafe

How cool is that? Now, of course, being ‘green’ as I am, I can’t very well go flying off to Melbourne for a ‘puppachno’ and pollute the atmosphere with all that nasty carbon, can I? So, here’s the plan: Just as soon as possible, Poppy and Millie are going to take their mum and dad down to Port Melbourne’s Station Pier—where the café is located—and take lots of pictures of their ‘unique dining experience’ and send them to me, and I’ll spread the word on my blog and, before you know it, there could Dog Cafés all over the world, even in Provence!

My dad said maybe we could open a franchise, whatever that might be!

Things are not always what they seem

Yesterday my mum sent my dad an email—well, one of about 50 emails she sends him every day!—but, for a change, this one seemed really interesting because the subject heading was: ‘Dog Pack Kills Alligator in Florida’. An alligator? Cripes!

I could see there was a picture file attached to the email, but there was also a warning not to open it immediately: ‘Read this first.’ So I did, and this is what it said: ‘At times nature can be cruel, but there is also a raw beauty, and even a certain justice manifested within that cruelty. The alligator, one of the oldest and ultimate predators, normally considered the apex predator in its natural eco-system, can still fall victim to implemented teamwork strategy, made possible by the tight-knit social structure and survival-of-the-fittest pack-mentality bred into canines over thousands of years by natural selection. Note that the Alpha dog has a muzzle hold on the gator preventing it from breathing, while the remainder of the pack prevents the beast from rolling. Beware! This is not for the squeamish!’

‘Cripes, again!’ I thought. ‘This I’ve gotta see!’

But do you know what? Instead of opening the file, my dad deleted it, and then sent this snotty note to my mum: ‘I don’t want to look at pictures of things killing things—even if the thing being killed is a gator. Please don’t send me any more.’ Can you believe that?

Anyway, didn’t matter. You see, my dad and I share the same computer, and I know his password (Yes, you’ve guessed: Josie—how smart is that?) So, I just waited for him to go and take his nap, and then I logged on as him and got the file out of his trash folder, and—steel yourselves—here it is:

Ha! Ha!

Spring has sprung!

So, the daffodils are blooming in my garden—and the pansies—and me and the kittens spent the morning in the sun. (Yes, we’re getting on very well. They ignore me and I ignore them, mostly—though sometimes my mum has to say, ‘Josie!’ in that rather sharp voice of hers.)It’s not yet as warm as it is in Barbados, but we’re getting there. Savannah, who’s the ‘main cat’, apparently, sat under a rosemary bush while Rabbit lay sunning herself on the garden wall. I’m not sure where Georgia was but I could hear her complaining , which she does a lot. I don’t know why because how can you complain on a beautiful day like this?

Oh, and last night, when it was very late, me and my dad sat out in the garden for ages watching the total eclipse of the moon, which was amazing. And, no, I didn’t howl. Why would a dog howl at the moon?

Anyway, I thought you’d like to see the daffodils and the pansies—and me, looking at my mum:

Got to go now, because it’s time for my walk.

But, before I do, one more by the way: In the Washington Post my mum read another handy tip from Heloise about how to avoid losing your puppy in the dark when you take them out for their bedtime walk: you put a flashing cycle lamp on their collar. My dad doesn’t have a cycle lamp—because he doesn’t have a cycle, duh!—but he does have this badge that looks like a Heineken beer bottle cap and has a flashing red light, and last night he put it on my collar so he could always see where I was. Neat, eh?