| Today I hung out with 300lb pigs. |
[18 May 2008|09:19pm] |
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This weekend, I drove up with Pulin to attend the Preakness demo in Baltimore, run the 5k for Poplar Spring, and visit the sanctuary. Where I completed a life long dream to hang out with and kiss pigs.
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| Utter stupidity. |
[12 Jan 2008|12:14am] |
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Sometimes I want to look in the mirror and scream "Who are you?!".
Sometimes I hate my eyes. No matter how much makeup I cake on them or how much I used to think they were like his, they were never like his. From an early age, I knew. I don't really know why it took me so long to finally let it hit me.
You can't have brown eyes if both of your parents have blue eyes.
I wasn't that one in a million chance.
Sometimes I wonder how he looked into my eyes everyday and thought I was his daughter. He had to have known.
I hate my face. My dark skin. My dark eyes. I hate the slight circles under my eyes. I hate dark hair. I hate my lips. I hate it all.
I don't know where I came from.
When I look in the mirror, I look at a stranger.
Sometimes I almost feel my childhood disappearing, like it never happened. All of the innocence, completely tainted.
Why does this hurt so much?
I never believed that something like this could hurt me so badly.
I'm tired of not knowing.
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| Puzzle peices. |
[29 Dec 2007|06:48pm] |
I look back at the times with my mom often. The nights up late, the drinking binges, the time she made a death pact for the both of us, all of the times I decided it would be my only choice to get in the car while she drove drunk for miles and miles and miles in the dark on a nearly empty tank of gas. I still feel those moments as if they were yesterday. What it felt like to be in my skin, during those times, living those nightmares.
When I stand still in the dark, I still see myself. Tears running down my face, my hands shaking, my legs pulled up to my chest on the wooden floorboard of my room when I was 13. I remember feeling the back against the door, I remember hearing her on the other side. I remember her voice, her smell, the pressure of the door against me. I remember the way it felt to bury my head into my legs and cry. I remember yelling until my voice was gone. I remember passing out from exhaustion once I heard her bedroom door close for the last time in a night.
I remember falling exhausted onto my bed and curling up against the wall.
For my whole life, everything with my mom has played out like a scene in a movie. I remember her fights with my dad when I was 6 or 7, maybe 5. She always played everything out like some beautiful musical. The kitchen table was always the final scene, where she'd instill in me the fear of abandonment and loneliness every night. She loved making me feel like she was all I'd ever have.
There's still a sinking ship within me that is dying in her waters. The wind still feels like the breeze of her walking past me. Sometimes when I'm lonely, the look in my eyes in the mirror look exactly like when I was a little girl staring up at her. Nothing, my whole life, has ever been stable.
Everything has always been a question.
If I think she loves me, am I being stupid? If I trust her, am I being naive? Her moods were always shifting, her love for me always on edge. When I was young, I don't doubt for a second that I was her world - but she's a selfish woman, and she never, ever sees past herself. Most nice gestures I'm sure, we're only a ploy to make her look better compared to my father.
I've always just been caught in the midst of things. People traveling through life, people writing out their own tragedies. Who am I? How do I relate? How do I fit in?
I just don't.
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| So |
[29 Dec 2007|05:54pm] |
I just watched "Running with Scissors", and for the most part, it reminded me of exactly what my childhood and teen life was like with my mom, minus the shrink, weird outside family and gay sex. The rest of it - spot on.
hm.
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| Fuck. |
[29 Dec 2007|12:03pm] |
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Duran Duran is amazing.
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[28 Dec 2007|11:12pm] |
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Didn't mean anything.
What was I thinking?
I'm officially done with it.
and I am really, really glad it's over.
Thank you.
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| Today, |
[21 Dec 2007|08:28pm] |
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I wish I was in Chicago for New Heart,
But I'm not :(.
Next year, for sure.
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| Let's be real here. |
[19 Dec 2007|10:43pm] |
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I'm every guys dream come true.
So why the fuck am I alone?
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[18 Dec 2007|10:11pm] |
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It is written in the stars that you will crumble beneath her.
Your power can never compete with the massacre she’s learned to incite, Within you.
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[18 Dec 2007|10:07pm] |
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whether or not the wind blew didn't matter
my bones stuck out sorely from every angle. broken city streets by lamplight.
the moon is full collapsing. white sheets.
white sheets. my knives are out.
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| desire/ |
[17 Dec 2007|11:04pm] |
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music |
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depeche mode / never let me down again |
] |
I want someone to be excited to see me.
