Foster Kindness

It has been a while since I have posted an entry to my blog, I am ashamed to say it has been nearly two years. I blame it on the birth of my first grandchild, Henry. I had no idea that I would love him as much as my very own children. This was a surprise to me. I expected the love for a grandchild to be somehow once removed. When I rave about his perfection to anyone that will listen, my daughter Hannah loves to remind me that she was the one who made him and I remind her, that we are just like Russian stacking dolls, one inside the other. I made them both!

Hannah is my middle daughter and my partner in our non-profit dog rescue, Last Bad Day. Henry has been inside an animal shelter more times in his short life than I can count. Barking dogs, he will no doubt recall one day as his earliest memory. Shelter dogs come and go in their house, just as they do in mine and Henry at the tender age of 20 months has learned so much from their presence in his life. He is quite unafraid of an enormous Pit Bull or a crazy, jumping puppy or a yappy Chihuahua. He is happy to share his snacks, his toys, nap times, his love and his mother with anyone who needs it. He knows to be gentle and kind, not to kick, or yell or pull hair and if he slips up, his mother will quickly remind him how to behave.

Parents these days, it seems, put so much emphasis on the physical strength of their children. It is a wonderful thing to see even toddlers participating in sports. Everyone knows, little bodies grow strong and healthy with fresh air and regular exercise. Soccer, judo, swimming, tennis, surfing, softball, ballet, little league, you name it, kids are doing it. These lifestyle habits learned early will hopefully ensure the well-being and good health of our children as they grow into adulthood.

An enormous amount of our money and time is being spent on preparing our children for life. Parents are determined that their kids grow up with physical skills and strong, healthy bodies. Schools, are hopefully sharing in all of this. The mental strength needed to secure that well paying job, own a business or change the world will be imparted by inspiring teachers and a well rounded curriculum. 

So now your child is prepared to take on life, right? Maybe not.

What about emotional strength? Is this an aspect of our child's growth that needs to be taught and if so how does one teach this to a child? Maybe our love can protect them from everything? A delightful notion, but we know that's not true. Protecting our children emotionally by loving away problems does not help them stand up for themselves. Could it be that our children's emotional toughening up is being left to the school bullies, or perhaps life's knocks and disappointments will gradually strengthen them along the way? And what about all the other important traits that we want our children to embody? Empathy, responsibility, fairness, kindness - do those get taught at home or school or both? 

What if there was a place where your child would be gently prepared to handle life's challenges. They could take lessons in beginnings and endings, sickness and health, kindness and cruelty, freedom and confinement, fear and courage, success and failure and even the hardest lesson of all, birth and death. 

Parents would be lining up for miles to get their offspring into this school if it actually existed. But it does exist and surprisingly it is a home school course available right now for free and to every parent and child in this country. It is called fostering a shelter pet. Don't believe me? Then you need to try it just once and we can help you do that. Go to our Facebook page Last Bad Day and send us a message that you would like to help. There is no cost to you and the benefits to your family will be immeasurable. 

So think about it, when you foster a shelter pet, you foster kindness. What in this world is more important to teach a child than that? 

Last Bad Day

May 2013 is a very hectic month for me. For one thing, my daughter Hannah is nine months pregnant, so I spend a good deal of my time willing her to have the baby.The other thing is my frenzied preparation for the second annual Snyder Sutton Pup Parade. My mission is to rescue ten dogs from LA shelters and give them away free to good people during the Topanga Days Parade.

Trying to get Moxie to look at me for his freedom photo.

Each time I pull a dog from a shelter I experience a delicious cocktail of joy and anxiety. I feel as if I have single handily orchestrated some elaborate prison break. As I drive away from the shelter with a stinky, filthy, unkempt escapee sitting next to me on the seat of my car, I fully understand what it means to be free. I can assure you, freedom is exactly the same for dogs as it is for people.

Their initial reaction is disbelief, they sit stock still, their legs so stiff and immovable that sometimes I have trouble getting them into the car. They refuse to look me in the eye. I try to snap a freedom photo, but they look away, so if I don't hold their head up or turn it towards me my freedom photo is usually the side or top of their head.

