Category Archives: Dog Rescue

At the Edge of the World Unseen

IMG_0315Thin, dirty and disheveled, he stands at the top of the embankment by the freeway and watches me.  I lay treats and a can of cat food I happened to have with me on the wet grooved pavement of this dead-end road and retreat.  I slump down near my truck to wait; we watch one another and begin the dance.  Behavior and appearance tell me he’s streetwise, maybe a neighborhood stray someone wanted gone so they dumped him here or maybe he travelled up the freeway from the down-trodden neighborhood by the river.  Either way, he’s ended up on the edge of the world, ignored and unseen until now.

The text came through earlier today; a man named James saw him first, gave him the remains of his lunch and alerted the group.  It’s late afternoon on New Year’s Eve, gray, cold and misting rain and our rescue kennels are beyond full.  Tonight he can stay in my garage where I’ve made a warm nest with a warming blanket and heater, just a stopover though because I have nowhere to keep a big dog since I have many dogs of my own, a common side effect of rescue.  We hope for help from some other source.

Lowering my eyes, I try to appear unthreatening, yielding him the lead so he might chance moving closer, but he doesn’t, he just sits at the edge of the uneven roadway hoping I will leave so he can eat the cat food.   I text my fellow rescuers about this impasse and the advice is chicken, fried smelly chicken and patience.  I getIMG_0313 to my feet to go get the chicken and he too suddenly jumps up, looks at me again and bolts – I’ve made a mistake, I’ve moved too quickly.  I run up the muddy slope, fearful he’s run up the entrance ramp to the freeway, but I see empty incline and I know he’s gone around the concrete barrier into the anonymity of the woods.   Resignedly I get in my truck.

A short time later I’m back and he’s nowhere to be seen, not on the road, not curled up by the woodpile where I first saw him or even standing at the edge of the woods behind the barrier.  I pushed too hard, overstepped the invisible boundary and he is not going to come out again while I’m here.   Frustrated and worried for him, I place the chicken and mashed potatoes by the earlier treats so at least he will have a full belly for the cold night coming.  In the woodpile I spot places that might provide shelter and tuck an old blanket from the back of my truck into a nook cushioned by old palm leaves.  It’s not enough, but it’s all I can do tonight.  Before I leave I look across the wet ground littered with trash and mud, along the woodpile and into the darkening woods where he hides and I imagine his wet nose in the air catching scent of the chicken on the cold breeze.

I’ve done this enough to know his body is getting weary of fighting the constant hunger, that he’s tired of hiding and being cold, tired of running.  I know if he’s not rescued soon, he will begin to give up and start to make mistakes and ignore his instincts.   He may wander disoIMG_0318riented into traffic or forget to hide when his nose senses danger or he may simply lie down in those woods one day and not get up again.  The fate of the unseen.

We will try again, with chicken and patience, to bring him in back into the world where warmth and a chance await.  One of us will sit on that dirty patch of pavement in the rain or at the edge of an unmowed field as he crouches in the weeds.  We will wait and silently call out to him, “We see you, we see you,” and the dance will begin again.


©2014-2015 itsa5doglife  All Rights Reserved

From My Hands

I watched them as I worked outside among my flowers, as I walked to the mailbox, or as I drove out of the driveway, thin red rose and dobermannhollow bodies lying in the warm dirt or on the porches of the broken and bereft trailer homes across the street. At times a car would pull up and I would see the tableau play out again, the dogs jump up and run over, tails wagging, begging, careful to stay out of the way of the person climbing the rotting stairs to the porch. A door slams, they stare at the door in anticipation, sure that it will open again for them and this time they will be seen and acknowledged, maybe even fed, but the wagging slows and the head falls and they return to the dirt, to the warmth of the sun. They are ghosts in that place.

The old Tupperware bowl full dog food was empty each morning, at first licked clean and then over the weeks, a few kibbles carelessly left here and there, evidence of expectation, a trust that the bowl would be full again. I was sure that there were three of them, two females who obviously had puppies, probably hidden away under a trailer or the dilapidated wooden shed on the back of the property, if alive at all, and a red male dog. The females had think patchy hair and I could see the fleas racing across the inflamed skin of their backs and bellies. Around each of their necks was a collar, loose and now faded, implying ownership, but only in the most literal sense of the word.

