The Midwestern Ostrich Hound

I have always believed I’m a rather logical person. That’s not saying I don’t have my illogical moments (“Sure, I’ll foster the husky/terrier puppy” comes to mind), but for the most part I try to think and behave logically.

Now logic told me that working at the animal shelter for any length of time and I would more than likely end up bringing home something small and furry. When the pit puppy with the cherry eyes came in, logic told me that I am in no position to have a puppy-particularly one that would require surgery costing a couple hundred dollars. When the kitten with a Quinn tail, Amadeus eyes, Kingston coat, and Avery personality came in, logic told me that I did NOT need another cat.

So why, oh why, did logic decide today would be a good day to take a holiday? If the guys had done the logical thing and come in the back door and gone right into the euthanasia room, then there would have been no issue. Instead, they came in the front door and, with logic still nowhere to be found, handed me this:

Now before anyone says “Oh, but it’s a cute little bunny there’s nothing illogical about that” let me explain his situation. There’s an apartment complex in town that is full of less than reputable individuals. Drug deals, murder and domestic violence abound; not to mention the overabundance of pit bulls and the neglected/abused animals. The animal control officers hate going out there for any call. So do the local police, for that matter.

Guy calls from there today and says that some of the punk-ass kids out there were trying to kill this obviously wild born bunny. He went out there (at probable risk to life and limb) and confronted the kids. They told him that it had a “broken leg” so they were just going to kill it – by trying to break its back.

Guy takes bunny away from the kids. Kept it overnight last night and called the shelter today. And, like everyone else that calls us, his first question was “are you going to kill it?” Um injured wild rabbit? What do you think, Einstein?

He went on to say that the rabbit spent most of the night behind his couch but did come out and eat some of his cat’s food. So he seems to be able to get around. We put him down at the shelter and he didn’t move at all. I flipped over his back feet/legs and they just stayed that way. One foot is distinctly swollen, but the other foot seems okay – with a little tickling, it moves. And with a little poking & prodding he also moved his tail. So hopefully he’s just got a sprain and/or some nerve damage. He peed a little, so as long as he’s got bodily functions, I think there may be hope for him with a little R&R. Right now he has a cute little frogger stance going on:

And if this rabbit has been wild its whole life, I’d be shocked. He had no problem whatsoever being handled. My guess is that the punk-ass kids found a nest and kept the babies. Then this guy either got hurt on his own or they got bored and decided to hurt/kill him.

So yeah, I saw this poor little guy with the back legs out of whack and I saw Quinn with his missing toe and bad back & hips. All logic went right out the window and I offered to take him home. Home to a house with dogs and cats who would probably love to make a meal out of the little guy. Home to a crate locked in the spare room and equipped with a towel, a foam pad, some small animal bedding, a bowl of rabbit food, a handful of Kale, and a small pumpkin/gourd to snack on (yeah, I went a little crazy at Walmart).

Logic did return long enough to tell me that it would be crazy to take a day off from work and drive this wild rabbit to Batesville for Mark to look at him at $100+ for the visit. But if he’s still around when Quinn goes for his next chiropractic/acupuncture treatment, I might consider bringing bunny along.

He sure is a tough little guy when you consider the punk-ass kids trying to kill him, a night with his rescuer and the rescuer’s cat, a ride in the shelter’s van, half an hour on the floor in the shelter’s bathroom, stuffed in a crate and half an hour in the back of my car, a drive to Walmart and half an hour waiting in the car while I shopped, then another half hour while I set up his crate. Gotta give the little guy credit for that.

I have refrained from naming him and if he doesn’t improve any, or if he doesn’t have use of his bodily functions, I can and will take him back to the shelter and have him euthanized. But for the time being he’s here to stay. I’m going to do some research and see if I can find some information that may help me help his rehabilitation.

I’m guessing it’s a good thing I was not yet working at the shelter when they got the call about the four-foot long iguana down by the river. One of the animal control officers at the time ended up taking that guy home.

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Go Tunnel!

Pretty sure I didn’t derail her training, instead I got the “I’d be competing by now if you didn’t hold me back” look before she went off to chase field mice.

. . . what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

The Shadow knows!

Avery gets the Drama Queen Award for the day. We went to agility and, as usual, she started to go rogue on me. She cut across in front of me and I accidentally stomped on her right front foot. Stopped her from going rogue, but you should have heard the yelping.

I checked her over and she was fine. I went to reset the jump I took down in my attempt to keep from totally plowing into her and she sat there with her “injured” right foot held a good six inches off the ground. I’m not buying it, you’re fine. Go back to restart the run and she doesn’t limp at all. Complete the run with no sign of injury.

We get back up to the front of the barn and I said “Okay, let me check your foot again” She immediately sits and raises her LEFT foot a good six inches off the ground. Um, no sister it was the OTHER foot you injured; I guess I can assume it’s fine now, right? Friggin’ drama queen!

I’d like to thank the academy for this award.

So in the month I've been working at the animal shelter, my duties have expanded some. In addition to answering the phone and handing out dog tags, twice I've been called upon to shave overly matted little dogs. And twice I've been called upon to transport dogs to rescue.

First transport was 3 days after I started. Driving a Grand Caravan (I've never driven anything bigger than a Ranger) with seven barking dogs in the back. From New Castle to Rensselaer. For those not familiar with the area, that's 2 ½ hours – one way.

The bad thing is I kind of got used to driving a vehicle that has decent brakes and shocks. Especially when someone else is paying for the gas. But I had such a good time that I had no problem driving another New Castle/Rensselaer transport today. This one was ten dogs, including a 110 pound, 8 month old St. Bernard. Do you have any idea how heartbreaking it is to look in the rear view mirror and see this:

I wonder if it's too soon for me to request a cargo van for future transports.

It's been a while since I've gone out and gotten stupid. Most of my drinking and dancing buddies have left the state. But when I was invited to a party last night that would include drinks, ribs and karaoke, I was all for it. Well, until the 20-somethings made me sing a Sheryl Crow song I didn't know. The only thing worse was making them sing The Time Warp from the Rocky Horror Picture Show and them not knowing the song or even the movie. Talk about a reality check!

Anyway, since I'd locked up the boys while Avery was at agility earlier in the day (and because she can't be trusted loose in the house yet), when I left I crated Avery and gave the boys run of the house. There is a precise routine I have to follow before leaving them loose – namely blocking the bathroom door so Eli can't get into the litter box, and dragging an airline crate into the doorway so Quinn can't get into the kitchen. His anti seizure medicine makes him ravenous and given access to the kitchen makes him forget his manners. So they really only have access to the living room. And my last act before walking out the door is to throw Cheerios all over the living room to keep them from following me out the door.

Apparently the boys decided that since mom wasn't home they'd have a party too. They left the litter box alone, but they managed to push the crate out of the doorway enough to get into the kitchen. All I can say is they must have had a grand old time while I was gone:

My camera batteries died before I could get a shot of the food bowl and dishtowel on the couch. I'd love to know the thinking behind that!

And I don’t mean the poor photo quality from my sucky cell phone.

This is how we spent an hour last night until I eventually lost all feeling from the shoulders up.

Two peas in a pod

Three peas in a pod