They are naturally terrified. After weeks of imprisonment this change must surely mean the end of the road, but suddenly everything starts to feel normal. They remember what life was like before bars and I see their bodies relax a little as they dare to hope. I try to keep one hand on the wheel and one hand petting. I make soothing sounds. I open the window a crack so they can smell the world, hear noises different from unending barking and crying. They lift their head and sniff the air.

Riley - right out of the shelter BEFORE the groomer

By the time I head up the hill to Topanga they are starting to realize that they have been rescued. They might try crawl onto my lap or give me little thank you kisses on my arm. This part is tough for me because I know just as I am gaining their trust there will be that moment where I must leave them with their foster family. When I walk away they will look after me or try to come with me and it always hurts my heart a little.

This year I am lucky to find not ten, but twelve eager foster families, so I end up during the six weeks prior to the parade pulling twelve dogs from Los Angeles area shelters. The first one is Kaya, an adorable Rottweiler-mix puppy. (Her shelter name - Mahogany) They tell me she is very sick with a respiratory infection and a hip injury both of which disappear miraculously within twenty minutes of her freedom.

Next, I pull Charco, he is allegedly an Otter Hound. Be aware, the shelters play fast and lose with breed identification. I research Otter Hounds on Google and find out that there are about a 1000 left worldwide. What are the odds that West Valley Animal Shelter is lucky enough to have one of these rare dogs?

Baby Logan

Next is baby Logan, a black Lab Pit Bull mix puppy with a bad case of the sniffles, he is also from West Valley Shelter. When I arrive at the shelter early one morning potential owners are engaged in a silent auction for his two siblings, but no one wanted this little guy. He is the last of a litter and only 8 weeks old. I plead with the shelter not to neuter him because he is so young and has a very runny nose, but they insist upon it.

A few days later I choose Butters, a quiet, stoic Terrier from North Central. She is quickly followed by Bernie, an adorable pup with giant ears and an ego to match from East Valley. Bernie is probably of the Chihuahua Terrier Princess variety. She is rail thin from the stress of her predicament and knows full well she should not be in a shelter rubbing shoulders with the riff raff. We all fall in love with her attitude and enjoy pampering and catering to her for a few days before we hand her off to a foster.

Riley - one hour later AFTER being groomed.

Next is Riley, (now named Indy) 11 months old and apparently a Norfolk Terrier. Hannah is with me at North Central and she is the one that actually picks him out. We drive him straight to Merri's Grooming Palace in Woodland Hills and drop him off for an hour. (Scroll back up this page to see his "before" picture, taken just one hour prior) He probably received more love and attention at the groomers than he has ever known in his short life. Hannah and I have to drag him out of there, he does not want to leave. I have a feeling that he is hoping against hope that Merri's Palace is his new home. Nothing like an afternoon of pampering to make you feel like royalty.

Cassidy - so sad in the shelter 

Then there is Cassidy, she is a gentle, golden lab mix with soulful eyes. Even though she is still young it is clear to me that she has been abused, but she is just too gorgeous and sweet to pass up. On the same day I rescue Cassidy, I also pick up Moxie. Moxie (his shelter name - Kanye.) is a very sick little Puggle from East Valley.

Normally I wouldn't take such a sick dog but the staff vet at the shelter pleads with me to save him. She tells me he narrowly escaped being destroyed when he was brought in as a stray, close to death and too weak to eat. With fluids and a little time, I learn, he has slowly improved to the point that he is eating on his own. He is still painfully thin, but the vet is determined to get him out of the shelter, so I cave under pressure and agree to take him.

After I fill out the adoption papers and pay for him, I wait at the front desk while they retrieve the little patient from the hospital section of the shelter. They bring him out to me swaddled like a new baby in a lime green blanket. I carry him out to the car which just his face peeking out of the blanket and he stares up at with his enormous, sad eyes looking especially tragic.

The final lucky ones are Squid, a long-haired jet black Dachshund mix. She is a wiggly, playful, bundle of love and joy. And Lucy, a tiny eight week old Spaniel mix puppy. Lucy is way too young to know her situation or even understand her rescue but she is as cute as can be and I know she will be snapped up quickly during the parade. Hannah calls these silly little puppies, "slam dunkers." She is right, who in the world can resist a puppy. Is there anything more wonderful?

