The two organizations have been on opposing sides for ages regarding euthanasia. The Toronto Humane Society typically takes a rehabilitation approach, while the OSPCA is not opposed to euthanasia for any reason, and use it at their discretion.

For those that are unaware: the OSPCA is the governing body over Ontario animal welfare organizations.

Let me paint a little picture for you:

A dog is in the backyard of its home, a fully fenced lot where two young children are playing on the other side of the fence. They are taunting the dog; poking it with sticks through the chain link, barking at it, running back and forth, yelling, and throwing a ball at the fence.

With a toss, the ball is launched over the fence and one child begins to climb that fence to retrieve said ball. The dog, now aggressively chases that ball which was used to taunt him only minutes ago. It lunges for the ball, at the same time as the child, and latches on to his arm instead of the ball.

No one was there to see the incident or the behaviour that led up to the child jumping over the fence.

The dog is now aggressive and deemed a danger to society.

It happens all the time, people.

But! because of the different outlooks these two organizations have regarding the issue of euthanasia, the dog now faces two completely different fates – depending on which one he is surrendered too.

keep reading…

Early on in our relationship Mike was keen to have children, being that I was only 20 and had just started my career I was leery to being having children so soon. So the next best thing? We agreed to get a dog.

Over the next 6 months, every Saturday morning we would get in the car and drive to the local shelter in hopes to find that perfect puppy that had been dropped off. Since they were few and far between we were beginning to get impatient. One sunny December day we arrived at the shelter as we had so many times, except it was December 27, just after Christmas and we figured that maybe someone had made the ill advised decision to buy a pet as a gift.

We were so lucky that some asshat did, because there was our girl. Our beloved brindle coloured pit bull Briggs.

I have a baby picture of her provided by the shelter when we got her, but my scanner is crapped out.

I remember sitting in the front seat of the Jeep, her in my lap, trying to think of a name. I loved the name Brindle (that’s what my aunts dog was named while I was growing up) but it was her name and I couldn’t use that.

Something different – not dogish, not human.

I kept coming back to Riggs. That was kinda dogish though.

Brindle; but as much as I loved it, Brindle was Brindle and I just couldn’t use it again.

Landed on Briggs and it stuck.

So my dog was kinda named by a fictional character played by Mel Gibson. OMG.

At eight weeks old she was already a handful. Having to potty trainer her in an apartment – on the 18th floor – was not something I would even wish on my worst enemy.

Okay, maybe I would because taking a puppy outside at 2am in the winter from an eighteenth floor apartment fuckin’ sucks and they would deserve it.

Looking back at it now, I would have taken a week off work so I could train her properly and be there during the day for her because for months we would come home to having to scrub piss and shit from the ceramic kitchen floor. Every weekend I would be on my hands and knees scrubbing the grout clean and getting each and every crevasse missed during the daily cleansing.

Months of scrubbing shit and piss, yet not one of those times did curse her or wish that we had never gotten her. Not one shredded box of kleenex, chewed book, destroyed mitten made me upset that we had taken on this responsibility of getting a dog.

As children have come along she’s moved down the chain of importance. Once our beloved child-like dog has now become The Dog. Attention is far less than it used to be, walks have become sparse; she has been relegated to just being a fixture of our every day lives.

Sunday evening she went missing.

Somewhere between getting the groceries and children out of the car and into the house she was forgotten outside. I bet she waited patiently at the door -  as she always does – until she realized that we weren’t coming back. I bet she saw a squirrel or another dog and wandered out towards the road to investigate. I bet she followed them and then got lost.

Between the time that we came home and we realized she was gone was nearly 5 hours. Five hours of cooking dinner and cleaning up, wrangling the kids for bed and then more cleaning. Only when Mike went to go to bed did we realize that the dog was not here because she’s usually a fixture of Mike’s bedtime routine: he goes upstairs and shoos the dog from his side of the bed since she sleeps there day and night.

No Briggs.

She wasn’t in the kids’ rooms, the basement, the living room, the backyard.

Then we began to trace out steps and realized that she was FORGOTTEN outside.

No collar on!