At first they ate their food and left at night, but slowly I would find one or two still hanging2013-07-09 21.20.53 out under the carport of my house, usually the large momma dog or the young male. Momma dog, whom we called Ava, was friendly, but her eyes were tired and empty and swollen with infection and although she allowed me to touch her, she didn’t wag her tail or raise her head, but if I stopped she would butt her head against my chest as I kneeled down next to her. The male was healthier than the females and other than a slight thinness, he looked good, his coat was thick and his eyes were clear. Over the next few weeks as I watched them go back and forth across the street, I came to believe that although allowed to run loose, the male was cared for by someone in one of the trailers. I think he sensed the hunger and greater need of the other two, as more than once I’d seen him walk with the two females to the food bowls and then silently move aside for them and stand guard as they ate their fill.

The other momma dog was much smaller, she had a longer black and white coat and her ears were covered in spots, like a 2013-08-12 15.52.34dalmation’s coat. I would see her out by the gate or in the field next door when Ava and the male were here, but she couldn’t bring herself to us, maybe she feared pain or mistreatment at our hands, but I could see her struggle, her need to believe we would be kind, but yet willing us to go inside so she could approach and eat. One night my husband called me to come outside and see something and it was the little black and white momma, she had surrendered and rolled over on her back, softly crying in relief, submitting, as my husband rubbed her small belly.

From that day forward the momma dogs spent most of their time with us, but the male came and went and one day I saw a family move out and we never saw him again. Neither momma appeared to have milk left so I wasn’t sure if there were puppies, but for short periods of time each day they would disappear. I didn’t know if they were still being drawn to the only home they had ever known or if possibly they were leaving to feed puppies, so we began the waiting game.
IMG_0554We didn’t have to wait long, soon the little momma, now called Sissy, brought her puppies to us, four little balls of happiness, bellies swollen with worms, but otherwise healthy. She was a good momma and she knew it and she also let me know that she was done with them and she never left our house again. Vetted and vaccinated, the puppies were soon adopted out with the help of Pup Squad, a wonderful rescue that focuses on rescued puppies. Ava, however, was still leaving at times, but I didn’t know her reason.

Late one night Ava came back and she brought her reasons with her, two large swollen hairless pups. As I walked out the door, Ava was waiting and wanted me to see her puppies. She would run to them and then back to me and if one would try IMG_0591to run out of the garage, she would IMG_0586nudge them back in again towards me so I did as she asked and picked them up and held their smelly little bodies to me and I told her I would take care of them. She seemed to be at ease after that and, like Sissy, never left us again.

2013-09-10 18.42.33Vetted, spayed and completely healthy, Sissy and Ava are still with us, along with our 9 other dogs. Their hair is soft beneath my hands and their eyes are bright. It’s hard to find an adoptive home for two bonded dogs, 2013-10-14 23.04.04and I would never separate them, so we accept that they may be with us forever, but they are older, easy and perfectly content.
Both of Ava’s puppies had two types of severe mange and lost all of their hair – twice. They looked like two small piglets running around and require2013-09-06 17.41.09d much medical care and little Wilma developed benign growths on her body, which were easily removed, but delayed her attendance at adoption events. Beautiful unique Betty with her black and orange fur and calm demeanor was adopted quickly by a loving family and it took Wilma some time to adjust to her absence, as Betty was her touchstone, the one who ran things and she was at a loss as to how to act now that she was alone.

Wilma, now 7 months old and 45 pounds with a shiny tan and black coat, was healthy and ready to be adopted. We went to adoption events together, but it was difficult for her, in the past she took her cues from Betty so she didn’t know how to react to the noise, all the other dogs and people and at times I was afraid her fear made her seem unfriendly. I would sit with her on the floor, rubbing her head, talking to her and a few people would read her profile and say hello, but pens of little soft puppies are so cute and attractive, so often she was passed by without even a glance. Now Wilma is 9 months old, she won’t be a puppy much longer.

2014-01-25 17.17.52I wish an adopter could see what I see. I wish they could see her excitement as she licks my chin with her whole body wiggling in joy; I wish they could see her try to sit in my lap like she is a tiny puppy or watch her chase a ball and bring it right back to me. All these little things that make her so wonderful, the ways she rolls in the fresh-cut grass, how she always has a toy in her mouth and wants you take it from her so she can take it back again. Most of all, I wish they could see how much she needs a family of her own who can focus on her, bond with her, and make her their own and watch her grow from this energy filled older puppy to a wonderful adult dog. In my mind I can see her laying on a rug in someone’s living room as they watch TV or running in circles when the reach for the leash to go for a walk and far later in time, I see the same kind hands that she’s known for so many years rub her faded white head as she naps on the couch.

So I will keep trying because this is what I want for Wilma. Her forever family must be out there waiting to find her and when I know it’s them, the ones who will love her and see her as I do, with sadness and joy, I will cradle her sweet face in my hands one last time. As she licks my chin I will tell her that I love her and that it’s time, her family is waiting, and then I will let her go, not from my heart, but from my hands.