The last two are certainly not the least. Maggie is a striking six month old bouncy pit-mix puppy. I pull her from East Valley and then, a few days later, thanks to North Central's very persuasive Facebook page, I rescue Marley (her shelter name - Winnie), a precious Boxer-mix puppy just one day before the parade. (Thank you Diana Lannes who did all the driving on this rescue)

So this is it. At last, I have my line up. Six weeks of trolling shelters and I have twelve incredible dogs, all safe in foster homes being transformed with love and food into healthy, happy, family pets. They will all be ready to walk or be carried in the parade, and I know I can safely say that no matter what happens at Topanga's Memorial Day Parade, my shelter pups have all had their last bad day.

Star of the Parade

Every show needs a star. Last year it was Knut Knut, aka Sir Nigel Foo, adopted by fellow parade participant, Heidi Staun Saga and her five children. Now I am back a year later trolling the shelters for this years crowd pleaser. At North Cenrtal Shelter I find him, a purebred male Labrador puppy. This four month old baby is an irresistible bundle of love and joy. He is bouncing around his cage and trying to get me me to play with him even from behind the bars. I just have to have him, but he is a stray and not immediately available. All strays are held at least five days from their intake day in case their owner should be looking for them. I use my phone to snap a photograph of him and his ID number and Hannah, who is with me, makes an alert on her phone so she can remind me one day prior to his release. I want to be at the shelter when they open their doors promptly 8 am to claim him, which will mean getting on the road very early to avoid the worst of rush hour traffic.

Three days later I leave my house at 6:30 in the morning and head to North Central Shelter. I am there 20 minutes early so I stand at the gate and wait for the doors to open. At 8 am on the dot I rush to the front desk and request my puppy. No one else is here for him; what luck, I think, if more than one person arrives at the same time for a dog they hold a silent auction for it, which requires potential owners to write on a piece of paper naming their price. The highest bidder gets the dog.

An animal control officer checks the computer using the ID number I provide and announces the dog is not available until the following day. I am in disbelief, I have just dragged myself out of bed and onto the freeway at 6:30 for this little guy. I silently curse Hannah for her misinformation. I say a quick hello and good bye to the little star and tell him I will be back for him tomorrow. He is as disappointed as I am.

The following day I am out the door at 6:30 and arrive at the shelter early and wait at the gate. After a few moments I am joined by another woman; we eye each other warily in silence. Finally I say, "Are we here for the same dog?" She says, "I think so, the lab puppy?" I nod.

Another few minutes pass in total silence before she says, "I have been visiting him everyday this week." I smile and think, I bet you didn't get up at 6:30 in the morning two days in a row and drive an hour here and an hour back for him. Then out of the blue she volunteers that she is a trauma nurse, now I know I am being worked. My competitive streak kicks in and my game face is on. While she is singing like a canary I say nothing, keep my cards close to my chest.

I am already thinking strategies for the silent auction. I am a real estate agent and I certainly know my way round a bidding war; she doesn't know who she is dealing with, I think. Then she tells me she has two little boys at home who are excellent ball throwers. I smile politely, but still say nothing, I am sizing her up. Trauma nurses can't make much money, so if the regular adoption fee is $102, my guess is she'll go to $200. I should bid $201, she won't think to do that, but then I wonder if maybe she'll bid $250. I had better do $301, just to be on the safe side. I am pretty confident that she won't go higher than $300. Inside I am smug and ready for battle. As the animal control officer opens the gate and lets us in we both walk calmly to the front desk. This is not a Harrods sale, I tell myself, no need to run or push. Be dignified, don't show weakness.

Once inside, we explain we are both there for the same dog. They let us know about the silent auction and then they have us sit next to one another and wait while they do the usual medical check on the dog to make sure he is fit for adoption. I am sensing victory when my phone buzzes. It is Hannah, "Did you get the dog?" she asks. "Not yet" I reply by text, "some trauma nurse is here for him so we will have a silent auction."