I quickly gathered her leash and collar, my car keys and headed out the door, not knowing how long, where or WHAT to do. I headed straight for the shelter and animal control.

No one there, no help until Monday morning.

But what if she wasn’t there? What if she was roaming, freezing cold and lost.

I drove the neighbourhood, calling her name, whistling, begging for her to come running. I drove until I could no longer see through the tears.

I came home and put a call out for twitter’s help as Mike took a shift driving around.

I called my dad for help.

I just wanted my girl home.

We drove around until close to midnight before I gave up and went home.

I couldn’t believe that I was never going to see her again. I couldn’t resign to the idea that maybe someone had taken her in, maybe would keep her since she had no identification. I knew she would be back.

Before going to bed, I put her dog bed and fleece blanket outside the front door and left the light on. Just in case.

I said a couple prayers to St. Anthony.

St. Anthony, St. Anthony
Please come down
Something is lost
And can’t be found

I think I prayed until I feel asleep.

The next morning I rallied the kids and we went to the shelter for opening. I took a deep breath and asked the attending lady if my Briggs was there.

With a smile she assured me that she was in fact there – safe and sound. She had been brought in by Animal Control at about 8pm.

We got our baby back! She came barreling out on her leash, pulling the lady behind her. Tail wagging, whining as she kissed Carter up and down.

Briggser! You’re home! He said as she attacked his face with kisses.

The tears started falling. I couldn’t stop crying as I saw the love my son had for our dog.

The love our dog had for our son.

She’s been incredibly timid and quite since getting home. I sense she’s been a little traumatized by the events. She’s sleeping a lot and been very reclusive so we’ve been giving her some space. She’ll come around when she’s ready. I hope.

But she’s here. She’s safe and we’ve been given the wake up call we desperately needed.

Briggs is not just a dog, she’s a member of this family.

Forever.

Every time I sit down to write something the words have escaped me.

I could sit here and talk about how my three year old has been sleeping nights in his underwear. How he’s been asking to wear them instead of pull ups every night this past week.

I could tell you how we’re working on crying it out since I am so over the whole co-sleeping thing. Maybe even mention that I’ve had two solid nights of sleep, through to 7am. (I know!)

I could even tell you that having Mike home has been nice; even almost pleasant since Carter has been elated to wake up each morning with Daddy here. Having Mike be the favourite to play cars, hockey and to wipe his ass? I cannot tell you how much I am enjoying that.

I could even mention that one night last week, after bringing in groceries, we left the dog outside, unattended. She decided it was boring to wait at the front door any longer for someone to let her in so she joined the next dog walker she could find. They walked for about an hour while the lady tried to find Briggs’ rightful owners then took her home to call the shelter since she had tags.

I could even divulge that since Briggs normally sleeps on our bed, away from the kiddie action, we didn’t even notice she was missing until the shelter called. How brutal is that!? Seriously, that dog has been neglected since the kids came along. This is pointedly evident now. Poor doog. I can’t even explain to unsurmountable guilt I’ve felt since. Thankfully the couple that found her had taken her in, cared for her – even trimming her long nails! – and drove her home after getting our address from the shelter.

You know, with the pit bull laws in Ontario now, we were thisclose to having our beloved dog removed from our home, submitted to euthanasia while we could have been charged upwards of $10,000. All for forgetting her outside? THE GUILT!! I just can’t even imagine if the wrong person had found her. Admitting that I’ve failed my dog (since I’m such a crazy animal lover) is hard. Knowing that she’s safe and at home helps.

But all that stuff? It’s all meh. Uninteresting, life things.

So? What’s new with you?

:::

Oh, and since I’ve dragged my ass with this Starbucks giftcard giveaway, I’ve decided to pick two winners – which I’ll share the first week of January.

Best wishes for a fun and SAFE New Years’ Eve. Stay off the roads if you’re drinking and enjoy your time with friends and family!

xox

Dogfighting is a sadistic “contest” in which two dogs—specifically bred, conditioned, and trained to fight—are placed in an enclosed “ring” to fight each other for human entertainment as well as gambling. Fights can range anywhere from an hour in length to often lasting more than two hours and usually end when one of the dogs will not or cannot continue – or die.