Rhonda Alford Owens
©2014-2015 itsa5doglife All Rights Reserved

Have You Seen Us?

Rachel3What do you do when it all goes wrong?  How do you get past the despair, the brokenness and fear when you unknowingly delivered innocence into evil?  When you did all the right things, did all the research and yet still were deceived, lies upon lies until no one really knows the truth.  We do know one thing, our animals are all missing.



I remember the day we found George, a small older chow mix, matted, hungry and shy, laying in the tall dry grass among the rotting garbage, his friend Remi, a chocolate lab, pacing around him, careful to keep himself between George and danger.  Two more throw aways, left to their fate in this dead-end by the river.  We walked carefully through the trash, knelt down and held a hand out to Remi, speaking softly, assuring him we would not hurt George, and soon we were loading them into crates.  As Leslie drove away with them, I breathed a quiet “thank you” and turned my truck towards home.  Over the next few days, after vetting, bathing and a haircut for George, the boys would bloom and Remi’s quiet dignity and George’s quirky little ways would win us all.  Remi quickly found a good home nearby and a place was found for George, a place where he was welcomed with open arms, with delightful comments about his unique look and fireball spirit.  We were convinced George was in the best of hands and would find his special human that would care for him forever and protect him, just like Remi.



Now and again you find a dog with so many problems you feel hopeless.  You run your hands over their dirty abused bodies, you feel the bones and hollows left by hunger, the skin ravaged by infection, but then you cradle their head in your hands, they lick your chin and you see a faint light in tired eyes, a tiny hope that your hands will not hurt them.  Naturally, we called her Hope.  I remember my visits with her, our walks under the massive old oaks in the neighborhood surrounding her boarding home.  Dog trainers would be aghast if they saw our walks because her nose drug us both down the street and often she would run back to me and jump up as if to say, “Do you smell that? Come on! Let’s go see, let’s go see.”, and so we did. Sweet Hope was heartworm positive, but we had faith that with a little time and treatment, there would be a forever someone on the other end of her leash.  There was a foster waiting for her, found by the wonderful place she was going, someone who could oversee her treatment for heartworms and then she could be adopted.  We were happy; we thought her future was living up to her name.



Rachel was one of five, all dumped and left for dead, struggling to survive the heat, poisonous spiders, snakes and alligators that live in the swamp all around them.  We made a den for them, complete with dog houses and blankets, until we could catch them. Each day, we would go see them, fill up their bowls, calling to them in vain, hoping just one would get close enough to grab, but they had no trust left for humans.  Entering the den through the deep brush and hanging vines, we could hear their footsteps in the woods, circling the den and wanting contact, but always falling back to follow Ross, their leader, as he lead them away to the other side of the lake and far from us.  Rachel was a black pit bull mix with white on her nose and was one of the first to fall for the fried chicken in the trap, the smell overriding her fear.  Soon Kevin, a friend and expert rescue trapper, had her in his truck.  What a gorgeous dog, what a happy spirit once among the comforts of a bed and regular meals.  We were told she was adopted by the owner of a local winery where she was living her life and being adored by staff and guests alike. In my mind I can see her following someone, padding softly in the warm soft dirt between rows of grapes, I want to believe it, but I know is not true.   A call to the winery has confirmed that they have never heard of Rachel.





Further down the river, past the boat ramps and ATV park is another bridge.  Under this bridge you will find a makeshift shelter of old doors, windows and planks where passing transient travelers spend a few days and then move along again down the old highway.  You can also find dogs that have been left to fend as best they can.  We were looking for another dog, one that had disappeared from our regular site, but this morning what we found were two dogs, obviously together and waiting for someone.  The larger female was Bernadette and the small male we called Howard.  Bernadette spent her days waiting by the road, looking off into the distance for the person who had dumped her to come back, while Howard stayed close to the shelter, not usually venturing from under the bridge.  Being small, Howard was easier to catch, but Bernadette proved to be a challenge as she was too afraid to come close.  One morning one of our rescuers decided to make another effort all alone, certainly risky considering the area, but she felt she might be able to connect with Bernadette.  She carefully made her way into the site, and not seeing any strangers, she looked around for Bernadette and found her sitting on the hill leading up to the highway.  For two hours she sat there, talking to Bernadette, coaxing her with soft words and treats.  She told her about the new life waiting for her and that she could see Howard again, promising her that if she would only let her closer she would help her begin a better life.  Finally Bernadette relented enough to be caught up in a blanket and carried to the car and they made their way to the boarding kennel, calm and quiet, sensing she was safe.  I wish we could have kept her that way, I wish we could believe she is living out that promise and I hope she is with Howard wherever they are.