2013 Knut Knut on a Ducatti!

2012 Parade, Knut Knut in his waggon.

A second later my phone buzzes again, "Mom, let her have him, we'll find another star of the show. Leave now." I suddenly come to my senses. What was I doing? This dog is not homeless, his new Mom is sitting right next to me. I turn to the women and tell her that I am leaving and the puppy is hers. Her face lights up with happiness and relief, she thanks me profusely, but its hard for me to take. I feel guilty, I think about her two little boys waiting at home for their new puppy. I know I lost sight of my mission for a few moments. I take a quick look around the shelter at the inmates, but my heart is just not in it. I am frustrated and disappointed and I head home.

The day of the parade I arrive with my 12 shelter dogs, I never did find my "star" but as it turned out I didn't really didn't need one as last years star made a unexpected guest appearance. Little Knut Knut all grown up now was once again in the parade, this time riding a red Ducatti.  A vast improvement over last year's little red wagon. In fact, he ended up being on ABC news and all over the internet. My little Knut Knut turned out to be the face of the parade, a shining star, along with his glamorous Mom, Heidi.

Butters

Topanga Days Parade again and this year my goal is ten dogs. I start much earlier, a full six weeks prior to the parade. Now a year and about twenty rescues later, I have had some solid practice in choosing adoptable dogs. I walk right past the barkers and the howlers, no matter how pretty, puppy or purebred they are; they don't interest me. I avert my eyes from the ones that cower and shake in the back. The little guys picking fights with their cellmates don't even get a second look, for me they are always out of the question. With work and love, they can all be great dogs, but I don't have the time or space for them. If I am going to move them through quickly, they have to be "issue free" as much as possible.

A little scared after being pulled from her cage.

On one of my trips to North Central Shelter I meet Butters, a female Terrier mix. She is under a year old with an unusual mole colored coat and intelligent, almost human looking gold eyes. She is at the front of the cage, tail wagging and a big smile. Her calm energy stands out amid the anxiety and stress of a long row of barking, howling dogs. I know at once she will make a great family pet. I fill out the adoption papers and pay my $102. I wish I could take her with me then and there, but unfortunately they won't release her. They tell me she will need to be spayed and even though it is early in the morning, she will not be sent out to the vet until the following day.

The next morning I call the clinic and after listening to a long-winded recorded message, which basically says, "don't call us we'll call you," I finally speak to a live person and find out that because she is female they plan to keep her overnight. This is not typical for shelter pets, male or female you can usually take them home within hours of the surgery.

On the third day after meeting and adopting her, I am at my office trying to concentrate on work while waiting for the clinic to phone to say she is ready, but they don't and I begin to feel a little annoyed and worried. So rather than call and sit on hold or go around and around on their recorded message, I ask my daughter, Hannah, if she wants to come with me to retrieve Butters. Hannah is eight months pregnant, but she is always up for dog adventure and is usually my partner in rescue. We drive straight down to North Central Shelter, and although this is my first adoption from there, typically shelters have a vet hospital attached to the building, and, if not, it is always close by.

We pull up at the shelter and of course do a quick run through to check out the inmates, but we are a little short on time and it is an especially hot, muggy day. I am feeling anxious and tired, so we inquire at the front desk for the location of the vet hospital and find out that it is actually a short freeway ride away. Hannah gets the directions and off we go again.

Five minutes later we arrive in a part of LA that might be considered by some to be a little sketchy. I am starting to feel, for want of a better word, cranky. I have my very precious pregnant daughter driving us through the "hood" in my SUV, and poor little Butters adopted a full three days earlier is still in a cage somewhere, probably confused and in pain. I just want to get the dog and get home as soon as possible.

Hannah finally locates the vet and parks us right in front and I jump out and march purposefully through the glass doors and straight up to the counter. I mean business, and I must have had that "don't mess with me" look on my face because two men that are standing waiting to be helped move quickly aside and let me pass. I am so single minded at this point I don't even have the courtesy to thank them.

I slap the paperwork on the desk in front of receptionist. I suddenly can't remember the name of the dog so I say angrily, "My little girl has been in this place for three days and you don't even call to let me know if she is ready to be picked up." The receptionist looks up at me flustered and confused. She is a very pretty, young Latina women with shiny black hair, perfect make up and round cheeks. I see the color rise up on her face as she fumbles with the paperwork. Trying to make head or tales of it she flips through the pages but doesn't appear to be reading them. At that moment my daughter bursts through the door, "Mom!" she yells, "this is the dentist office, the vet clinic is next door." Mortified, I snatch the paperwork from her hands, mumble something that sounds like sorry and make a hasty exit. I don't look back to see the expressions on everyone's faces, but I can only imagine.