To think of me when I'm not around.
To miss me.
To find me important.
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[16 Dec 2007|12:30pm] |
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music |
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joy division. |
] |
i've fallen in love with joy division all over again.
its so weird that i listen to the same music i did in high school,
but i guess i was just always this awesome.
sigh,
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| Sigh, |
[11 Dec 2007|09:05pm] |
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music |
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garden state soundtrack. |
] |
This weekend I got the honor of working with PETA's Community Animal Project - or CAP, a program that spays and neuters, delivers straw in the winter, water and housing all throughout the year for dogs who live on the chain or outside.
For whatever reason, there is one dog from this weekend that I cannot stop thinking of. I cannot forget. He was a large german shepard/black lab mix. We saw him from the street. He was chained tightly to some worn down fencing next to a garage, in a small grassy area of a backyard. His house was a two-tone plastic dog crate, covered in dirt and mud. His living area was a pile of dirt and unraked leaves, and he was surrounded by his own waste on every side. There was no food or water in sight, except for a small plastic baggy filled with raw shrimp. He instantly got up to greet us, his large frame moving fast and his tail wagging. His eyes told stories we'll never understand, and you could tell inside them was hope that we would never leave. The neighbor said the house had been abandoned three years ago, and that whoever owned it came to "feed" the dog daily. Still, this loving, feeling creature begged us to stay with him, and as we wrote down all of the information we could get, we got up and walked away. We loosened his collar, gave him food, water and straw, and left him behind.
Three days have passed now. My life has continued, I've come home, eaten, laughed, played, talked, gone to work, relaxed. It has been day and night, warm and cold.
Still outside, he lingers. In the same place, on the same chain. In the same dark alley way next to the same garage. Smelling the same wretched stench of feces and urine, laying in the same dead leaves as the previous months. His life will never change, for him, simply existing in those horrible conditions is life. From the look of his body and the way he acted, he once knew love, now he knows nothing but memory. Now he knows nothing but loneliness.
For those three nights since I met him, I've thought of him every time I close my eyes. When I'm tucked away in my warm bed, he is still out there. He is still out there in the cold, wet night. He is still waiting for someone to come along and pet him, he is still hoping that one day that love he once knew, will return.
We will return for him, but only to finally end his solace. To end his isolation. We cannot erase his months of betrayal, or his months of depression. We can only alleviate his suffering, not replace it with love. There's not enough love in the world to make up for the wrongs of human beings. If they could understand our language, what could we ever say? Would we tell them that their lives mean nothing? That they're useless, worthless, nothing? Would we tell them that we thought throwing a baggy of shrimp outside still wrapped in plastic was simply enough to make up for the choking belt around their neck? That they deserved to fall asleep every night in the dampness of their own waste? Would we tell them that yes, we think that's just fine?
If we truly had to answer for our actions, what would we say?
Fortunately for us, our victims can't speak. Most of only fight for the ones who can, because it makes us feel less guilty. We turn our heads to those who can't because they're simply easier to forget.
So what happens when we can't forget?
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| Sirens? |
[06 Dec 2007|10:37am] |
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Also,
It's freezing here and feels like home.
I need a new USB cable for my camera. (but instead of buying one I'm hoping someone will loan give me one)
I feel hopelessful
Work is amazing. Hannah loves it here.
I miss being in someones arms at night.
I've never spent a Christmas alone.
I am silly and hope we snuggle when he gets back for Christmas.
What's the hurt in that?
Times I've cried on the phone to Chris: 5?
He's been amazing, Thank you Chris Masters. You've always, always cared. Next year, Christmas tree. It's a promise.
People who drop dogs off at random people's houses are fucking ridiculous. I can't believe this.
I hate that there isn't a loose leaf tea store here, but I'm super excited to check out the Herbal Pharmacy place on Granby.
I'm a geeky loser caffeine addict who reads books on Zen and love. I'm an adult. Crazy.
I really want my nose septum pierced. Will I ever do it? Hm.
Michael Vick demo on Monday, huge deal - so emotional and exciting.
Straw delivery this weekend, five hours searching for abused dogs, not so fun but definitely rewarding.
I'm ready for spring.
I never thought I'd say that.
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| Day One. |
[06 Dec 2007|10:22am] |
| [ |
mood |
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fuck. |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Interpol |
] |
So I'm going to start writing in this more because it's the most private thing I have now.