Sugar Bear

Sugar Bear

Sugar Bear haunts our thoughts, enrages our minds and breaks our hearts.  I wasn’t there when they found her, discarded under the bridge, in a filthy crate, her eyes matted almost shut, bleeding flea nests covering her body.  In spite of her terrible condition, she was a happy and trusting dog.  Leslie and Megan brought Sugar Bear to me to keep overnight so I could take her to the vet the next morning, so I prepared a bed, filled bowls with clean water and fresh food.  After she was settled, I cleaned her up as best I could without actually bathing her since it was so late.  When I got to her face she lay her head on my legs and patiently let me clean her eyes with a warm wet cloth, trying to wipe away the hardened crust of infection that held her eyes shut without hurting her.  As soon as she could open her eyes a little, she lifted her head to look at me and then stretched up to lick my chin, a blessing from a thrown away dog.  Sugar Bear had a condition where the eye lashes grow the wrong way and that was why she had chronic eye infections, but the surgery was simple although she would look funny with no hair around her eyes for a while.  The surgery was a success and she did look a little comical, but her eyes were healing and she felt great and ready to explore her new pain-free world and find her place in it.  Right now she should be lying at someone’s feet or napping on a kitchen rug in a beam of sunlight, she should be blessing someone’s life.



No fosters, way too few volunteers, way too many animals, and no money for long-term boarding, the same story as always, so few safe options.  There are wonderful no-kill groups, many in the Austin and surrounding areas and we checked them all and found a place hidden in the hills of Canyon Lake, a beautiful resort town surrounding a deep cold lake.  This place was different, the staff were knowledgeable and talked about training, rehabilitation and high adoption rates, thus justifying the high program intake fees and they were fully equipped with a vet nearby and welcomed dogs that needed extra attention and care. The kennels were clean and animals had access to the outdoors and the looked clean, healthy and happy. They were listed with every no-kill organization we could find, we goggled for reviews, for any complaints, we grilled the staff, due diligence was done, but we were deceived, many were deceived and the animals paid the price.

Elliott and Noelle at shelter

Elliott and Noelle at the shelter

It began when we stumbled on some information about a burglary at the shelter and the disappearance of the manager and we started asking questions, addressing the Board that supported the shelter, begging, then demanding information.  There were four of our animals still there and we made arrangements to pull them immediately, in spite of threats to charge outrageous fees for “boarding” them.  We were forced to pay to adopt back our dogs, the great irony being the thousands of dollars that we had previously paid to place our dogs in an elite and progressive no-kill program to ensure their safety and adoption.



Twelve animals, all gone without a trace, all the records destroyed.  We have been told there is a good possibility they are all dead, that they were euthanized soon after intake and the elaborate “Happy Tails” stories were all lies. So much does not add up and we are not sure what is true, so we are searching for the animals, for anyone that might have adopted a dog matching their description.  Hundreds of flyers have been mailed and posted and we will keep searching. We know for sure that Sugar Bear is dead.  She was killed for being itchy, for scratching the hair growing back in around her eyes and other parts of her body, condemned by greed, killed by monsters.

A criminal  investigation is underway and a new Board of Directors and an entire community has stepped up and nothing is the same.  A new group of leaders are trying to make it right, trying to help us find the truth, and are committed to convicting these criminals, and the light is creeping back in, but it’s too late for so many.  Too late for the freezer full of dead animals found on the premises.  Too late for Noelle, Elliott, Sandy, Rachel, Tigger, Garfield, Gus-Gus, Bernie, Howard, George, Sugar Bear, Brownie, and Hope.



So what do you do when it all goes wrong?  How do you get back to that place where you feel you are moving forward, making strides in defeating the cruelty and apathy everywhere you look?  How do you take another step when your limbs feel tied by ropes of lies and failure?  You rage, you cry and beat your fists against the ground and then you get up.  You don’t keep quiet, you don’t pretend it didn’t happen, you make it matter.  You speak it out loud and yell it into every dark corner and space until you don’t have to anymore, until you are hoarse and everyone knows and things change.  Our group is different now; we trust others less and cling tightly to the four dogs we were able to retrieve from Canyon Lake when we learned of the deception. We are committed to placing them into forever homes and no where else.  We remain a little broken and we will limp for a good long while.  I don’t know what the future holds for us, how we will evolve or in what direction after this heartbreak, but we will figure it out, we will find our way, so in faith I will take a page from Hope’s book and say, “Let’s go see, Let’s go see.”



Gus Gus

Gus Gus






If you are interested in applying to foster or adopt, please visit our web page at

All photos are the property of the Animal Safety League of Northeast Harris County.