Happy Butters at the Parade.

Hannah is laughing hard as we enter the packed waiting room of the vet's office right next door and is still laughing when we have Butters safely on board and are racing back to Topanga. I cannot believe what an utter fool I have just made of myself. Normally I am very slow to anger, and almost never rude. My patience is legendary with children and animals, but on the rare occasion I lose my temper it usually comes back to bite me. I have to laugh with Hannah, as I imagine the receptionist telling her family that night about the crazy blonde lady with the British accent.

Butters is sitting on my lap, her frail little body safe in my arms. I already love her and I say out loud to her, as I do to all my rescues as soon as I have them safely on board, "You have had your last bad day, I am taking you home."

Chaya and Polly - the story continues

Perlina shortly after arriving from Mexico

The next day, no surprise to me, my clients, Deborah and Paul, call. "The dogs are not right for us," they explain. "They need dental work, they need grooming and Perlina is mean." I tell them, I will take the dogs back right away. I thank them for keeping them overnight and let them know I will find them new homes quickly. It won't be a problem, I hear myself saying. But really, I am thinking, what an idiot I am to take them sight unseen. They will be so hard to adopt out and Tom's going to kill me when I walk in with two little street urchins and tell him they will be our new house guests for a while.

Paul meets up with me a few hours later and before he unloads the dogs I wait while he carefully dons a pair of oven gloves. He sees my surprise and explains that he uses the oven gloves to handle the dogs in case they bite him. He passes the dogs to me, one at a time, holding them gingerly at arms length. and I can sense his utter relief as I load them into my car and slam the door.

Soul Mates - Kim and Chaya

I take the dogs home and put them in my laundry shed. They are just too unstable to bring into the house with my dogs. I make a bed for them inside a dog crate. They huddle together, afraid and confused; Chapis in the back and Perlina, her daughter, in the front.

I feed them and watch them for a while. Chapis will be the easiest to home, I decide, she is the cuter of the pair and has the sweetest nature. I manage to untangle her from Perlina and bathe her in the kitchen sink.

Tom comes home from work, sees my new project and gives me the "look." Poor guy, even I know I screwed up with these two. Luckily, as I am out of options, he doesn't turn us all out on the street. I promise him I will find homes, and as quickly as possible, but we both know this will not be easy.

Happy Chaya in her new life.

The next day I take Chapis to the office and she sits behind me on my office chair while I work, she is quiet and well mannered. Wherever I go, I take her with me and ask everyone I meet if they want a sweet little terrier. Just one day later, this strategy pays off. Right outside my office I ask a woman I have never met before, Kim, if she wants Chapis and she answers one incredible word - maybe. A few days later Chapis is miraculously homed, and not just any home. Chapis, (now called Chaya) and Kim are soul mates. Seeing them now, it is very hard for anyone to say who has rescued whom.

Polly in her new life, running in the snow!

Perlina on the other hand fears for her life and this make her mean and unpredictable. She is in no condition to be re-homed so we decide to simply ignore her. Without Chaya for companionship, surely she will seek out the company of people. I move her dog crate bed into a corner of the living room and for the next three months that is her home of choice. She ventures out of the crate only when it is quiet and safe.

Living with her like this, tucked away in her crate while life goes on around her, is like having our very own Mrs Rochester in the house. Everyone knows she is there but nobody mentions her or gives her any attention. She is so little trouble, in fact that it is easy to forget her entirely. Slowly she begins to trust, first with Tom and then me and our dogs and lastly with our family and friends. It takes about six months before I finally move the dog crate back to the shed for storage, and Polly, as she is now known, becomes a happy, loving member of our pack.

Chapis and Perlina

When people ask me how many dogs we have and I answer four, I always say it with a rather sheepish expression. I am familiar with the shocked looks or the rolling of eyes that follow this honest admission. In my defense, I have the decency to look embarrassed, as I should, since the legal limit in LA county is three dogs per household and if my flagrant disregard for the law doesn't offend someone, the vision of a home knee deep in dog hair will.

