Duck, Duck, Goose, Great Dane?

The world is messed up, and I feel helpless to do anything to make it better. I find myself cursing humans every day. It doesn't help. The reality is that I have a small skill set and can’t do much, but I can drive. Which is why I volunteer to do transport for the California Wildlife Center.

The CWC is a terrific non-profit that handles native California wildlife that have been injured or orphaned. In the spring and fall, there are zillions of wild infants and babies from raptors to baby possums and squirrels crowding their clinic. This time of year, it’s usually injured birds: crows, ducks and geese that need surgery or supportive care.

What I do is pretty basic. I pick up critters in my area from a participating veterinarian or two LA Valley animal shelters and deliver the animals to the CWC with the accompanying paperwork.

Pretty simple. I can handle it.

The vet is home base for Hot Vet. Google him. Trust me, he is. Really hot. Featured in "People Magazine" hot. I never run into him.

Naturally, where I got into trouble is the East Valley Animal Shelter. The pound.

When I started volunteering for CWC I asked the head of the program if they provided a stipend for all the animals I’d adopt because I had to enter a shelter. She laughed assuming I was joking. I wasn’t.

Actually, I blame Facebook for my current problem. (Aren't most issues in 2018 Facebook's fault? I’m talking to you Sheryl Sandberg.)  I follow Facebook page called Southern California Great Dane Rescue. I know. Stupid idea. Mostly I joined because, like the CWC, occasionally animals need to be moved from place to place, and like I said, I can drive. I do the same for the American Brittany Rescue. 

About three weeks ago a female Great Dane came into the East Valley Shelter as a “stray.’ (Turns out the person who ‘found’ her, was her owner. Awful, but not unusual.) The tho bio listed her as six years old, which is not young for a Dane, severely underweight, with some medical problems. Oh, she also wasn't spayed. And, as if she didn't have enough problems,  they were calling her "FeFe."

Obviously she was calling out to me.

She had been haunting me, mostly due to her ill health and her age.  (She’s also black. Black dogs don’t photograph well and are the last to find homes.) Old dogs fair badly at shelters and often die there.

By the way, I love old dogs. I have adopted a bunch of them over the years and they’ve been universally great. They sometimes don’t live for long, but they have a great life while they are with me. I have wonderful memories of every single one.

The smart part of me had been avoiding the shelter like the plague.

It was working until  Friday morning I received a text from the CWC,  a Canada Goose with a broken wing needed to be picked up.  Of course it was at the East Valley Shelter. Uh-oh.

You don’t need to be a genius to know what happened next. I prefer think it was fate, not stupidity. 

Maybe it’s both.

While I waited for the officers to get the goose (I am nuts, but responsible, business first!) I asked about the "FeFe" which by the way, is a poodle name. Not a Great Dane name.

.She was a shelter favorite – all the officers knew and liked her. She had some tumors including an ugly one on her lady parts and was on medical hold. So I needed to speak to the Superevisor.

The Supervisor needed to speak to the medical staff before she could authorize anything, so with the goose in a box and the Supervisor’s cell number in my pocket, I headed out to drop of the goose. When I called the Shelter that afternoon, the Supervisor was driving home from work but was pleased to talk to me. She approved everything, and told me I could pick up FeFe the next day.

I came  at a time a friend who volunteers with the Rescue Train (a GREAT organization that helps people keep their pets. Google and please donate to them!) would be there. because I really can't going into the back of a pound. That was important.

Laurie found a volunteer who was delighted that I’d come for the Dane. Together they walked me to her pen for our meeting. Past rows of sweet looking, terrified dogs.

It felt like a Tinder date . I was nervous. Would she look like her picture? Would I like her? Would she like me?

I shouldn’t have worried. Dogs I get. People not so much.

But like an online date, she was older than advertised. Closer to eight than five, she is a sweet, gentle dog.  She is small, dainty even, for a Dane. Even after being stuffed with food for three weeks, she is severely underweight. Her backbone juts out like a e supermodel. Her once-black muzzle is now a mask of gray.

I had a instant, serious crush.

The officers took her away to vaccinate, chip and do paperwork while I stood in line to fill out my paperwork. It took almost an hour. Which is not a long time when you a completely changing two lives.

She climbed into my SUV with a little help, stretched out and immediately fell asleep. I think she snored a little.

On the way home I changed her name to Fiona, after the only celebrity I stalk: the underweight gray baby hippo in the Cincinnati Zoo.

My Fiona may be old and gray but she’s not done. When we got home she hopped out and met the other dogs politely. Within an hour she and Jasper were chasing each other around the backyard at full speed. Dalai joined in and out of the zoomies. Once Fiona was going so fast she jumped over Dalai so she wouldn't crash into her.


