"I Breathe"

Warning; This video is an hour long, and it's heartbreaking. But, I've had enough. I'm exposing the truth about the AKC - puppy mill connection in every way I can. Won't you please join me by sharing Lily's story? ...Please?

Lily was an AKC registered Italian Greyhound bought by a rescue at auction after 7 years of torture in a puppy mill. The condition of her face was caused by rot and decay from an injury that went untreated.

The injury most likely occurred from Lily trying to chew her way out of wire-cage confinement.

National Mill Dog Rescue tried to save her, but it was too late. There was already too much damage. The roof of her mouth was gone, further decay could not be halted and she was euthanized at just 8 years old.

Lily had weaned a litter of puppies just a few weeks prior to her rescue.

Here's Our Chance

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Finally! After years and years of so many of us spreading the word about the evil underbelly of the American Kennel Club, it has finally and definitively been exposed on national TV. This reporting is way over due but so welcome.

As happy as I am about the Today Show airing this scathing condemnation of what may be the biggest sham put over on US dog-owning citizens ever, they did not go nearly far enough in their coverage. They did not make plain the single biggest reason why the AKC shamelessly supports and cultivates the success and proliferation of puppy mills. They do it for the money.

And let's never forget the horrific effect of whimsical & arbitrary AKC breed standards on dogs.

An AKC registered Dachsund with genetic maladies

With the popularization of rescue and adoption, fewer AKC puppies are being purchased, so fewer puppies are being produced, so fewer puppies are being registered. The AKC is hemorrhaging income, and they had to find a  way to stop the bleeding. It became part of their business plan to seek out and support commercial puppy suppliers, including the worst of the puppy millers, and line their pockets on the backs of unsuspecting buyers and suffering animals.

Ask yourself; "would I knowingly buy from a pet store that was supplied by a puppy mill who allowed animals to suffer?" 

Do you know the condition of the kennel where that AKC registered pet-shop puppy came from? Well, the AKC very well might, and they don't care if it was cruel and inhumane. THEY'RE ONLY INTERESTED IN THE MONEY!

Ever heard this phrase; "follow the money?"

In this video a representative of the AKC says it opposes all legislation regulating animals sales because "it's not how many dogs you own, it is the care of those animals that matters." When asked about the AKC protocol of "inspecting" kennels to insure that care, she ruefully admits they employ just 9 inspectors to cover the entire country.

When asked if she feels that number is sufficient, she replies with this non-answer; "it's the number we have." 

But having that paltry few inspectors on the payroll allows the AKC to trumpet to the suckers that they are insured of a healthy puppy from a reputable kennel because they inspect. 

It's not how efficient your inspection system that matters. It's how well you cover your ass!

http://peopleforanimals2011.wordpress.com/2012/04/22/my-auction-adventures/

Want to see where AKC registered puppies can come from? Here's an insider's look.

Are there good breeders who take exceptionally good care of the animals in their charge? Of course there are. That's not the story, but that's the well-rehearsed hue and cry of the AKC zombies. The real meat of this story is that the AKC overlooks, condones, inspects and approves the worst of the worst ones too! And they knowingly register their puppies FOR THE MONEY!!!

Are you detecting a theme here?

Upon the airing of this Today Show segment, the AKC put this on their website:

Their facts include such vague statements as;

"when an AKC inspector finds substandard kennel conditions they must immediately report it" 

Define "substandard"

"there are no “AKC Registered Operations” or “AKC Registered Breeders” and that breeders use AKC services voluntarily." 

Because the breeders can get more money without any oversight of animal care.

And they go on to tell their minions:

"Please send your comments directly to the Producer of the Today Show Don Nash don.nash@nbcuni.comand the President of NBC News Phil Griffin phil.griffin@nbcuni.com."

"Watch the segment on the Today Show website and then go to Rossen Reports and Today.com andNBCNews.com to post your comments."

And I think that's a really good idea. I think that's exactly what we should do.

Let's make Jeff Rossen's reporting leave a mark. Finally! Here's our chance.

Lost in Translation

I wrote this post for the 2013 USBCHA National Sheepdog Finals. They have a section of their website entitled; "In the Beginning," where handlers share funny stories from their start in the sport. Some are very funny, such as my personal favorite; "The Barn Door," by Rob Drummond where he talks about a broken barn door and a half-broke dog.

Mine is a distant memory of a dog I raised on the ranch and loved completely for sentimental reasons as much for her heart. Sadly, I don't have a picture of her, but this one's for Chica...



Chica was raised on the San Felipe Ranch


Back then, 600 miles round-trip was a long way to travel for a dog trial. And, when you’re only running 1 dog in novice? Well, you gotta crack out somewhere. I cracked out in a desolate area of central California on a barren field alongside a feedlot with a mystery-breed, black and white ranch dog named Chica.

