It’s estimated that four million dogs are euthanized every year…just in the Untied States. That’s about 80 million each week. 213 today. 8 during this next hour.

I want to tell you about a place where this doesn’t happen.

There are many great no kill animal shelters and I encourage you to support as many as you can. I simply want to highlight one very special place.

Years ago, my wife I and started donating to Best Friends Animal Sanctuary (http://www.bestfriends.org) in Kanab, Utah. It’s been such a long time, I don’t recall how we first heard of them, but we did learn that it was a no kill shelter and we wanted to support their efforts. At the time, there weren’t many no kill shelters, at least to our knowledge.

Several years ago, we were vacationing in Couer d’Alene, Idaho. We had driven there from Phoenix. On the way home, we noticed that, with a slight detour, we could visit Best Friends and see it for ourselves.

We had envisioned a place where the animals, though kept alive, spent most of their time in cages with an occasional reprieve to go outside for brief periods. We were in for a shock.

Kanab, Utah  is in the middle of the proverbial “no where.” It is located in Southwestern Utah, about seven miles from the Arizona border. Kanab has 5400 residents. The nearest town of any size is St. George, Utah, 81 miles away with a population of about 125,000. “Isolated” describes the location.

But because of this “isolation,” Best Friends is a place of tranquility and peace, surrounded by ancient looking red rocked hills similar to those found in Sedona, Arizona. We stopped at the Welcome Center where we were greeted warmly and encouraged to tour the place. Since it is spread out over quite a distance, we got in our car and began our drive (today, thanks to the popularity of Best Friends, there are scheduled, guided tours. Call to learn more at (435) 644-2001 ext 4537. Full tours take approximately an hour and a half).

Since you and I are interested primarily in dogs, I’ll skip detailed descriptions of the places we passed and stopped into for a short visit:  “Horse Haven” (a huge pasture where horses run free), “Cat World” (where cats literally live in cat houses and I do mean houses), “Bunny House” (a private hutch for every bunny), “Parrot Garden” (the name describes it), “Wild Friends” (for birds) and The Clinic (as the current web site describes it, “Here, you’ll see lives saved, pregnancies prevented, shots given, and oh yes – have a look at Woolly Bear’s big smile. He’s just had his teeth cleaned!”). Judging from the accompanying picture, “Wooly Bear” looks like a Border Collie.

Finally, at the end of our journey, we approached “Dog Town.”  We knew we were close because we began to hear barking dogs who had, evidently, heard our car approaching. Turning a bend in the road, at least 20 dogs lumbered towards our car, eager to greet us. This was a far cry from the cages in which we had expected dogs to be imprisoned.

One of the people on staff gave us little dog treats to distribute and the dogs eagerly accepted our largesse. We spent the next 15 minutes petting, hugging and receiving the kisses, cuddles and licks from as many of the dogs as we had time for. Visualize the love you receive from your dog(s) and multiply that 20 or 30 fold to approximate our experience of Dog Town. Click  http://video.bestfriends.org/media/p/196.aspx to see a 2-minute video of Dog Town (the picture at the top is one of the dogs at Best Friends).

I don’t think you’ll be surprised to learn that Best Friends is located in what’s called Angel Canyon.  What a great name for a great place that I’m delighted to tell you about.

Thanks for caring.

I’m sure you’ve seen the refrigerator magnet, card, poster, picture, etc. that proclaims, “I hope to be the kind of person my dog thinks I am.” Actually, I’d settle for being the kind of “person” I think my dog is.

Now I know that for some people (not you and me, but some) dogs aren’t people. Whenever I suggest that Annie is a person with fur, my wife admonishes me to not bring Annie down to my level. And, of course, she’s right. Dogs are so much better than I am.

I wish I could emulate the unconditional love with others in my life that Annie gives me and that I give her (during those moments when I’m not competing with peanut butter and other food stuffs). Annie can do anything, be anyway she wants and I will still love her. Not true for the people in my life. Not true for the way I feel about myself.

I see Annie’s apparent lack of jealousy and wish that I could live up to her standards (I’d be shocked if a talking Annie would say, “Oh look. That Terrier has more toys than I do”). I’m jealous of anyone richer, smarter and better looking than I am. 

I see Annie’s innate authenticity (she seems incapable of pretending to be something that she’s not), but I still pretend to like people more than I do, to be friendlier than I feel and to be more content than I am.

I observe Annie’s willingness to share her toys (or, at least, to not fight when our neighbor dogs run off with her latest ball or chew toy), but I find myself reluctant to share my car, house and money with anyone, especially as the economy worsens.

I notice Annie waiting patiently to go for a walk, get fed or be let into the front door  (when she doesn’t use her dog door in the back), but I get irritated when people drive below the speed limit, when there’s a car in front of me at the bank drive up window or when my computer doesn’t boot up as fast as I just know it should.