The “losing” dog who survives the match will usually suffer severe consequences at the hand of the owner. Consequences for losing can include: being beaten with bats, chains, have battery acid thrown on their flesh and open wounds as well as being shot, hanged and drowned.

Pit bulls are the dog of choice when it comes to dogfights due to their tenacious loyalty to humans; they will fight to the death and suffer gravely in order to satisfy their human.

Thanks to Michael Vick’s notoriety, the underground world of dogfighting has enlightened many that would otherwise have had no idea what fate these animals have been suffering at the hands of these unconscionable people.

Thank you Michael Vick.

God, that pains me to write. Thank you to such a vile and inexcusable monster.

But without his celebrity, this story would have been brushed under the rug as so many others have and it’s time for people to know. To be educated about the pit bull breed and to stop living in fear of their portrayal in the media.

Saving Michael Vick’s Dogs is a fantastic article written by Brigid Schulte for the Washington Post. A definite must read that provides insight into the world of dogfighting and the pit bull breed.

Typically when a dogfighting ring is busted, the dogs are executed without question, but these 50 pit bulls resuced from Vick’s property have been given a fighting chance – at life. Many of the dogs have undergone extensive rehabilitation and training due to mostly to fear, anxiety and lack of socialization. A number of the dogs were terrified to move let alone be touched by a human hand, where few showed aggressive tendencies towards humans.

A widespread misconception about pit bulls is that they are aggressive to humans because they are aggressive to dogs. Just like any other breed of dog, a pill bull responsibly owned, raised, as well as socialized, is no more likely to be human aggressive then any other dog.

Classic fighting pit bulls, part bulldog and part terrier, were bred to be friendly to people and aggressive with other dogs. Their ability to withstand great pain and keep fighting is a quality prized as “gameness.”

But with an explosion in urban street fighting, some pit bulls are being trained to go after animals and people.

Myths of pit bulls being unpredictable, vicious and dangerous have long fueled the fear of this breed. Because of their rough appearance, pit bulls – as well as rottweilers, dobermans, etc. – have been targeted by such groups as gangs, dogfighters, and thugs to be used as an accessory to their menacing appearance which in turn has sensationalized their “bad dog” image. These breeds are no more likely to be harmful then a shitzu, golder retriever, or cocker spaniel provided they are raised in a loving environment, by a responsible person. Many instances of dog attacks or bites are traced back to improper care, lack of socialization and supervision.

Vick’s dogs have been a few of the lucky ones rescued from fighting. These dogs have been given a second lease on life, a chance to love and be loved. About half the dogs have been introduced into loving, caring and experienced foster homes while those whom shown little tolerance to other dogs are living out their days at Best Friends Animal Society’s 3,700-acre sanctuary in Kanab, Utah called Dogtown. One special dog – Leo – now visits cancer patients as a therapy dog!

Tim Racer, one of the founders of Bay Area Doglovers Responsible About Pit bulls (BAD RAP), has said:

Yes, there are pit bulls who have fought, attacked and mauled other animals and people. But so have other breeds. And incidents almost always have been traced to negligent or abusive owners…

… it is not surprising that many of the dogs get along so well with other dogs. Just as the urge to fight is in their blood, so, too, is the need to get along. “You have 150 years of man trying to produce an aggressive dog. But you have tens of thousands of years of Mother Nature preceding that,” he said. “Dogs are pack animals. They survived because of their pack. . . . It’s hard-wired into their genes that they do no harm to each other.”

Briggs & Carter

The only way we can save these animals from the prejudice and hate is to get educated. Given the proper treatment, these dogs are unique and wonderful with tons of love to give.

Great sites to debunk myths and learn more about pit bulls:

BAD RAP (Bay Area Doglovers Responsible About Pitbulls)

Working Pitbull

Advocates for the Underdog

Just google Michael Vick and pitbulls and you’ll see the amazing stories of the dogs’ survival.

