With an estimated 87 million free-roaming, homeless cats in the United States, it would cost governmental entities about $16 billion to trap and kill these cats as opposed to about $9 billion for supporting trap-neuter/spay-return (TNR) programs run by rescue organizations and individual volunteers.

OK, that’s a savings to John Q. Taxpayer of $7 billion, or $80.45 per feral cat not killed. As Sen. Everett Dirksen famously said, “A billion here, a billion there, sooner or later we’re talking about real money.”   This is real money, and it would make a real difference.  In fact it already is, in communities where TNR has been adopted.   I’ll get to that in a minute.

Meanwhile, the issue has direct applicability now. Today.  In the state of New Jersey.  Here’s the lede from our friend Alley Cat Rescue’s current post:

Fish and Game Council member Leonard Wolgast has sponsored a resolution to have feral cats reclassified by the NJ Department of Environmental Protection (DEP), which could put an end to TNR programs in the state and allow feral cats to be hunted.   [...]  Unfortunately, Mr. Wolgast is a member of this committee and owns property with a kennel (owned and operated by his wife’s family) that contracts with several communities in Central Jersey to pick up and euthanize cats.

First there’s the screaming conflict of interest, but let’s not waste time right now on the ethical violations haunting New Jersey’s regulatory agencies.  The bigger problem is the needless waste of both money and animals’ lives. Furthermore, hunting down feral cats to kill them doesn’t solve the problem.  You want proof of that?  I take you back to the Best Friends’ study.

“The city of San Diego had one of the earliest and most successful TNR programs. In the early 1990s, the Feral Cat Coalition of San Diego began programs aimed at curtailing the free-roaming cat population in the city as an alternative to exterminating the cats. Since 1992, not only has the city moved towards being a “no-kill” community, it has witnessed 50 percent decrease in the feral cat population.”

Fifty percent decrease.  Trap and kill didn’t do that.  TNR did, and this is conclusive data from close to two decades’ worth of TNR policy in a major city. But TNR isn’t just working in San Diego.  Again, back to the study summary:

“TNR programs have had much success on municipal levels, with some of the most comprehensive being San Diego, New York City, Mobile county, Alabama, Chicago/Cook County and Jacksonville, Florida.” (Best Friends, First Coast, the City of Jacksonville, and Jacksonville Humane Society have partnered in a program called “Feral Freedom.” The cats that arrive to the city animal shelter in traps are turned over First Coast to be spay/neutered then returned to their original trap location. These cats are referred to as “community cats.”)

TNR works, and it saves money.  So why are we still killing cats?

Photo credit: feral kitten, flickr creative commons.

Who knew that I would find a DogCar to write about in Botswana? Except this one is not for hauling dogs to shows or agility trials or the veterinary clinic. No, this one is for going cross-country, following after packs of African wild dogs as they move through their enormous territory. It mows down bushes and small trees (which usually spring right back up again) and goes over logs with ease.

The 4×4 URI (which means “jump” in the Khoisan language) was designed by a Namibian farmer and is used by Kwando Lagoon Camp, where we stayed, and its sister camp Lebala, specifically for seeking out the wild dogs who live in the area. The open vehicles seat up to seven passengers, plus the guide in the driver’s seat and the tracker, who sits on a seat firmly attached to the hood.

What makes it different from the vehicles at other camps? Carlos, our guide, thumped the hood. “This is steel. That’s why we don’t mind bumps. We can go over stumps and big logs on the ground.”

Sometimes there were big holes that we didn’t see until we were in them or big logs blocking our route. We’d start over them and then stop. I’d think, ‘Well, this is it. We’re not going to get out of this one. Someone will have to come tow us.” And then Carlos would put it in high 4 and off we’d go.

The only trick, he says, is you have to know how to drive through sand and mud. If you don’t, that’s when you get stuck.

I’m thinking field trialers and Malibu dog owners in mudslide areas might want to special-order a few of these babies.

And behind that sleepy-eyed expression, she’s as sharp and funny as my 100-year-old Aunt Martha. Last night after I took her out to potty, I told her to wait while I stepped into the garage to throw the bag away. Naturally, when I came back in, she had already walked up a few steps. She stood there, smiling at me.