The novice always ran last and we hardy souls, there were about 4 of us, sat around all day (think 7 hours) watching the open handlers on parade with *real* Border Collies, intimidated by their perceived skill, and waiting our turn to shine, or in my case, for a turn.

It came, and I was confident. Chica, a ranch remnant, completed the outrun, all 75 yards of it, and that’s where the trouble began. I couldn’t blow a whistle yet, but had managed to get voice flanks on my edgy little dog. Try as I might, however, and as luck would have it, she wouldn’t take them…none of them…not one.

When the sheep zigged, I flanked Chica to cover, but she either ignored me outright, or went the wrong way. My collar tightened, so I did what came naturally. I raised my voice…same result. I raised it louder to my very best “outside” voice…no change. Undeterred, Chica got sheep to my feet, and we were now to the pen!

Round and round for what felt like eternity, the sheep circled, the dog flying counter to every flank I delivered until, mercifully, the clock ran out on our run. Mortified, I began to walk off the field, alternately glaring at my dog, and staring at my boots. The imagined sound of derisive whispers rang in my ears, and that’s when I heard my name.

Our judge, George Grist, had beckoned to me. Oh Gawd! It was worse than I thought. I was so bad that I required attention!!! Did he speak to everyone after their run? Who knew?

For those of you who don’t know him, George Grist has helped many handlers get their start. He’s bred lots of good dogs, helped put working Border Collies on the map, but George is not the man you’d expect to see pictured beside the word “diplomatic” in the dictionary. Webster’s notwithstanding, in his most compassionate voice, George made me laugh when he gently asked me; “Is your dog on backwards flanks?”

When She is Good...

She...Sonoma, is very, very good. I'm referring to the weather, but there isn't much about this trial that would not be categorized by all attendees as very, very good on any year. Unfortunately the sheep this year were the 1 glaring exception and luck of the draw played the starring role in competition. They were very bad girlz, miserable beasts, marauding cretons, like I never want to see again. On 1 of my 6 trips to the post at this long-running trial, I had the overpowering desire to call in sick.

Flat field

Running on these sheep was like playing pool in the devil's hall. The crew racked them as tightly as possible and we sent our hapless collie-ques flying for the break. No matter how correct the dog at the top, no matter how much feel, patience, timing or skill full handling with a deft touch around the course, they ran, careened off the bumpers, topography, fences and dogs like maniacal, 200lb, just-shorn bumper cars on LSD, a runaway, downhill freight train, maddened, stampeding elephants through a straw-hut village, Jack Nicholson as the Joker.

I swear I heard one cackle as she rocketed past me at the pen. They made no sense. They did not behave normally. They were no fun at all and no amount of talent or skill helped when you got the worst of the worst, which was all but a few. The sheep sucked at Sonoma. So let's talk weather...food...and wine.

Jan and Star into the breach

When I think of Sonoma, I think of heavy duty rain gear, as in "Deadliest Catch" best of... After 2 torrential years in a row and one huge, downed oak that blocked entry to the trial for over an hour, it was such a relief to see the forecast. We had sun, sun, and more sun with just a bit-o-wind Sunday afternoon.

Mornings were clear and cool, but when the sun topped the treeline, jackets went flying and all manner of hats appeared. We ate on picnic tables, basked in the glory, lingered in the grass with our dogs. The weather could not have been better and it was a lovely accent to the fine food.

My foster dog, Brady, shaded up under my chair

Our hostess, Sandy Milberg, brought in a catering truck this year, instead of the usual Healdsburg 4H kids to feed us, and it was a nice change-up. Falafel, pita sandwiches and BBQ on Sunday drew us toward lunch like a lonely dog to a...well, to a girl-dog. We monged on lunch while Sandy conducted her most-excellent auction during the hour-long break each day. I couldn't afford tickets this year, but there was an amazing array of world-class, award-winning, and very expensive wine on that table. Just the sight of it was impressive.

I had some extraordinary 2-buck-chuck at the hotel, and enjoyed an amazing bottle of Italian chianti with good friends at La Coco's in Santa Rosa on Saturday night. OK, so the sheep disappointed, but it was nothing that  great weather, memorable food, spectacular wine and sparkling conversation with laughter among dear friends in a charming restaurant could not assuage. Sonoma is a really not-to-be-missed-if-at-all-possible dog trial.

Set out on the hill field

So how were my dogs you ask? Mirkie was heroic. There's no other words for his performance. My 10 year old dog ran his legs off, never gave up, took every frantic command with a calm that made me miss him already, even though I may get another year. There's nothing like running an exceptionally powerful, older dog that forgot more about sheep than I'll ever know. What a great pleasure it has been to own him.