A couple of those stories:

Vick’s Pitbulls Up For Adoption

Beaten-down dog from Vick Case Has It’s Day

Leo at work:

Sweet Pea:

It wasn’t planned nor intended, but man it felt great! Taking a week off from the computer – Yes! computer, not just blogging – was a Godsend. I have doe so much around the house and even more shopping to complete things in need of completing prior to The Baby’s arrival: mind you there is a boat load of more things to be completed, but I’m far better off then I was a week ago.

Nesting instincts have begun to rear their (ugly) head. It’s really a catch 22 because I am supposed to be off work early to be resting but instead I’ve been like a little worker bee and running my hinney off for 5 straight days. I’m exhausted. But I figure the more I get done more, the more I can rest after – before baby, of course.

I almost feel as though I should be doing stuff rather then sitting around relaxing all day with Carter still in daycare and Mike working. With today being the first day I haven’t filled with tasks taking me out of the house, I’ve watched about 20 minutes of television (since daytime TV bites The Big One) and this chair at my desktop is already killing my lady bits. (I HAVE to get a wireless router soon – since work let me keep my laptop while I’m off! *wOOt* Then I can blog and design from just about anywhere – like my backyard!) I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself aside from reading all the great books that have been suggested and blogging.

I just feel guilty and bored.

Already.

I’ve only been off work for four days.

Nothing really new here – baby’s not early and I’ve just been ‘playing’ the dutiful housewife for the past couple days. But! I will be blogging more regularly, promise!

Oh, and I HATE my cat. Utterly despise him.

But that’s a story for tomorrow.

* Prelude: There is a lot of mention of Big Brother at the beginning, but I swear this is a legitimate post! Just bare with it, m’kay? *

After wading through episode upon episode of DVR’d Dora, Diego and Thomas and Friends, I finally came upon my beloved Big Brother.

[Seriously, not even two yet and my kid's already dominating the DVR! It's! NOT! Fair!]

As I became engrossed in every episode (since I’m behind about a week = 6 episodes), train wreck after train wreck, I realized that from the 7 out of 8 seasons I’ve watched, this is the saddest bunch of fame hungry weirdos I’ve seen yet. They all drive me bat shit crazy. Seriously. There isn’t one person in that house I wouldn’t want to beat the crap out of. Except Nick and Mike, they could have beaten me. As long as they didn’t talk. I am so disenchanted with this season, but yet it’s so hard to look away!

The one person that drives me the most bat shit crazy (besides Jen because she’s a given.) is Amber. I’ve never seen someone cry so much!That weirdo cries over EVERYTHING. Everything being the wind is blowing and the sun is setting. *sniff* It’s just so beautiful and *sniff, sniff, sob, sob* I love it so much!

Gah!

Though, her fight with Dick about loving your pets as much as your children has resonated with me.

I thought I would side with her. Then Dick started asking questions like: “Would you risk your life to save your pet?”

I thought I would say yes, but hearing him say it out loud made me realize how odd it truly sounded.

A part of me said no.

No. I wouldn’t put my life on the line for my cat. (Sorry FatCat.) In fact, I’m just buying my time until he takes a dirtnap. (T-minus 10 years and counting. *sigh*) His quality of life has not wavered, he is still very well taken care of, but I just don’t care for him as much as I did (4.5 years ago).

When the dog came, she ruled the roost and was everything to us, the cat then became demoted to “FatCat” instead of “sweetpea”. With Carter’s arrival, Briggs was demoted too (as FatCat laughed in her face); she just wasn’t the baby anymore. I don’t think I’d sacrifice myself for her either now.

I have pets. They are no longer my babies. I have a human child, a dog and a cat.

I don’t compare their worth to that of my child.

That doesn’t mean that when my dog needs a $600 skin biopsy and specialty dog food (at $100 for a 20lb bag – for shit sakes!) that I won’t buy it. They are important, no question; but they are not comparable to my flesh and blood, but when I was without child, they were. I didn’t know the love of having a child.

So I can understand the people that walk their foo-foo little dogs in designer hand bags, the doggy strollers and all that jazz – since before children I would have probably done the same (though, getting a 50lb pit bull into a handbag would prove to be quite a feat).

I just have a hard time believing people that they love their animals just as much as their child.

Does that make me a bad pet “owner”? I don’t think so. Just realistic.