“You wait until I dry off your feet,” I said, and picked up a towel.

She turned tail and ran the rest of the way up. I’m sure she was laughing.

Her eyes are still good, according to the ophthalmologist who checked them at the Cavalier health fair a couple of weeks ago. No signs of glaucoma or cataracts. Not much wrong with her hearing, either. We’re pretty sure that she truly is deaf on one side, but I notice that she almost always hears it when I rattle the lid of the cookie jar. Must be the vibration.

I don’t know what the secret is. I wish I could bottle it and hand it out freely to dog owners. I do think that keeping her on the skinny side has been important, although I suspect that Bella would probably give up a few months in exchange for more cookies. Not me, though.

She is my dear heart.

It appears the listing is most likely not a hoax.  Organ transplantation for animals does exist, though it’s prohibitively expensive ($11-13,000 plus post-surgical immuno-suppressive medication costs that can reach $2,000/month for the rest of the recipient’s life) and entails risks on both sides.   The man is understandably hoping against hope that a miracle donor of the same bloodline as his dog is out there, and could save Orso’s life.   Whether it’s legitimate or not, I can’t help.

However, even if Cami or Harry were shepherds, and were from the same bloodline, I still wouldn’t do it.    In people, organ donations happen one of two ways.  Either a living person who matches agrees to donate, or it’s done post mortem, presumably by a donor who agreed to donate while they were still using the organs in question.  Neither scenario is possible with pets.   Neither a cat nor a dog can say “sure, I can live on one kidney. You can have the other one”.  Additionally, post mortem donation isn’t done.  The technology doesn’t exist for that, and even if it did, an elderly pet’s organs are generally not useful for young ones.

But my central point is that I would be violating my responsibility as a conscientious pet owner to allow such a donation.  Cami and Harry can’t give consent, and I have no right to agree to donating their perfectly healthy body part, unnecessarily risking their health (or their life) on behalf of any other animal.  My responsibility is to care for them to the best of my ability, to promote their health and welfare their entire lives.  Most of all, to borrow a line from the Hippocratic Oath, I promise to do no harm.   Although I’m their “owner”, their organs aren’t mine to donate.  Selling or donating [insert body part here] is intentionally doing harm, no matter the justifying rationale.  Seems to me I’d be demonstrating myself to be an irresponsible dog owner, and I’d rather cut off my own right arm than break faith with my best buddy.

I love animals. I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t.   My own pet’s health and safety will always be far more important than that of any other animal, without exception or hesitation.   My heart truly goes out to Orso’s owner.   Watching his beloved dog suffering from progressive renal failure has got to be a pain like no other, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy (well, maybe my WORST enemy, but nobody else).   Nevertheless, my pet can’t be their putative savior.  I wouldn’t bet my pet’s health (and life, perhaps) on the speculative gamble that might, perhaps, still not save Orso (the success rate for canine renal transplants is only 40%).  Even if the success rate were better, to me that still wouldn’t be sufficient justification for causing intentional harm.

So what do you think? For purposes of the discussion, let me stipulate three assumptions.

1. The reward money wouldn’t make you or break you.  Of course $2,000 is great to have, but it won’t make the difference between keeping your house or homelessness, food or starvation.  The money doesn’t constitute a critical need.
2. You are a responsible pet owner.  You aren’t going to steal another dog for the reward.  You love your animal(s), you treat them as your children, and you do whatever is best of them.  In other words, you’re not Michael Vick.
3. Your pet won’t die in the process of organ donation.  There are the usual, customary risks of anaesthesia, surgery and recovery, but not more than normal.   Otherwise, they’ll live and eventually be ok, minus one organ.

If you had a pet who matched the breed, bloodlines, age, size and all other relevant parameters, and were faced with the prospect of $2,000 plus expenses to donate your otherwise healthy pet’s organ to a complete stranger, would you?  Please comment and check back to follow.  I’m interested in your opinions.