Perlina

Our third dog came to us from Mexico. She would definitely qualify as one of my more impulsive rescues. Three years ago I signed up to receive an email newsletter from a little town in Baja, Mexico, called La Ventana. I am particularly fond of this area and wanted to keep up with the local news. The newsletter would appear in my inbox every few days and over the course of a month I saw increasingly more desperate pleas from a woman begging for help with two dogs she called Chapis and Perlina. Apparently, she had found them tied to a tree and had been feeding them and caring for them, but now she was leaving Mexico to come back to the states and was worried that without her protection they would not survive.

Chapis

I email her for a photograph of the dogs and ask her what city she will fly into when she comes back to the States. She sends me her only photo, an out of focus shot of both dogs from the rear and tells me she was flying to LAX.  I suggest she bring the dogs and I assure her I will find good homes for them. In fact, I already have a home in mind, as clients of mine are actively looking for a small, female terrier.

I persuade my clients to take both dogs on trial and arrange to drop them off on my way back from the airport, which I  figure will probably end up being about ten in the evening. A week later with flight details in hand, I arrive at the designated rendezvous: a busy airport hotel. I pace the lobby nervously for a good 45 minutes and pester the staff at the front desk for news, when finally two dog carriers appear amid a good deal of luggage. I know right away these are the dogs and peer into the cages at a couple of disreputable creatures. I immediately understand why she sent me a photo of their butts. Besides dental issues, the animals are filthy, and one of them, Perlina, is very overweight and not the least bit friendly.

I finally track down their owner by following the porter and the dogs to a hotel room. I introduce myself and within a few moments she gives me both dogs but minus the carriers, which she explains are borrowed and must be returned. I am too tired to argue, so I grab the dogs and load them into my car and drive to the Venice canals to a stunning architectural home on the water. My clients graciously take the dogs in without fuss. It is very late and everyone is anxious to get to bed. I head home exhausted and with a bad feeling. Both dogs were clearly filthy, stressed and in poor health. This doesn't seem like a good fit to me. All I could do was hope and cross my fingers.

Samantha Longboard

After the dust finally settles on the Topanga Days Parade, we have just one dog left; funny Dora, the one that Tom predicated isn't going anywhere. Perhaps he is right, I worry; maybe nobody will want such an odd-looking creature. I load her up in the car and take her home with me. I assure Tom that I will have her a homed in a matter of days and I get to work at once, making calls and sending emails. I upload her funny mug to Facebook and beg everyone to share.

Sammie in the snow.

In the meantime, Dora makes herself comfortable in our house with Tom and our other dogs. She is an alpha in a calm way. No need for growling or scene- making. This dog gets what she wants with a minimum of effort. My dogs move over and make room for the pushy newcomer, although Maggie is not very happy about it. She is clearly a little put out by her sudden demotion from top dog, and for some reason she blames Tom for this and gives him the cold shoulder for several days.

Sammie at the Beach

In our house the pack has figured out that Tom is the one to impress. I feed them, walk them and pick up the poop, but if Tom and I should come home together they practically knock me over in their efforts to greet him. In their minds I am merely the help, and, actually, I am fine with that. Dora is no different, she locks onto to Tom at once, shamelessly throwing herself at him at every opportunity and making it clear in her quiet but forceful way, he is all hers.

Tom is flattered and amused, but mostly struck by her similarities to his beloved Jack. The personalities, body language, and even their body shape are so alike it is uncanny. We decide the name Dora just doesn't suit her and Tom suggests we rename her Sammie, I like it, and add that her full name should be Samantha Longboard, which we agree suits her very well. We are both starting to fall in love with her and find it hard to resist her demands. So naturally, we end up giving her whatever she wants which includes sleeping in bed with us.

Saturday morning, five days after the parade, I get a call from a neighbor, she tells me excitedly that she has a friend that really wants Dora and can take her today. I hang up the phone, look at Tom and say bleakly, "Sammie has a home." We stare at each other, knowing we should be happy, but we suddenly realize how much we will miss her if she goes. Tom looks at Sammie, looks at me, and says, "Too late, we're keeping her; Sammie isn't going anywhere."