First entry of this new journalistic venture:
My mom told me today that she has a doctors appointment tomorrow morning because they think she has breast cancer. She says she's known about this for a while when she found the lump, but didn't tell me.
I don't know what's more disturbing - the fact that she didn't tell me or the fact that part of me thinks it's bullshit to make me feel sorry for her and come home.
What if she does have it? What then? Will it just be added to the list of other things she has? Will this actually be the thing that kills her? How did she get it, does that mean I'll get it? How am I supposed to feel about this?
Am I capable of being worried about her anymore?
Other thoughts are:
Oh my god, I can't go through another funeral.
I can hardly remember the last one because it was SO overwhelmingly horrifying.
This time, It'll be all on me.
How will I handle it?
What would life be like without her?
I imagine it being the most disappointing day of my life - knowing that I've finally lost the battle with her.
I would miss her so much. Some days, she's perfect. I would miss her because she might be the only person that can fix certain things within me.
Or maybe I can always fix them myself and I just wish she would instead?
Tomorrow..
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| gravity. |
[05 Dec 2007|09:25am] |
| [ |
music |
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duncan sheik; |
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I'm a huge walking idenitity crisis. {Is there a family out there that's missing me?}. I'm missing such a huge part of my life, and I'll never get it, I'll never find it.
Part of me still cringes when I look into the mirror. Do my eyes look like someone's I'll never meet? Where do I come from? Who's temper (or lack of a temper) do I have? Who do I look like?
This really fucking sucks. Anytime I bring this up to anyone, they complain about why I'm so stuck on it. I just am. I've been asked so many questions about my background, and I still am only a daily basis (literally), I've asked my mom so many times throughout my whole life, and finally I've come to the realization that there simply is no answer.
The only thing I can say runs through my veins is Detroit. It's probably the only place I ever recognized as "home".
The only thing I inherited from my mom was her political rage, and her ability to write - which I am thankful for. I'm good without having her alcoholism or manipulative personality.
I don't really think I'll ever drink again. I'm seeing it really as the pathetic mess I always saw it as, again. I just can't stand it. No, I will never judge anyone who drinks, until it effects someone else negatively - even for a second. Vegan people here always say that drinking is okay because it doesn't hurt anyone else but the person drinking, but that is bullshit, and I know that firsthand.
I'll live with the effects of someone elses drinking problem for the rest of my life, don't tell me it doesn't matter. It does fucking matter, it matters every single second, and it never ends. I NEVER want to be that person, ever - and if any of my friends become that person, you better believe I'll fucking kill them before they hurt themselves or others. There are a couple of things in this life that make me outraged: Animal abuse, drugs and drinking, politics, and discrimination.
Actually, constant negativity, apathy and neutrality piss me off too.
Everyone needs to take a side, right now. There's not enough time in the world to be apathetic.
Please, realize that your life means absolutely nothing if you don't dedicate it to helping others.
I don't know how it happened, but somehow in the middle of all of the fights between my parents, the calls to 911, the pictures of bruises and nights up late after his death argueing, my mom instilled in me the idea of helping others, and she did it pretty much starting the moment I was born.
I want to spend my life speaking up for those who live in misery, hoping that out there somewhere someone knows what they're going through, and will someday make it better. I used to be a little girl hoping with everything inside of me that there was some angel or person out there that would save me, but there was no one. I don't want it to be that way for anyone else, ever - human, or animal.
I think I'm going to start volunteering with kids with alcoholic parents, or kids from abusive homes. I want to show them that it's okay, and that you don't have to be a product of your environment, you just have to find that little spark inside of you and always remember that it's there.
My life is coming together now because of my belief in that spark. I want to help others find hope. Unlike animals, kids are given a chance to survive - but sometimes it can be so hard to even realize that the idea of survival exists somewhere out there when you're so deeply trapped.
I want to do more. I can never do enough.