Photo Credit: Orso: pedigreedatabase.com.  Surgery: flickr creative commons

Lower your cholesterol — get a cat! An article courtesy of my friend Pete Hansen, who acquired a cat a few months back.  You’ve probably seen essays and news stories saying that owning a pet relaxes you, therefore lowering blood pressure.  Now there’s some evidence indicating it helps your cholesterol, too!

The cat who came in from the cold:  The first paragraph of this heartwarming story from the Edmonton Journal, by way of Gina, made me reach for my parka and boots, while still sitting in my living room:

Bob the cat showed up at Air Canada cargo services’ warehouse at the international airport on a morning when a Siberian front swept through Edmonton, plunging temperatures into the -30s.

I don’t care if it is celsius, thirty below is still way too cold.   Bob, who the airport workers soon learned is female, settled in over time.  Now,

there’s never any doubt she runs the place, though, and that she has the men wrapped around her little paw.

Always be prepared.  It’s not expensive, and could make all the difference. You may have a first aid kit at home for your adults and non-furry children, but do you have one for the ones with tails and paws?    You should.   I admit that I don’t, but I’ll be using this well organized, easy-to-follow post from Smartdogs to create one.   It’s a great idea, because you never know.  Don’t wait.  Please take advantage of the great hints here.  I know I will.

Tiger Ranch operator sentenced to 27 years probation for cruelty: Sorry, I didn’t promise these would all be happy stories.   A tip of the cap to Mary Mary for the final chapter of this terribly sad saga from Pittsburgh.  She and I are both convinced that the Tiger Ranch venture probably started out as a terrific idea, but quickly spun out of control.  Now, almost two years later, it stands as a tragic cautionary tale.  My personal belief is there was likely some mental illness in play as well, but in any case, the judge’s words at sentencing remain accurate:

“I came into this case thinking … you were most likely a woman who had good intentions but became overwhelmed. From that perspective until today, I have learned quite a lot,” said Rangos, according to the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. “You have chosen not to cooperate and spew vitriol in others’ direction without taking any personal responsibility for the disaster that Tiger Ranch became.”

Kudos to Amy Worden at Philly Dawg for her work on this story.  She has followed it from the beginning, and Amy is always worth reading.

Three new breeds at Westminster: Petville tells us there will be three new breeds shown at the 2010 WKC Dog Show at Madison Square Garden on February 15 & 16:  the Irish Red and White Setter (pictured: not just a color variant, but a different breed from the Irish Setter), the Norwegian Buhund, and the Pyrenean Shepherd.  If I may say so, these are three gorgeous dogs, and I’m looking forward to seeing them in the show.

Have a great morning.  I’ll be back later today with something completely different. And don’t forget: If you have something good to read, add a link to the comments, or e-mail me.

Photo credit: Codie McLachlan, edmontonjournal.com

My brother-in-law, my sister-in-law and her husband, my niece and her husband, and Jerry and I all flew to Oklahoma to discuss the possibility with Wanda and help her clear some things out of her house. Harper was only 6 months old then, and I brought her along for some advanced socialization: an airplane ride, thunderstorms, staying in a different house, meeting lots of new people. What we got, I think, was some advanced canine therapy.

Now, all of Harper’s new acquaintances on that trip tolerate–and in some cases even like–dogs, but certainly not to the extent that we do. There was no objection to Harper’s presence, and I crossed my fingers that she wouldn’t have any housetraining accidents in Wanda’s house, because that definitely wouldn’t have gone over well.

I didn’t need to worry. Not only did she behave perfectly and charm everyone, she acted as a source of tension relief. Any time things got stressful, there was Harper to be walked, Harper to throw a ball for, Harper to feed, Harper to pet. Her presence was a natural barrier to rising voices.

By the time we left, her visit had been declared an unqualified success. In most respects, anyway. Wanda is still in Oklahoma. Maybe it’s time for me to get a Pyr Shep and take her to the red-dirt state. I bet Wanda would be in Louisville in no time.