©2013 itsa5doglife  All Rights Reserved

Even Now

56Even now, as I travel the highway that carries me over the river, over the turnaround, along the creeks and bogs lining the road, I always look.   Just past the bridge through the clearing you can see it, the place where the gravel road wraps around the lake, where he always lay.  He was one of five dogs dumped at the same time, dumped to die at the hand of nature, fate or cruelty.

He was an odd-looking dog, more like a pit bull than a boxer, but there was something else in the mix as well and we called him Ross.  Of all the dogs, he had the most presence and he seemed to be the leader, the dog the other ones followed in spite of an injury to his leg.  If he came to eat, they all came to eat and when he was done they all left together.  This was back when it all began, when we were wringing our hands about what to do with five dumped dogs. Having little money and no fosters, we came up with a plan, a plan that would allow us to save them all.  We set up a den for them in the dense woods, with shelter, food and clean water and checked on them each day, hoping to draw them closer and gain their trust so we could take them to a better life.

We came to know the dogs well, but they would never get close enough to touch and I believe this was because they took their cues from Ross. Across the lake we would see them, sitting together in the morning sun or under a small willow tree by the small clear lake. As we entered the den, we would suddenly hear them in the woods around us, pacing and circling.  We contacted a rescue trapper named Kevin who has helped so many animals and with his help slowly we got them one by one, except for Ross. He watched from a distance as we loaded up his last friend and became distraught, running after the truck as it pulled out, and then stopped suddenly and ran back to the woods.

For weeks Kevin would set the trap out before the earliest light each morning and after dusk each evening, but the food in the trap remained untouched. We hired someone to dart him with a tranquilizer in order to save his life, but 5but Ross stayed hidden and became unpredictable. Kevin kept trying with the trap and we kept checking on Ross each day and although he was eating the food we put out, it was obvious he was not using the shelter anymore.

It was also obvious he was deteriorating both physically and mentally and we didn’t know what to do. Some days I would sit on the road outside the den and if I were still enough, he might show himself at the edge of the trees and I could feel his eyes on me. We would stay like that together until the sun grew too hot and then he would be gone again.

There came a time when we realized no one had seen him in several days so we met at the site, fanned out through the woods around the den, and walked and drove the dusty road around the lake.  We carried binoculars in one hand, smelly delicious food in the other and left it at various spots along the way, hoping to draw our boy out into the open. Days turned weeks, then to months with no sign of Ross. Other dogs were dumped, caught and rescued, we left his den in place, but we never saw him again.

I want to believe he left to wander and found the houses on the other side of the river, that someone he learned to trust took him in and that as I IMG_0658write this he knows gentle hands and a soft bed.  I like to think he’s with a pack again, leading them around a backyard until he’s called in for the night with a treat and pat on the head.  That’s what my heart wants to believe, but my mind knows better.  It knows that in spite of our efforts, somewhere out in those woods he laid down a last time, sick or hurt, tired of being alone, not starved or beaten, but tired and broken by his short and sad life, betrayed by those who dumped him, unreachable by those who would have helped him.

It’s the not knowing that stays with you, so I look.  Maybe one day I will see him, a spot of white on the dirt road as I go by and I will turn my truck around and drive back to that bitter place.  I walk to the fork of the rutted road and raise my hands to shield the light and see him, whole and healthy. As he gets to his feet he turns to look at me, willing me to understand that he’s at peace now, we don’t need to look for him anymore, and in a cloud of dust he is gone, back to the woods, and I let him go forever.

©2011-2012 itsa5doglife  All Rights Reserved

If you would like to help the small group that is saving the lives of dumped animals in Crosby, Texas, please visit

Finding Treasure

IMG_1466The cool morning promised a beautiful day and I had plans to spend it metal detecting with my father. We dream of finding gold coins and diamond rings, but the only things we find are pennies, old nails and pull tabs, but it gives us something to do together and you never know when you might find treasure. First however, I needed to run up the road and feed the three remaining dumped dogs our little rescue group is trying to catch down at the river.  I loaded the bags of dog food, tossed in my old tennis shoes and headed down there.

I’ve described this place before, an area full of old sofas, broken glass, and other things, where the freeway rises up over the river and people go to do things unseen. Unfortunately, because it’s Sunday, the gate to the private land where the dogs are living is locked so that means I will have to park and walk down to the hidden den we’ve created where the dogs can eat and sleep in safety. During the week I can drive up to the den and I always feel much safer out of site. I don’t see the dogs, but paw prints in the dust leading to the den tell me they’ve been there already this morning, but come dusk they’ll return.  As a Sunday treat I pour two cans of wet food on top of the dry, picking up the empty cans as I go, and then I crawl back out of the den, through the vines and low branches, trying to avoid the poison ivy this time.  I look around once more, hoping to see one or more of them laying in the early sunlight further down the road, but no luck this time. I hope they won’t be here much longer, but so far all of our trapping efforts have failed – these are smart dogs, not even fried chicken or hot dogs will entice them into the trapTreasure 2.

