When is a Rescue Not a Rescue?


There are a lot of nasty people out there.. if we truly care about our pets we must keep pushing to do things the right way not necessarily the easy way!

Dogpaddling Through Life

No one wants to buy from a puppy mill. But did you know that you could be even if you adopt?

That’s right! The Don’t Shop, Adoptcampaign has been so successful that some puppy mills are getting sneaky and setting up their own “rescues.”

What? Are you kidding me? What? Are you kidding me?

Oh, they look good.

They hold adoption events. They contract with a vet to provide care for the animals. Some even have 501(3)(c) status.

But all they’re really doing is “adopting” out the older puppies that weren’t sold. They’re not lying when they say the animals were removed from a puppy mill. They just don’t tell you THEY run the puppy mill.

Other so-called rescues are run by brokers who buy the puppies from the breeders, then turn around and “adopt” them out.

And they’re not just “adopting” out animals at the same rates they would have sold them for, they’re…

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Jealous mother


“Jealous? Me?  No.  I’m not jealous of my son, I’m proud of him.  I’m not exactly jealous of my daughter, I envy her maybe a better way to put it….”

That’s me denying the obvious and crowing the obvious to others.  Of course I’m proud of my children.  And yeah, in a way I’m jealous of them too.

You see I never amounted to much. I’m not tall, a squat 5 feet 5 and 3/4 inches.  I don’t have big, sparkly eyes, or dark hair that, when left to it’s own devices, becomes a mass of feminine curls.  You know the kind.  Those that stylists charge money to style into your limp locks on the special occasions.  My boobs are too big, my curves are too curvy, my legs are too stocky…..well, you get the drift.  It’s not all old age either – I’ve been bigger than most since I was ‘little’.  My sister and brother were skinny, I was ‘plump’.  When we hit teens, I was the first girl in my year – and the next 3 – to develop a bust and get curves to hips.  All very sexy unless you were aged 11 in 1973.  In 1973 11, 12 and 13 year olds were pretty much stick like, almost boyish in their pre-pubescent stage.  So me looking like a 16 year old 11 year old caused almost a greater degree of amusement to the 180 or so girls of the 1st 3 years of high school than Spotsize’s spots or Bombhead’s hair.

So as my daughter grew into a woman and developed into a tall, leggy, curvy – but not too curvy, attractive female, with a ready smile, big, sparkly eyes and those graceful curls, I found I envied her.  She has a stronger personality.  She has a head for survival.  She has a heart of gold and the ability from within to draw strength from that heart and push through stuff that, quite frankly would have killed me.

My daughter has lived on the streets, traveled to far distant places across the world and back, survived with no money – only her skills in communication and her tenacity kept her going.

My daughter is no angel, please don’t mis-understand me.  She’s more of a rebel that I ever was….and I was – once!  Her life choices make me frown, and we disagree often….but she’s gorgeous, and loving, and caring, and bubbly and not at all scared to be who she is.

Then there’s my son.

I can honestly say I am jealous of my son.  He has the things my daughter doesn’t.  He has inherited my straw-like fair/brown hair, fair skin and so on, though I hasten to add he’s slim.  That is because he tends to play tennis or get so busy he forgets to eat.  It helps that he’s about 6 feet 2 inches tall too.  No, it’s not his looks that is the cause of my jealousy, it is the fact that he is an intellectual.  He has the brain I wished I had.  He has the sense of self I wished I had.  He too has traveled the world and I think back to the day and I wished I had, then gaze at the numerous photos, the old heart longing.

Alongside that, my son has a way of learning and then adding to that and becoming so much better, far superior to his mother. When he was young I taught him how to play chess.  He learned.  He improved.  He can beat me every time now.  When he was young I taught him to use his imagination and write.  He learned.  He improved.  Now his writing is far superior to mine.  He makes my attempts at stories look like something from a stroppy school child.