Sunday on the hill field, deep in the afternoon with the wind driving insane ewes into every nook and cranny, he navigated the hill field like a ballerina on rails. I asked a lot of him to fly over treacherous, uneven terrain where one bad step could cost a career-ending injury. After a decisive split and 3 revolutions around the pen I lay him down and let the sheep run free.  They were most definitely not worth it, even though his run had been passable and may well have placed him in the points had I let the clock run out.

Bottom of the hill field

Buffy got lost on the hill field. No surprise there. He is wide, there was no room, and these were not the sheep for his particular idiosyncrasy. He fared better on the flat field and came within a near miss at the pen to finish in the top 5. Where almost half of the field DQ'd, his owner, Mandy had run him successfully in the pro-novice on Friday against the same wiley sheep we had in the open, and she was standing ringside with husband, Hirsh to watch his go with me.

I always marvel at how adept he is changing gears from her to me and back again. Buff just rises to the occasion and gives as good as he gets. A point or 2 will come his way for a top-20 finish, and that's something to be proud of in an 84 dog field from this talented Irish import we share.

High point of the running for me was nursery dog, Tam. You should'a seen him go! Trialed just 3 times previously and with very little experience of any kind away from home, he did himself proud on Friday in 2 nurseries on the same impossible creatures we had in the open. Only when he got them, they were fresh! The sheep did everything but pull a knife on him, and he just kept on keeping on.

He ran out beautifully, exhibited feel, took every whistle, demonstrated clean flanks, kept his cool under pressure and fairly trounced the competition by a 7 point margin with a 68 in the 2nd running, picking up the overall win as well. For that Sandy awarded a gorgeous, harness-quality leather collar and leash, and a 2007 vintage Napa red that I'm told is pretty special. That dog's a keeper.

Tam's nursery winnings

And did I mention my pro-novice friends? We were 3-for-3 at this one. Mandy and Buff, Beth and Hula, and Jan with Star all earned scores in a 42 dog field where 17 were either DQ'd or retired. Way to go girlz and doggiez! So happy for ya...

The wrap up is, Sonoma is very, very good. It is, after all, one of the most beautiful places on earth, and the sheepdog community is very blessed indeed to have hosts like Sandra and Arthur Milberg, who work tirelessly for us year after year after year. They offer up they're incomparable Oak Springs Farm, pull together an amazing crew, raise money for kids in the process and quite simply put on one spectacular dog trial that I will attend every year they'll have me.

A Letter to My Dog

Denying to myself that I would ever lose him, I wrote this letter to Price 4 years ago.

A letter to my dog

I've been feeling the weight of my dog lately like a fine, wool blanket; warm, treasured, familiar, comforting. Addressing this, Dear Dog, just seems goofy, so I’m writing a thank you note to him for helping me craft another life when the last one collapsed under me like a Rocky Mountain avalanche.

With love for me, no holds barred, you have survived my ignorance, wrongful punishment, misplaced anger, bad timing, crazy ideas, long road trips, cheap food and hard beds. How did we find each other? What are the chances?

My dog should run, not walk away from me. I have put him in tight spots. He once almost drowned at a motel parking lot when I left him outside over night in a winter torrent. Drain holes in the truck bed plugged and frigid water pooled inside the dog box. By morning, he looked like a wet cat that someone failed to murder. My dog just wanted to pee and get to work.

I remember details from the first time I saw you. It was exhilarating like when I saw my second ex-husband for the first time. I felt euphoric with butterflies. I desired him. I had a visceral reaction to you too, but my instincts were better. You are a good man all the time.

My dog is the window that God opened after slamming an iron door on my tightly clinched fist. He is a wooden casement window that makes that shushing sound when the weights descend to raise the pane. On our first day together, I left him alone on the side of the house in a kennel. He stood scared, staring at the door, exactly how I found him 12 hours later. Immediately recognizing my selfishness, we spent a glorious day getting to know each other.

God opened more windows, light filtered in and we began to lengthen our stride. You tried so hard to please me. I bullied, you tried harder. I have no words to express the emotions that ripped through me both times you almost died. The snake bite was the worst and all 5 days you spent in wretched agony at death's door were devastating to us both. 2 years later when you lost a lung lobe to infection, I never realized the extent of it until I saw the 9 inch incision running down from your withers. You are the bravest creature I have ever known.

Six weeks after the snake bite my dog found success at 2 of the toughest sheepdog trials in North America, The Meeker Championship and the National Finals. 2 years later, with an e-collar around his neck, a gash the length of his rib-cage, and a fentanyl patch taped to one leg, I lowered him from my truck a day after surgery that spread his ribs to remove part of his lung. Crouching, he turned to walk up on sheep in a nearby pen. "That'll do, big dog." At 7 years old, and just that quick, his career was over.

I see age creeping into the frame just now. I know you're still strong and so athletic. Your instincts remain razor sharp and still there's massive presence in your eye. I don't know how I’ll let you go when the time comes. I expect that you will help me with that. But not today, funny boy. Today we have work to do.