And, most of all, I wish I had the blissful peace of acceptance of whatever life offers that Annie seems to have. She doesn’t complain about her sore leg and aching joints. She doesn’t seem to wish she were younger and able to run with the dogs in the park. She doesn’t fight over territory when neighbor dogs appropriate her bed on our porch. She doesn’t moan during the 30-hour drive between Arizona and Washington State that we do twice a year nor does she complain because most of the cargo area where she is riding is taken up with luggage.  

Annie just seems grateful or at least accepting of being alive. I’m just grateful for Annie.

In the winter, we live in Tempe, Arizona but during the summers, we stay near Olympia, Washington about 15 miles from a little town called Yelm (if you’re interested, find Olympia on the map and look to the southeast. We’re about 50 miles from Mount Ranier National Park).

It takes us almost 30 hours to drive to Yelm. Both Carol and I hate the drive which we do in two, long days. We endure the drive for Annie’s sake. We’ve heard horror stories about dogs in airplane cargo compartments. Additionally, we fear that the extreme Arizona heat would kill Annie if the plane she was on was delayed on the tarmac.

Recently, we heard of an airline whose sole passengers are dogs and cats (http://petairways.com). The pets fly in the passenger compartment. All the seats have been removed and the dogs have “flight attendants” who ensure the animals have water in their kennels and are content. If the airline ever flies from Tempe to Seattle, Annie will be on it.  

In Tempe, our house is surrounded by walls and, although Annie has a dog door and can enter and leave whenever she wants, she has no access to the street or the companionship of other dogs. Of course, in the city of Tempe, this has some benefits. The walls prevent Annie from running into the street or interacting with a dog that might not be friendly (Katy, a dog we once had, was viciously attacked by another dog one evening while I was walking her. I’m not sure who was more traumatized, me or Katy). We take Annie to the dog park as much as I can so that she can get animal companionship.

Our house near Yelm on the other hand, is surrounded by two and a half acres of grass, trees and garden. We open the door in the morning to let Annie out (she also has a dog door if she chooses) and she stays out as long as she wants. Fortunately, she never leaves the property unless she is accompanying us on her two daily walks.

Additionally, almost as soon as we open the door, our neighbor’s five dogs (you can see the pictures below) come bounding over (it helps that my wife gives them treats whenever they show up) and, sometimes, stay all day. These five dogs are all males and we think of them as Annie’s boyfriends (no sex, please. Annie has been neutered). It’s comical to watch the dogs settle into their respective places.

Our cabin is small, about 700 square feet, with a porch outside the front door that is only about five feet long and perhaps four feet wide with three wooden steps leading to a concrete footer below.

Harley, a male, black Lab, typically lies on the dog bed that we leave on the porch with Boots, a black Chihuahua who weighs no more than three pounds, curled up beside her.

Boots torments Harley, jumping on him and grabbing at his ears. Harley thrashes his head from side to side in an attempt to fend off Boots and, occasionally nips at Boots to tell him “That’s enough.” Boots, however, only stops the torment when he’s good and ready. 

Annie lies next to these two on the porch, as close to the bed as possible because there’s no room for her on the bed. Even though it’s Annie’s bed, you know how generous and docile Goldens are, so Annie cedes her bed to Harley and Boots without complaint. Annie weighs 75 pounds (we suffer over trying to limit her food), so part of her invariably lies in space hanging over the steps.

Carol, my wife, will occasionally shoo Boots and Harley off the bed and invite Annie to lie there but, when Carol opens the door to do this, Annie often comes inside and crawls under the small, wooden coffee table in our combination living room, dining room and kitchen (I told you it was small. There are two other rooms, a bedroom and a laundry room. The laundry room doubles as my “office” where I’m typing this). When Annie comes inside, Boots and Harley resume their accustomed places on the dog bed.

Mocha, who looks like a pit bull but has the disposition of a Golden, lies on the concrete footer at the bottom of the porch steps.  Mocha had been owned by a teenager at the other end of the ½ mile long dirt road that runs beside our property. The teenager let Mocha run loose and he invariably showed up at our doorstep (as mentioned in an earlier post, my wife feeds strays. Strange how they keep showing up at our door).

Last year, the teenager was killed when his car turned over as he raced with another car down this dirt road. His mother put up one of those roadside shrines with a cross and bouquet of flowers. When his mother moved away, our neighbors, Chuck and Pam, mom and pop to the five dogs, adopted him.

Charlie Brown, a white Cocker Spaniel, usually lies in the grass just beyond Mocha. He is an itinerant visitor, sometimes showing up to stay all day, sometimes coming and going and, sometimes, not appearing at all for several days.

Unlike the other dogs, Charlie has figured out how to get into the dog door after watching Annie disappear into it. The dog door is in the laundry room at the back of the house, embedded in a wooden door that leads to a back porch that is even smaller than the one in front. We’ll often hear the slap of the dog door as we are settling down to sleep because Annie likes to spend her nights on this back porch.

We occasionally find Charlie trapped in our house. We have to let him out the front door because, while he has learned how to get in the dog door, he hasn’t learned how to let himself out. We’re waiting for the day we come home to find that all five dogs have mastered the art of dog door egress.