Well maybe I am.  Maybe now I’m old, and my children have surpassed me so, I’m having a middle aged tantrum.  Maybe I have striven to give my children everything I have, re-enforcing the need to learn, the need to share, the need to care, the need to explore and so on.  Maybe I live my life of dreams long gone through my children.  Maybe that’s all a mother should do.

But my oh my – what can I say – I’m jealous of my children but I am so damned proud to be their Mum!

There are good people – then there are Angels.


Anyone who has read my posts – and 133000 plus have read my post about Joe’s death – will know I  love animals, including dogs. I’m not about to bore anyone with the why’s and wherefore’s as if you are reading this, chances are you love, or at the very least, have a respect and liking for dogs.

What I am about to do is ask you to follow the link.  It’s not spoof, spam, viral etc.  It’s simply a song, put together a while ago with the aim of raising funds and awareness for rescuers or our four legged, waggy tailed friends and companions.  It’s still important, they still need support….

K-9 Angels have come to my attention in recent months, mainly through adopting Joe’s ‘stepsister’ Annie from Romania.  I can hear some of you thinking  “Romania isn’t the only place in the world with stray dogs.”, and I agree.  If I could save the world, the animals of world would be a place to start.  We can’t save every last one – but we can support those who try to do their bit in their corner.

Listen to the song, watch the dogs, have a cry if you wish – and you then have the choice to share it, turn it off and sigh but move on, or even buy the track and donate if the moment takes you.  No one will think any worse of you or better of you whichever choice you make.  All I’d say is whatever choice you make, please say a personal thank you to those who are putting it out there to help those innocent animals our fellow humans are choosing to abuse and ignore – or worse.


Writing .. What? How? Should I?


I’ve just read a blog post on here http://shatteredsmoke.com/2014/02/09/on-writing-a-book/comment-page-1/#comment-4678

and I responded.

“So what?” I hear you think.  

Well, the response I wrote to that blog read really well, only a few lines but quite artistic with the wording. The post is about someone who has finally written a book and basically the “If I can you can theme.”  So I responded, looked at my words and though “I can- I know I can.”  The question for me isn’t can I write? The question becomes questions!  What should I write about? How do I start? Should I even try? 

As I wrote in my aforementioned response I have a shed full of ideas – that shed being my head – full of junk, ideas, bits of this and sentences of that, totally dis-organised but with the potential to be a useful space some day. 

I sit in dismay as I stare at online “how to write a book” pages.  I stand like a broken soul staring at the shelves full of “where to start in writing” books in W H Smith and Waterstone’s. I don’t want to sit and READ about how to write, I want to write.  Yet I am bombarded every time I look with words like ‘structure’, ‘platforms’, ‘plan and perfect’ and so on, and I fall apart, shut the shed door and think about doing it all another day.

I wonder if anyone else out there has a shed?  One that is full of ideas, full of potential, bursting at the hinges, yet like me, occasionally opening the door, peeking inside to soon becoming so overwhelmed and so shutting the door again for another while……..



Oh Annie…not again! Now for my meltdown!


Today is Saturday.  The day of the week is actually rather irrelevant, but just a statement of fact at this moment in time.

Saturday is usually a mixture of day off, rest, play, a bit of housework and so on for me.  Nothing too strenuous.  I work 4 days in an office, 2 days online at home, look after house, husband, teen, 2 cats and 1 dog, so I give myself an “easy day” each week as a way to prevent complete and utter meltdown.

This particular day the plan was – sleep in a little; breakfast; walk Annie; coffee; work on a project on the pc; vac the house, coffee… well you get the idea.  Busy but not strenuous.