As I walk up the dry road to my truck I can hear the Sunday fishermen working their way to the river, I hear the crunch of their tires as they drive over broken bottles and cans where the pavement gives way to rutted trails, I hear them call to one another over the sounds of traffic above and the faint breeze smells of fish and decay. The sun is much higher in the sky now and I notice that the cool morning has warmed to a stale stickiness as I change out of my dusty shoes for the ride home. I’m in the truck, about to back up when I notice a faded red truck pulling slowly into the driveway behind me, it stops for a minute as if considering my presence and then makes a sharp right into a grassy beaten down area that leads down to the river. As the truck turns I watch and see a rusty dog crate in the back and the top of a small white head and I know another dog is about to be abandoned.

I sit there for a minute, not sure what to do because maybe it’s someone spending the day fishing or swimming with their dog, but my gut tells me otherwise, so I wait. I don’t have to wait long and soon I see it, a poodle-looking dog zigzagging down the path, confused, not sure where to go, so I get out and walk around the back of my truck. The dog is not skinny, but obviously neglected, its fur matted and skin raw and I kneel and call out to her, willing her to come to me and she does, she runs and jumps in my arms. As I stand up, I see the red truck making its way back.  Treasure 3I’m nervous, so I load the dog in the passenger seat, get in, lock the doors and get out of there. The local authorities have asked us to let them know if we witness anyone dumping animals and as much as I wish I could have gotten close enough to get his license plate, I just want to get away. As I drive around the bend that leads to the highway I look in my mirror and see him pull his truck under the freeway and stop. I call one of my fellow rescuers and ask her to call the sheriff. The deputies get there very quickly and are very cooperative and willing to help, but the man and his truck are gone.

I live close so our trip home is short, but the dog is panting and hot and jumping from seat to seat with her dusty feet – it soon looks like I’ve had 4 or 5 dogs in there. The first thing I do is give her water, and then offer her food, but she doesn’t seem hungry, what she really wants to be held and to go inside. The garage floor is cool as I sit down beside her and rub her head and inspect her body. The matting is unbelievable and there are flea nests in the mats against her I skin. Some of the skin is bleeding and judging from the smell, it’s been in bad shape for a while. While I do what I can for her, another rescuer is calling around, trying to find a place for her with a rescue group who has the facilities or fosters to take care of her whTreasure 5ile she heals and will find her the right home.

Our little group of 5 women do all we can, but like most rescuers, our homes are already full of animals we’ve taken in and fosters are almost impossible to find, not to mention how hard it is to come by funds for medical and boarding for the animals we find. It was just the weekend before that three more dumped dogs were found down there, and that’s in addition to the 3 dogs already out there we are still trying to trap. Different government agencies are trying to help, but the red tape is slowing things down. There are already signs made, cameras and lights ready to be installed, but control of this small filthy piece of land overlaps and any “improvements” to the area must be approved by all of the governmental agencies involved, which is ironic since the area has long been ignored and a haven for crime and illegal dumping of all kinds. I guess even with three groups in charge, everyone thinks someone else is watching and doing.

Now that I’ve had a chance to look her over, I pick this sweet girl up and carry her through the house to the back bathroom where I can bathe her and try to make her a little more comfortable. She lays her smelly little head on my shoulder and I feel her body relax. I draw water into the bath and softly set her Treasure 4 (2)down and she turns to look at me and I wonder what she’s thinking as she gives herself up to my care. With a cup I pour the warm clean water over her matted fur and apply blue Dawn to kill the fleas, a trick I learned from washing puppies at the shelter. It’s gentle, doesn’t burn or harm the skin, but it kills the fleas instantly – it’s the same thing they use to clean birds and other animals after an oil spill. I rub the soap in gently, avoiding her raw skin, and she doesn’t move, but dips her head down and closes her eyes, trusting me not to hurt her.

Finishing her bath, I rinse her body and the water runs off dark with dirt, dead fleas and old blood, but her tail wags when I talk to her. Although she’s not completely clean because of the mats and my reluctance to scrub her sore skin, she seems refreshed and grateful and shakes the water from her body as I release her from the towel. I show her the soft blanket I’ve made into a bed, but she chooses the cool tile instead and soon she sighs and collapses into the deep sleep of rescued dogs who feel safe for the first time in a long while. As I watch her sleep, once again I am touched by the grace of a discarded and neglected creature, simply hoping for attention, for hands that don’t hurt and to be home, finally and forever.