Yes, there is video. https://youtu.be/grESRXAJSC4

Since her arrival, there have been a few squabbles, which I expected, but nothing serious. She has been a champ. After a few complaints, she has claimed her giant crate as her own. 

She mostly respects the random, changeable, rules that Poppy, Dalai and Jasper throw at her.

The morning after she came, I left her locked in her crate when I left to ride. Four hours later, when I came back, all four dogs greeted me at the door; the pack had sprung her from prison.

They are a newly bonded pack. I may be in trouble.

I don’t know how long we will be together. There are never any guarantees in life. But I love her about and she seems delighted to be here.

I can't do much to fix the world. But I did do this.

“Saving one animal will not change the world, but for that animal, it changes everything.”

Faith is a Jerk

Faith at the Young Horse Show

It’s a fact that you really never know someone until you live with them. This is particularly true with horses.

That sweet, kind equine you’ve ridden, groomed and played with every day for years at the stable turns into a beast when it moves into the backyard. 

The quiet, gentle pony transforms into a boss mare or want-to-be stallion. They turn feral when the farrier comes and no one can catch them while the vet is waiting to do vaccinations with the clock ticking.

This has become increasingly obviously now that Faith is temporarily living at home.

Faith is my baby. Actually she’s Lucy’s baby. But I have been intimately involved in her entire life, from picking out her father to the present.  We met when she was 30 minutes old I've seen her almost weekly since then.Almost immediately she was attached to me like Velcro.

Just Born

It might be because she quickly figured out that when I appeared, so did peppermints and carrots. 

One Day Old

When she was tiny she would even leave her BFF Conamor to visit with me.

Faith and Conamor

When she was older, if I called her, she’d charge from whatever corner of her pasture she was hiding in to skid to a halt in front of me. She hasn’t hit me.  Yet.

So I thought I knew her. I was wrong.

What I didn’t know was that Faith is a jerk.

It may be the hormones -she is scheduled to be a teen mom, due in February. But I don’t think so.

I think she is just kind of clueless. To be fair, she is just three.

She is still a jerk.

Of course, Faith may be channeling the spirit of Dezi, who died a few months back. I adored him, but he was a certified jerk. Verging on an asshole.

Like Dezi, when I clean the barn, Faith follows me around. Maybe she thinks she’s helping. More likely, she is pointing out where I’ve missed a spot, or have failed to fluff the shavings properly.

She is always in the middle of stuff. Whatever is going on, she is right there pushing her way to the front to see what’s happening and getting in the way.

She’s always been that way. Bossy. So much so, that eventually she was yanked from the field of young horses and turned out with a group of old crabby broodmares to teach her some manners. She quickly learned to show them respect.

With her mom, not so much.

When I brought Faith home, there was no joyous mother and child reunion. It was more like Lucy rolled her eyes and moaned, “Damn, you again?”

Mother and Child Reunion

Typically, Faith didn’t notice. She just barged around the paddock. For a while she even pushed Talen around, shoving past him to get to the best hay or the snack first.

Initially he didn’t react. I think he was in shock. Nobody had ever pushed him around before. 

At first, Faith, being somewhat clueless didn’t notice when he pinned his ears and snarked at her. Then one morning she was covered with teeth marks. After that, she let Talen have first crack at the alfalfa and carrots.  

In her defense. She is bored. She is three and Lucy and Talen are dull. Talen is relatively young, but since he is quite lame at anything but a walk, running and bucking are rare.

Faith does her best to get her old pasture mates to play. She charges around the paddock squealing and bucking. Talen will canter a few steps and quit. Lucy doesn’t even try.

So I guess it's to be expected that Faith has turned her energy to a different direction. Like escaping.

Electric fencing surrounds the entire paddock. It was necessary because Dezi had the ability to open every gate ever made. So on top of the wire, all the gates are chained with double snaps.

Faith found another way out: she lifts the gate off its hinges and squishes or jumps through the space into the back yard. The first morning I found her wandering the destroyed yard, she was so proud of herself she galloped up whinnying.

After stuffing her back in the paddock, I rehung the gate and tied it closed with baling twine. What was I thinking?

That night around midnight I heard banging on the back porch. It was Faith, peering in the kitchen window. She obviously expected me to let her in the house.

Unlike Dezi, who always brought his posse with him when he escaped, she was alone. The others had stayed in the field either reluctant to jump the downed gate in the dark, or they were glad to have her somewhere else.

There I was in my pajamas dragging the  her back to paddock and tying the gate up again. I used rope this time.

The next day I went to Lowes and bought all sorts of hardware. That night she got the hinges off, but couldn’t move the gate. She was so frustrated she kicked it for a while before giving up and sulking in a corner.

I adore her, but I am counting the days until she can go back to Three Wishes to have her baby. I will miss her. Most of the time.

Because she is a jerk. But she is less of one there. Or so I can pretend.

Me and Faith