Gratuitous Cavalier blogging: Yesterday was our monthly park play day. Above,  Harper is visiting with Freddy, who admires her greatly. In the photo she’s being sweet, but I was pleased to see that she has developed the confidence to tell him off when she’s had enough of his attentions.

***

Tangled puppies in a small bed.

There never was a plan to have two dogs.  We were looking for a female dog only because that was what my wife wanted.  I wanted a furry buddy, and I wasn’t picky about the gender.   While P was examining the girl, I distracted her brother, with no intention whatsoever of keeping him.  This little 4 pound puppy with the soulful eyes had other ideas.  He snuggled into my down jacket on that cold December afternoon in 2001 and gave a contented little sigh.  I was a goner.  We decided to get both.   I looked into his eyes and knew his name should be Harry.   I don’t know why.  The face said ‘Harry’.   “Potter Dachshund Greene” followed naturally after that.

Harry Potter Dachshund Greene

As for the girl, she was always going to be named Camilla, pronounced Ca-MEE-ya, as if you had a wicked New England accent, saying “come here.”   We figured out immediately that of the two, she was the handful, with the personality that extended far beyond her little body.   The rest of her name became nothing more than natural descriptors of who she was:  Camilla Missy Diva Piglet Punky Girl.   ‘Piglet’ replaced ‘Princess’ when it was clear she had the voracious appetite of a Labrador retriever, and Punky Girl came from her ceaselessly getting herself into trouble, often while her brother sat nearby, saying “hey, don’t look at me.  I’m merely sitting here watching.”

Cami at a year and a half

I didn’t even want a dachshund. Truth be told, I’d always coveted golden retrievers or other big dogs I could play football with, and never had one of my very own.  I didn’t mind lapdogs a bit, but Dachshunds were too yippy, not especially friendly, and not nearly cute enough. The traditional smooth hair dachshund looked vaguely alien to me.   I never had much use for the doxies I’d met, but P saw a longhaired dachshund trotting along near its owner (without a leash) in a store near where we lived in Boston and was immediately smitten.  I researched the breed online.  Damn, this variant was gorgeous.  The coat is beautiful.  I’ve come to describe them jokingly as resembling Irish Setters with their legs cut off (and about 100 IQ points smarter).  Research indicated that the longhaired variety had some advantages over the traditional smooth haired dachshund.   They tend to have gentler temperaments and are considered by some to be more trainable (a little less of the classic dachshund stubbornness).  What we found in reality: gentler, for the most part yes.  Trainable, sure.   Reduced stubbornness, not so much.

Although Harry is very laid back, flawlessly obedient and endlessly accommodating, his sister’s a different story.  When she wants to be, Cami can be as willful as my mom’s late West Highland Terrier.    She’s much sweeter than that Westie was, though, and that’s worth a lot.  And then there was something I had never encountered before.  In all my years of dog ownership, I’d never had a true alpha, until Cami.  If she were a human being, I’m not entirely sure we’d be friends, but her overriding sweetness renders her utterly irresistible.  She MUST be in charge at all times, and seems to enjoy dominating, well, any other dog who even looks at her funny.  She’s has backed down German Shepherds, Bernese Mountain Dogs and more Labs than I care to count.  However, I have to acknowledge that dogs create their own socialized pecking orders, and Cami fits in to her “pack” just fine.

My favorite picture of Cami

While I don’t dispute people who say a dog is only as good as his owner, there is such a thing as a truly great dog.   P and I have two of them.  Dr. Marty Becker put it best in a recent conversation. “There’s only one greatest pet in the world…and every family has it.”  He’s right, we do.  They’re the happiest dogs I’ve ever had, and combined with their ridiculous smarts, it makes for a priceless combination.

Cami (l) and Harry (r) with Roz when they were puppies

Nobody told me beforehand or prepared me for how smart dachshunds are.  We have to spell entirely too many words, or worse, become excessively wordy.   I cannot, for instance, casually mention to P that I’m going for a walk, if it’s not going to involve the children.  Instead, I will ‘engage in an out of doors perambulation.’  Thank God I have a good vocabulary.  In addition, their problem-solving skills are better than those of some people I know.  The word “manipulative” doesn’t even begin to describe what they’re capable of.  Like a Border Collie, you can almost see the wheels turning when they have their minds set on a goal.  I feel strongly that someone should have clued us into that beforehand.