I leave her sleeping and check my phone and see that I have a message that Poodle Rescue of Houston Treasure 6will take her and I can bring her over anytime. This is the hard part for me. I always have mixed feeling about turning an animal over to someone else, I get too attached too fast, but I have 8 dogs, I can’t keep her and she needs special care to recover so together we drive across town. She sleeps all the way, not concerned about our destination, still trusting me to know what’s best. I pull up to the rescue and immediately I feel better, it’s a beautiful place, almost a spa for dogs with a pool, beautiful kennels and grassy areas, but still I hold my breath as gather her little body in my arms and go inside. We wait in the quiet lobby as the owner makes her way over to meet this sweet girl and take her from me, but I’m not yet convinced I’m leaving her.

A door opens and Guinnette walks in, the first thing she does is take the pup’s face in her hands and tells her she’s pretty and that everything is going to be just fine and then that matted dirty little girl licks her face. Guinnette tells me about the facility and their rescue work, shows me around and it’s everything I Treasure 7hoped for, no hidden places here, everything is open and clean and wonderful and all the animals obviously know and love her. I breathe a prayer of relief and thanks. Together Guinnette and I take her to the grooming room where a volunteer will groom her right away so she will be comfortable and then she will be fed and given her own roomy kennel with a soft bed for the night and she will see a vet the next morning. Satisfied, I bend down and rub her small head one last time, knowing I will never see her again and as Guinnette walks me out she asks if I would like to name her and I say yes, her name is Treasure.

©2012-2013  itsa5doglife, All Rights Reserved

If you would like to learn more about our group, please visit  To learn more about Poodle Rescue of Houston, please IMG_0664visit   Many thanks to Poole Rescue of Houston for loving Treasure.

And Then There Were Five

5The workers reported seeing six pit bull mixes running in and out of the woods for a couple of days, but I hope they miscounted because now there are only five.  I pull up to the gate where the concrete becomes dusty road and the heat hits like a wall as I step out of my truck.  I don’t like this place, I’ve said it before, it’s a menacing place full of discarded things and the threat is palatable.  Above me the freeway traffic whines, families heading to July 4th barbeques and parties, looking forward to fireworks and fun.   Down here, next to the river, people are gathered too, some are fishing or swimming, but most are just hanging around waiting for dark, a macabre celebration among the cast-off sofas, rubber tires and other trash.  This river is not safe or clean and undertows and swift moving waters claim swimmers regularly, but in this particular area, hidden and ignored, the greatest danger is not the river.  There are bullet casings on the ground and I would be lying if I said I would not feel safer with a gun of my own.

The gate that leads from the dump to private land is open, we are lucky that the landowners here are kind; they understand what we are trying to do.  The dogs were apparently dumped all at once in the night and the females appear to have nursed many puppies so we suspect dog breeders, they sell the puppies and when the mother dogs are worn out, they either kill them or abandon them.  This time there are males and females so maybe they were getting out of the business altogether and dumped them all.  Either way, they’ve left them to be hit by a car, savaged by cruelty or eventually die of starvation.  It is beyond my understanding.52

Our little group meets, we talk and make a plan, three dog houses are set deep in the woods far from the dump, we’ll each buy food and take turns feeding and we wring our hands because right now there is nothing else we can do, but try to keep them safe and fed until we find a place for them to go or raise the thousands of dollars it will take to vet and board them.

It’s Friday, my day to feed and  I drive down the dirt road –it’s quiet today and I feel safe because I’m on private property and there are workers on tractors across the small lake.  On the road I notice dog prints everywhere, preserved like fossils in the hard ground, evidence of these and other abandoned dogs.  On either side of the road the dense underbrush hangs like a canopy, inhospitable and thick with vines and poison ivy – I’m glad I thought to bring my boots and wish for long sleeves.  As I reach the hidden trail that leads to their den, I hear the snapping of twigs and branches as they flee away from me, afraid to be seen, running from memories of hands that deprive and hurt, they would rather die together in the woods than trust another human, it will take time.   I stop and let them get far enough away where they can bark at me because they need to bark, they need to feel in control and as much as I want to try and draw them to me with treats, I know it’s better if they don’t trust people right now.   It’s a desolate place and people prowl around at night, and we’ve seen the results of their cruelty.