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| just. lie. |
[30 Oct 2007|12:29am] |
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it's night like this where ghosts follow only my shadow.
dragging. biting. snarling.
you're so close behind me, your pale skin untouched.
love. trust. blindness.
infinity.
in your voice.
i'll take you straight to the grave.
how did i once find solace in something so hollow?
i ache to feel as naive as the winter months had made me.
now my skeletons picked, my bones outstreched.
but only now to leave you.
vocal and unbearing
my heart beats for you
only to stay.
i've got all your lies & all of my dreams bound to your lips.
it's been years and still i'm flickering.
flighting. denying.
my lips no longer ache for second chances,
at midnight. i half expected you to show up as my ghost, against my shadows & against the light. my breathe is thin, and my record repeating. my heart won't work right, my hands can't seem to get warm. i dont know what im doing wrong so i'll stand and repeat my mistakes for hours. {& i'll come crawling back to you} but it might take a few more seconds for me to realize that outside its raining and theres simply nowhere for me to go. {your arms are my prison} and your eyes my descent. the rain is sleet and my grip is slipping. hold onto me because i'm a deer in headlights and a finger on your trigger. {my trigger finger trembles} and you just stare ahead. your eyes are dead. and i'm far ahead of you. you'll learn to love the chase & the sound of my voice on telephone wire. {the choice is yours to choke or swallow} i'm holding your head underwater and kissing you goodbye.
your lips are wet.
and my heart is unapparent.
(deeper, darker - they plunge)
your skin is so many shades of pale.
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| Resolution :) |
[16 Sep 2007|01:45pm] |
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I am going to make a conscious effort to update this more.
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[30 Jul 2007|03:15pm] |
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Why is love the emptiest feeling of all?
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| What Dog Fighting means to me. |
[30 Jul 2007|12:03am] |
So I grew up, until I was 11, in the city of Detroit. I was born, raised, and schooled mostly in the city limits.
My first time witnessing the cruelty that man inflicts on animals, was dog fighting. Our neighbors did it, people in the parkways did it, there were pitbulls everywhere, my whole life growing up.
We saw them beat and put into trunks of cars.
We saw them hauled away in vans.
We saw them bleeding, scarred and ditched into parks to die.
Being who my mom is, she called the cops every single time. She cried, confronted the men who beat their dogs, and called the cops. After being threatened, and being confronted daily with ignorance and naivety by cops and offiicals, we moved out of Detroit because it was increasingly unsafe for us and our pets.
I didn't, and never will forget what I saw. Firsthand.
My work in animal rescue has been with all animals, however everytime GAAR took in a Staffordshire Terrier (Pitt Bull) I felt that it was truly a miracle, because I knew exactly where they had come from or could end up again. Working with a rescue, I had to deal daily with people's misconceptions of these innocent animals. Even families wanting to rescue an abused or neglected animal wouldn't come close to a Pitt. Shania was the first Pitt I worked with closely. People looking for an animal would say that Shania was scary, unpredictable just not trust worthy. Shania had come from a horrible abusive environment, but our group had had her for years, trying to find the perfect home for her, and she'd never shown the slightest aggression to us. It became a chore to find fosters for her, because not even other members of our group wanted her around their dogs - not because of actual evidence of her aggression, but because of her face. We never gave up on her, and eventually after two and a half years, found her a perfect home - far far away from the inner city of Detroit.
  Shania. I remember during Pet-A-Palooza last year, Sandy, Ginette and I spent the night in a hotel near the event overnight, and we had Shania with us. All she wanted to do the entire time was snuggle up next to us in bed and play. This dog showed us all the miracle of love and rehabilitation. Sure, it took years and a lot of love and affection to show Shania that not all men desired to fight or beat her, but in the end all she needed was a warm bed and a warm heart that would look away from the statistics, misconceptions and pre-judgements. When I joined the group, my first friend was Ginette, a vegetarian who I instantly bonded with. At the time, she was the group hero because she'd just adopted one of the most heart-breaking cases. Late one night in the dead of winter, our founders son John had been driving down a free-way in Detroit with his friends and noticed a pathetic, scared, on the edge of death animal that had been stabbed over 20 times and dumped to die. This dog was a pitt-bull mix. His face was bleeding severely, he had what looked like burn marks all over him, his ears were clipped, and he wasn't fixed. This was the typical scenario for a dog who has lost a fight. John scooped him off of the road and into the car, not hesitating for a second, and even though he was bleeding, freezing and scared, he was not aggressive. Ginette would adopt this dog soon after fostering him, and she would name him Champ. He now lives with three other huge dogs in a small house in Wayne Michigan. He lives with two little girls, Ginette and her boyfriend. He has never bitten or hurt anyone. He loves to play, snuggle, sleep in bed with his family, and enjoys life everyday because of Ginette's open heart and mind.  Champ on the right. The latest personal case for me, and the one that's closest to my heart, is not the case of a dog who was used in dog fighting, but one that was very close to ending up there. When my ex-boyfriend and I broke up last year, I went to stay with my mom for a couple of weeks while figuring things out. She lives in a mobile home community on the border of Romulus and Inkster. Most of the people who live around her are elderly, single parents or families with very low incomes. The family across from her consists of two parents who are 23 and 25. They have three kids, ranging from 2 to 6. They're usually out of work, and when they do have work, it's usually waitressing or contract jobs. This family owned a pitt-bull. When my mom first became close to them, they had just gotten the dog from a guy who beat it, so my mom called me and bragged about how these people had done the right thing and rescued him. He was a puppy, a small brown Pitt bull/rottie mix. They named him Bubba. This was about a year before I would come and meet him for the first time.