Nevertheless, when I’m away from home on business, I miss them the most.  I can (and do) speak to my wife multiple times a day.  We also text each other.  I can’t talk to Cami and Harry when I’m away.  They don’t know where I am or why I’m not home.  Daddy’s just inexplicably gone.   Coming home, whether it’s after a few hours or a couple weeks, well, it’s priceless.

I’ve always felt badly for people who have never had pets, who have never felt the furry, cuddling body, or known the joy of your best buddy doing the full-body wag upon your return home, or witnessed the adoring eyes saying “I love you, daddy.”   They’re priceless souls who add far more to our world than I’ll ever be able to express.  Being known as Cami and Harry’s daddy is a wonderful feeling, and someday I hope I can be the man my dogs think I am.

It’s hard not to be paranoid when you spent the first 11 years of your career reading letters from readers about their dogs’ freak accidents, poisonings, injuries and range of health problems and the next 13 years writing about those same things. I’ve gotten better about not rushing my dogs to the vet for the least little thing–better safe than sorry is usually my motto–but the girls have been in pretty good shape since Darcy’s death three years ago, knock on wood.

But in the dusty back corners of my mind, I’m always waiting for that Hush Puppy to drop. So when Harper woke me up in the middle of the night a week or two ago, pacing and panting and trying to climb onto my head, I was worried. Her behavior was completely out of character. My girls eat hearty and sleep hard. They’re vigilant during the day, but when that bedroom door closes, they’re out for the night. I took her out to potty. Didn’t help. Jerry took her out to potty. She performed both times, but she didn’t have diarrhea and she was still frantic. What to do? Had she eaten something poisonous? They’re always snatching crap up off the ground and snarfing it down before I can grab it–and sometimes I don’t want to grab it. I called our vet’s night line and asked if anyone was on call. They were, but I was informed that the call had gone to voice mail. What good was that?! What to do? Surely she was too young for pyometra. What if I waited and it was something that should have been treated immediately? The vet still hadn’t called back (the office is still trying to find out why the call didn’t go through).

So, off we went to the ER. Naturally, by the time we got there, Harper was fine. No pacing, no panting, no freaking out. I figured I might as well have her checked out. What else were we going to do at 3 in the morning? “I can’t find anything wrong with her,” the vet said. “I could do some diagnostic tests, but that would just run your bill up.”

Yeah, let’s not go there. We went back home and damn if she didn’t start acting weird again as soon as we walked in the door. I began wondering if an earthquake was in the offing or if she’d just had a bad dream about cats. Maybe we had a carbon monoxide leak or she was trying to alert us to some health problem. Nah. I went back to bed. She broke Jerry, though. He went to sleep on the sofa where she curled up next to him, right by his head. We had a little talk the next night before bedtime about not doing that again and the message seems to have gotten through.

A couple of nights later, it was Bella’s turn. Despite being on a diuretic, she usually sleeps through the night, but this time she woke up and vomited. Then she went back to sleep, so that was okay. I cleaned it up and didn’t worry too much. At least, not until Jerry woke me up to report that she hadn’t eaten breakfast. She was clearly on her deathbed. I had her in to see Dr. Hamil a few hours later.

She was fine. At least as far as he could tell without doing anything invasive. He gave her a shot of anti-nausea meds and a couple of pills to follow up. I didn’t even bother giving her those. She ate dinner with her usual voracious appetite, and it hasn’t slackened since.

I’m persuaded that they’re just messing with my head. “How much can we get her to spend on us, and how often?”

Maybe I should start reading them bedtime stories. We can start with The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

Dr. Marty Becker on GMA:

No more dog racing in the northeast: This past weekend saw the end of greyhound racing in Massachusetts with the closure of Raynham Park.   What I hadn’t realized until the Boston Globe pointed it out is that with Raynham going dark and the shuttering of Wonderland earlier this year, it also marks the end of dog racing throughout New England.