I haul the bags of food from the back of my truck to be stored in a bin we placed in the woods – we will all give to their care, to be sure they are 53feed.  Mosquitos and other bugs swarm around my face and I try not to think about snakes hidden in piles of rotting leaves as I duck down under the hanging vines to get to the den.  I can’t see them, but I can feel them at the edge of the darkness, like ghosts, silently watching as I arrange soft sheets and rugs in the dog houses and fill their bowls.  I can feel their struggle, their longing for affection and kindness, for relief from fear.  It breaks my heart.

The other feeding station is on the other side of an open grassy area between the woods that run along the road and I can hear them running again through the brush and I glance down the grassy corridor and see them dart from one side to the other.  I finish filling the bowl and close the bag, I’ve done all I can today, but it’s hard to leave them out there.  I load my truck I wonder what’s going to happen.  How are we going to raise enough money to take care of them, how will we find rescues to help when everyone is so overloaded?  Can we even find rescues willing to take pit mixes?  Can we keep them safe and hidden until we have 54somewhere for them to go? Each one of us in our little group would love to take them in, but we feel that way every time one is dumped and we are all at the limit we can take care of – I have eight dogs and two cats at my house – so once again we get online and on the phone and beg for help from people and groups we know we can trust.

I’m trying to be glad they have each other and I’m grateful for the workers who help watch out for them, but before I leave I look down the road where they are hidden and I will them to stay out of sight, to curl up in their houses at night, and to be patient and know we are coming for them as fast as we can.

©2011-2012 itsa5doglife  All Rights Reserved.

UPDATE: As hard as we tried for many months,we were only able to trap and save three of the five dogs.  Phoebe is in the care of a kind and patient family and she is still very shy and afraid of people, but slowly coming out of her shell.  Chandler and Rachel were accepted into programs, but unfortunately Chandler passed away.  Monica, one of the black dogs and a twin to Rachel, went missing a month or so after we found the dogs, we searched and were never able to determine what happened to her.  Ross was the last dog left after Phoebe was rescued, we checked on him everyday, our trapper spent weeks trying to get him and then one day he just disappeared.  Again we searched, the surrounding area and town, but we never saw him again.  If you would like to read Ross’ story, please read  Thank you for reading their story.

The Price

IMG_1373I said I wasn’t going to do it again.  I wasn’t going to set myself up for heartbreak and regret, but I did and Iris lies curled up on the bed I made, trusting me, needing me to do what is best for her, so I will try.

One of three little sisters tossed out to fend for themselves, beautiful lab/spaniel mixes, one black and the other two brown and gold, and Iris has green eyes that follow me, waiting to see what I’m going to do.  She’s not sure of me, not yet convinced I won’t bring pain to her poor neglected body and at the same time she’s terrified I will leave her.  It takes time so I will be patient and my hands will be gentle.IMG_1372

She can’t understand what’s happening, doesn’t know that I am trying to help her, and she misses the warmth and comfort of her sisters’ bodies against her and softly cries for them.  She doesn’t know that Daisy has already died of parvo and that she and her other sister, Lilly, who is with another foster, may find themselves in the grip of this terrible sickness as well.   They’ve been to the vet, have all the medications and the vet says it’s 50/50 now, so we wait. In the meantime, with good food, medicines and vitamins, we will fight this as hard as we can.   I’m trying not to love her, I’m afraid of the loss of her, but already I feel the attachment that binds me to her.  There is the price of  inevitably losing her one way or another that will be paid, either to sickness or to her forever home, but I will gladly give her up to someone else if she will just hold on to life.

IMG_1350How can you not feel compassion for the helpless, the discarded and abused? I still cannot comprehend such apathy, but it no longer surprises me.

The innocent and invisible in our world so often suffer. We must ease that suffering where we find it, we must respond to the ones that fall in our path, the ones across the city, or across the world. When we can hold out our own two hands to help we must, and those times we cannot, we should support the work of others.

It is my time now and I will do everything I can for Iris, we will take walks in the sunshine and she’ll rest on her IMG_1386bed and I will tell her that she will live a long happy life and find her forever family.  If, however, in spite of the medicines and care the worst happens, then with sorrow I will pay that price instead, a price rescuers know all too well.  I will hold her on my lap and craddle her head as she slips from this world to the next. I will tell her she can go, that Daisy is waiting for her and to watch for me, because one day I will be there too, and I will be looking. I’ll be looking for her and so very many others.

©2011-2012 itsa5doglife  All Rights Reserved

To help Iris, Lilly and other dogs thrown away at the local dumping area, visit

Our Crosby group is now a part of Tall Tails Animal Rescue – visit us on Facebook.

UPDATE:  Sweet Iris never developed Parvo and is a big and beautiful girl.  We could not let her go so we adopted her ourselves and renamed her Chloe.  Here is a recent pic of her in her favorite place:IMG_1490


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