What do you think? Would you compare your love for your animal to the love of your child? Are they even comparable?

 :::

Know what totally sucks? Hitting “Mark All As Read” on my Google Homepage Reader section. Now I have no idea what’s new and what’s not. If I haven’t visited and commented, that’s why. (Even though it’s a HUGe relief not to see that GINORMOUS list waiting for me!

My challenge to you: Hug a Pitbull

really? what’s there to be afraid of?

We’ve all heard it before. Pet ownership can have many benefits for people, including reduction in stress. I believe it to be true, for the most part.

Greeting from my beautiful pit bull, Briggs; her tail wagging wholeheartedly, whipping the walls as she waits patiently (as possible) to smother us in kisses is a wonderful way to end a stressful day at work. Her warm kisses and gentle nuzzling are very much welcomed as we sit down together after evening chores are complete.
Life without pets is just not the same to me. The unconditional love, even on the bitchiest of days; their complete and udder lack for the ability to judge us bodes well on the days I decide to let Carter sit in front of the TV with a box of Corn Pops while I read USWeekly. (Don’t judge. It’s only happened once a couple times. )
Even Connor (the cat) has his affectionate moments, when he’s not scared shitless of his own shadow; he will jump up on the desk for some belly rubs as I read blogs. After his futile attempts at suffocating me in my sleep with his fat ass, he curls up at the end of the bed at night. It’s enough to make your heart melt.

Where am I going with this you wonder.

Were all the facts considered while conducting these studies? I don’t think so because their judgments are slightly skewed considering the tremendous stress and anxiety I endure trying to take these animals to the vet.

Hunting down Connor has become a two day event in preparation for his yearly visit. The cat box comes out the night before so he can investigate. Check it out for traps and poison. After he’s given it the all clear, he’ll embark on the task of cramming his fat ass in. He’ll turn, ever so slightly trying to keep even a whisker from touching the side of the box. Once his attempts are foiled by his fat ass, he slowly backs out of the crate and bolts like there’s a chance I’m going to strap him in there and hang him as bait in front of cat hating rabid dogs.

The next morning, I walk around the house meowing like a cat, which sounds vaguely similar to the raccoon fight in my backyard last summer that woke me from a deep sleep; as I’m calling his name I’m cursing him to no end. Most times he will appear, maybe I sound like a cat in heat to him; I dunno. This cat is a boarder line circus freak. A pet store special. He’s so inbred, he doesn’t know his ass from his head most days. I love him so.
If all else fails, I can usually find him huddled in the farthest corner beneath the bed in the spare room. Nothing can coax that fat bastard out like a bowl of dry cat food shaken slightly in a metal bowl. He’s then crammed into the cat carrier, ass first so he doesn’t have to endure the ride trying to turn around. Thoughtful, I know.

The dog. She loves the vet. So much so as soon as we pull down his road she’s bounding all over the back like her ass is on fire. Crying, panting and jumping at the window hoping that, just once, if she hits the glass at the right angle it will set her free. She bounces, whimpers and whines as we walk through the door, gasping for air since she’s tugged her collar so tight, which doesn’t phase her in the slightest, as she makes a bee line for the reception.

What’s so bad about this you say? Well, throw in an 18 month old toddler who turns in to a blubbering mess because he wants to hold the carrier and the dog’s leash; all the while getting into everything in sight. Carter’s to the point where putting him in a stroller is like subjecting him to a straight jacket. (Which I’ve never thought about doing. Not even once.)

Where’s his father? Sitting on his ass reading a fucking magazine.

As Briggs is trying to sniff the ass of the chocolate lab, Carter is running in behind the reception desk and the cat is shaking the shit out of the carrier. I see Mike out of the corner of my eye, reading this fuckin’ magazine; not a care in the world. My lasers of death searing a hole through his temple don’t even phase him. I politely (as possible) say. “Mike? A little help?” His gaze meets mine. “What? What do you need help with?”

Nothing asshole, just wanted you to critique my ability to balance awkwardly on one foot as the cat shakes the shit out of my arm, the dog pulls in the other direction, and I try to corral our child who’s embarked on his own little journey.

Men. I wish life was always as simple as theirs.