The final dog of the fantastic five is Snoopy, aka “The Evil One.” He is an adorable brown Cocker Spaniel with ears almost as large as his body. We’ve dubbed him with that moniker because one day, out of the blue, he attacked Boots with what looked to us like evil intent. I don’t know if Boots had done something to annoy Snoopy or if Snoopy simply snapped, but we were shocked. Our neighbor, Chuck, had to kick at Snoopy to get him off Boots (don’t worry. His kick didn’t connect and Snoopy did let go). There’s been no more trouble between Boots and Snoopy since that day…at least not in our presence.

By the way, if you’re looking for Snoopy in this menagerie, you’ll find him pressed up against the glass of our front door, looking in, hoping to see Carol preparing some treats.

While Annie pretty much ignores them, we believe she enjoys the company of other dogs so we’re happy and, we believe, so is Annie. 

Annie’s Boy Friends:

Boots is in the top picture, Charley Brown is in the middle and  Snoopy, Mocha and Harley (left to right) are in bottom picture

I love dogs, less so cats. I had severe allergic reactions to cats when I was a kid and that has left me leery of interacting with them. This blog is about dogs. I’ll feature Golden Retrievers because my wife Carol and I currently happen to share a home with one.

The great thing about dogs is that, unlike me, they give to give rather than give to get.  I will withhold love when angry and sometimes only express appreciation when receiving something (a gift, money, a hug). Dogs I have lived with have seemed genuinely excited when I come home. 

Okay, not our current dog, Annie (I picked the name simply because I thought it was cute). Annie is a Golden and she’s the third dog who has shared our home in our 36 years of marriage. Carol and I don’t have any children so, like many other people (whether childless or not), our dogs have been our children.

Annie is 10 years old and rarely shows excitement about anything these days. Most of her time is spent lying outside the house or inside the house. When I come home, she opens her eyes, looks up from her prone position and follows me as I walk over to her, kneel down and stroke her fur. I love to nuzzle my face against her body, inhale her aroma and kiss her face. She doesn’t move during any of these ministrations. She tolerates me. I love her.

Annie’s face has turned white and her left hip is giving her trouble. Once she starts walking she’s fine, but slow. However, when she first gets up, she does so carefully and with obvious difficulty.

Annie has been experiencing this hip problem for about a year and her face started turning white two years earlier when she was eight. Walking Annie around our neighborhood in Tempe, Arizona was an ordeal for me. Passersby would ask Annie’s age and I would say, “8.”  They would give me a sympathetic look and express their concern that such a young dog would have a white face and a limp. I felt terrible and would dread that, “How old is she?” question.

After enduring this painful experience for several months, I hit on a solution. When I was asked Annie’s age, I would lie and say, “12.” Almost immediately, people would express their delight that such an old dog was walking so well. This caused me, if not Annie, to feel much better.

I can’t quite bring myself to adopt the same policy. I’m 61 and dye my hair in an attempt to look younger (friends tell me it works but, then again, they’re friends). I had enough angst when, at the age of 55, I asked for a senior ticket for the first time at a movie theatre (this was in Portland where the senior designation starts at 55). My wife encouraged me to do so and I was in despair when the teenager selling the tickets didn’t hesitate for a moment before giving me the ticket. He could at least have had the decency to ask to see my id.

As I’ve said, Annie is the third dog who has shared our home.  We put Sable, our first dog, a sheperd/collie mix (he had been abandoned in the neighborhood where I taught high school so we were never sure of his breed) “to sleep” (I hate that euphemism. The fact is we killed her, even though it was a mercy killing since she could no longer walk after 14 years). Our second dog, Katy, (abandoned at a rest stop on the highway and brought to us by a friend who found her) was put down after a stroke left her almost paralyzed. Katy, another shepherd/collie mix (we think) had loved us for eight years.  

My wife brought Annie home when she was only about nine weeks old. I came home from a business trip and, as I drove into the garage, I noticed a piece of white poster board pinned to the door leading from the garage into the house. I got out of the car and read what was on the poster board: “Close your eyes, put out your arms and a beautiful blond will give you a kiss.”

My wife is blond, so I assumed this was her creative way of welcoming me home. From behind the door, I heard Carol asking, “Are your eyes closed?”

I closed my eyes, the door opened and, the next thing I felt was a small bundle of fur being placed in my arms. I eyed this tiny package suspiciously as she did me. I’ve never owned a puppy and, therefore, never had to go through training a dog to “do its business” outside. Both Sable and Katy had come to us when they were about two years old, well past the house wetting stage. In fact, both dogs knew how to “sit” and “stay” when we got them.
 
There’s more to come in the adventures of Annie (the chewing of a complete room of carpeting, the competition for Annie’s love between me and a jar of peanut butter. You know, standard stuff) but I’ll stop here and carry on in another posting. I’d love to hear your stories.

Thanks for visiting and allowing me to share the love.