The first time I met Bubba, he was chained up to a wooden pole driven right into their trailer floor. He was chained so closely to the pole that he could not even stand up or turn around. He was muzzled by his mouth to the ground. As soon as I walked into the door, He tried hard to greet me, wagging his tail frantically and moving his face around. I saw him, and tears welled up in my eyes. My mom was babysitting for their kids at the time, so there was chaos in the background, my mom looked at me for help. She said they'd started tying him up because he would rip up their carpet. I told them it was because he never got to go outside or have any fun, it was natural for him to look for things to do when he hardly ever gets off the chain. My mom said she'd told them about me working for animal rescues and tried to convince them it was the right thing to do to give him up. I knew it wouldn't work.
While my mom tried to get the kids to calm down in the other room, I knelt down next to Bubba, I put my arms around him and I looked into his eyes. I promised him that I would get him out of there, I promised him I would save his life. That day I left to go back to my mom's while she continued to babysit. I didn't want to call the cops because I knew he'd be taken and euthanized. I didn't know what to do. I had no place to take him or foster him at this time, so I spent some time writing up letters to try to convince his owners to educate themselves or treat him better. That night, after my mom came home, she said that after I left she'd unchained up and let him roam around the trailer, she said he got really excited so she put him in one of the bedrooms and closed the door. My mom's pretty feeble and ill so she couldn't chase him around. An hour later, she went back to check on him and he'd destroyed an entire peice of their wall. His owners came home, relinqished her from babysitting and she apologized for letting him off. She thought it was the only thing she could do for him and now he would pay the price. That night I sat on the porch trying to get an internet connection to work, and what I heard, I will never forget. I heard Bubba screaming, I heard him being hit, him crying out, and a man yelling at him continuously for almost ten minutes. I sat shocked for a few minutes, not believing what I could be hearing. It wasn't until I actually rescued him, that my mom admitted that the next day, Bubba had blood all over his head from the night before.
I tried for almost a year to convince these people to give him up. I said that he was a financial burden, I told them that chaining a dog like this could lead to his aggression and instability, and that he might injure one of their kids. They would not give him up. They insisted that they loved him, that their kids loved him, and that they had made changes to improve his life. My mom conceeded that they'd been letting him outside more (always on a lead), and that sometimes he wasn't muzzled.
Working with rescue had taught me that finding a home for an abused pitt bull isn't easy. Infact it's mostly impossible. Not even most rescues want to take in abused pitt, because they're years of work, and it's hard to rehab them. Not every rescue has the resources to foster an animal for years, and others don't want to try, knowing that one animal is taking the space of others who could be more easily adopted. Most humane societies automatically put pit bulls down. I just read that the statistcs are that 70% of shelters in the US won't even try to adopt them out. I was hopeless, I waited it out. My mom watched him carefully and confronted them about the way they treated him regularly, she's said that they hadn't beat him since that last time.
About two months ago, almost a full year after the incident, I finally got the call I'd been waiting for. My mom called me frantically and said the mobile home landlord had come over to them and told them to get the dog off of the property by the next morning or else he was sending animal control to seize him. My friend Josh and I rushed over to get him. The family was upset, all of the kids crying. I assured them that nothing bad would ever happen to Bubba, again. Bubba sat on the grass, and as soon as he saw me, I'd like to think he remembered my promise. He'd waited so patiently. They took his muzzle off to eat, and I saw the scars around his mouth that would never heal - He was completely missing fur in a circular pattern around his mouth. He was jumping and playing and eager to get in the car with us. The family said their goodbyes, and gave me a choke collar that they'd one used on him and a bunch of rusty chains they said I could use to chain him, they also gave me a dirty bucket of food (Which I would later find mold in). The father of the family insured me, "He's a good dog, He'll listen, when he acts up, just call him a dumbass, he knows that."