Annie, my little treasure, my angel, my furry baby… had other ideas. Now don’t get me wrong, she didn’t do it on purpose.  She was just being – well – A Dog.

to explain some of the problem, Annie is a rescue dog.  We had two, but sadly lost Joe to an awful accident in December (please feel free to read my post about that-Don’t let another good dog die needlessly).  Since losing Joe, Scaredy-pup Annie, who was just about gaining confidence went right back to square one.  She’s from Romania, found in a rubbish heap as a puppy, kenneled with several more strays for what must have been an eternity for a puppy.  A few months in Romanianan kennels and she was shipped to England, into kennels.   February 2013 when it was estimated she was about 1 year old, we picked her.  Fluffy, frightened and foreign. Reaction to uncertainty – she wee’d.  She always does.

Now, that all seemed a little boring I’m sure, but the reason I put it down was that this issue was the start of upturning my planned ‘easy day’.  

This is how my easy day actually went – thanks to the scaredy pup Annie.

8am:woken by husband offering large coffee.  Sat in bed and sipped said coffee.  Husband left for work.  I played games on my phone, read emails and snuggled into my warm sheets, looking out at a sunny, but cold, English winter day.

9am : wash, dress, waddle downstairs for another cup of coffee and breakfast.  Teen yapping in my ear about some inane teen talk.  Let Annie into the garden; feed cats.

10am : let Annie in from garden, fat cat hisses at Annie, Annie bounces to play, mud all over the rug- we’ve had a very wet winter and the garden is getting quite boggy.  I sigh, I’ll let it dry and vacuum it later.

10.15am : get Annie’s walking harness.  Call Annie, teen stands by door still yapping. Annie so excited she wees.  I sigh.  Annie thinks she’s done wrong (she has but I try not to get angry – she can’t help it.). In response to that she wees as she walks back to her bed.  She wee’s in her bed.  I start mopping floor.

10.30am : we try again.  This time I take harness to Annie, lay it in front of her.  She knows it.  She loves to walk and on a good day she will sit, raise paw to put one leg in the loop and so on.  Today she’s nervous.  Who knows why. Perhaps she’s heard some banging outside.  Banging makes her nervous. Annie sniffs the harness to me cooing “wanna go walk?”.  Tail wags, and dog wees.

10.45am : we’re out.  A car goes by, Annie looks wide eyed at it.  It’s going to be one of those days.

We walk through the woods, Annie has her fluffy white tail high, bouncing in the leaves, through the trees, over the fallen trunks, nose in this and that. Back on the lead we walk the path to the field.  We meet a large growly dog and Annie hides behind me and wees.  I walk her away, fully aware that I don’t need to stress her any more than she already is.  We meet a black waggy dog.  This is better.  Nose to nose with waggy tails she greets him and vise versa. We reach the field.

Annie runs, bounces, hops, skips, jumps…………and rolls.  “Oh Annie” escapes my lips once again.  But this time she just doesn’t care.  Every last bit of nasty, foul smelling, disgusting thing she could find on that field she rolled in. My shoulders slump.  She’s loving it.

11.45am: I head home with one rank dog trotting happily by my side.

Now, what should have been a nice walk and a steady afternoon has now turned into a nice walk for Annie, an unwanted bath for Annie, an unwanted soaking for me, 2 carpets vacuumed, 2 carpets washed, and wet dog smell throughout the house.

I love Annie to bits and I know she’s a dog with issues.  She’ll get over them, we love her too much to allow it to rule her forever… but why does she have to wee and roll in poo on my easy day :-/  I’m now off to have a genuine, exhausted, meltdown.





Drop and roll doggy


Well, I think my doggy Annie is on fire – not in the quick learning kinda way.  Two walks this weekend and she’s practiced her “drop and roll” technique so much.. and it stinks…

Fox poo in mud = “ooo we’ll roll in that”.  Bird poo in mud = “oh yeah, that too.”  Oh and look – some dog pee on the path.  MUST drop and roll in that too.

Why do dogs do that?  I walked my lovely fluffy dog with her coat on, luckily, as she would have been covered (it’s easier to wash the coat!).

So there may not have been a fire but if ever there is, my Annie Baby will be ok if it gets her

Butter would melt in her mouth ......

Butter would melt in her mouth ……

, as long at there’s poo around too.