I threw away the chains, the choke collar and the food as soon as I'd found the mold. It was no wonder why he wasn't eating it. He was on the verge of being emaciated, his bones sticking out, and his hip which had been injured by the previous family this family had "rescued" him from, was still injured and you could tell because he ran funny. A girl from my animal rights group brought us a huge back of vegetarian dog food for him, and another guy from our group bought us a tie out so that way he could stay in the backyard with us. After a night on the lead, I let him off to run around the yard, I think it was his very first time ever being off of a chain or lead. The night we got him, we let him come into Josh's house and sleep upstairs with us, and he did. He was wonderful. No accidents, no aggression, no bad behavior. You could literally stick your hand in his mouth while he ate. He just wanted love and attention. When I would leave his side to go into the house and use the bathroom or make more phone calls, he'd bark at me to come back. He fell in love with me just as much as I did him.
I desperately called rescues. No one would take him. Not one single rescue wanted to give him a chance. Some even advised me that the only thing I could do for him was to take him to a shelter and let him be put down. I would hang up with them and look into this dogs eyes. There was no way I could let that happen. Not after I promised him a better life.
Joey and Jessica came over, and brought their dog Chandler, a small German Shephard/Beagle mix. He was at least 100 pounds lighter than Bubba, and yet he dominated every playtime situation. Bubba had passed every single behavior test I'd given him, and yet no one would give him a second chance.
The reason I work in rescue, is to give these animals, ones that have been beaten and used, a new chance at life. I couldn't desert this dog's life because of his breed. I couldn't.
Throughout the three days with Bubba, I'd posted numerous posts and bulletins on myspace about him. I'd only gotten one call, and it was from a girl who's friend was looking for a dog. They drove an hour to come see Bubba, and from the moment they started talking to me, I knew these people were genuine and understood Bubba, his plight in this world and just how badly he needed that second chance. He went home with him that day, and since then he's been nuetered, had his shots, and is now due for surgery on Monday at MSU's vet hospital to get his hip replaced.
I kept my promise. Thanks to a few people who truly understand life on this earth, second chances, and compassion.
So everyone wants to talk to me about Michael Vick. What I think about him and if I'm going to be involved in the PETA protests when I leave. I hope that I am. What Michael Vick has done is a tragedy, a horrifying reality, and a sliver of hope - that dog fighters can be caught, brought to justice and punished. What Michael Vick did is not rare, it happens in the cities of Detroit, only 5 miles from my home, in Chicago, in the south. And it's being glorified by hip-hop and the very people with the most influence in urban cities. This is yet another up-hill battle for animal rights activists, but now it's at least one with media attention. Hopefully Michael Vick will serve as a true example of punishment as well.
The dogs I've written about all had one common theme, people or sometimes one person who truly puts their heart on the line for their lives. Millions of dogs a year don't have that. Only through education, spaying/nuetering, and fostering with rescues, can we change the climate for injured, neglected and abused pitt bulls in this country. Anyone who has visited a humane society, a shelter or used petfinder can see that the majority of dogs are pitt bulls, or pitt bull mixes. These dogs are stereotyped so badly that most will reach euthanasia before ever being looked at by an interested onlooker. These animals will die by hands they don't recognize, on cold steel slabs in shelters hearing other animals crying and barking in the distance, the smell of death and sickness al around them. These animals die because of people like Michael Vick, people you know, and sometimes even you yourself. Is your dog spayed or nuetered? Do your neighbors plan on breeding your dog and you can't wait to see the puppies? Do you know of friends who breed Pitt bulls or even fight them? Did you buy your dog from a breeder? If anything, Michael Vick is bringing this cruelty to light so that every single person can now be a witness to what is happening around them. I hope that people in Detroit watch the news and recognize the kennels in his multi-million dollar backyard as the same ones in their low income neighboorhood. I hope that someone who reads this decides they want to foster a pitt bull or even become involved in direct animal rescue. There's a misonception that we "crazy animal rights activists" only advocate for farm animals or lab animals or fur animals. Really, we're also out on the front lines battling everyday cruelty as well. Unchaining dogs, bringing them cold water in the summer and hay in the winter, dealing with the tragedy of humanity and its effect on other living things, everyday. Saving lives, making a difference, is easy. Find a shelter or rescue in your area, using www.petfinder.com. Volunteer. Raise funds. Educate. All violence on this earth is inter-connected. All peace on this earth is as well. You chose which one you want to advocate. There are millions of lives relying on yours.
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suicidelips's journal
