There's Always Room for One More

Those of you that know me, know that I love dogs almost more than anything else in this world. I grew up with dogs, my parents instilled in me a love of them. So, I guess it's my parents' fault that I got involved with rescue. Although my mom will argue that an it's all because of one of my aunt's that I'm dog crazy!

My 'real' introduction to rescue was a gorgeous pitbull pup named Ruca. My good friend had 'rescued' her from a crack house. He saw her on the front porch with a man that was clearly high and not caring for her. My friend approached and complimented the guy on his pup. The exchange ended with my friend walking away with the pup, his wallet a little bit lighter. But his heart much fuller. Ruca was my introduction to pitbulls and how misunderstood they can be.

Later, when I discovered that I couldn't be without a dog any longer, my search for one began. I wanted what my friends had in Ruca - a constant companion, well trained and obedient, cuddly and goofy. And so I scoured the internet. I haunted the Kjiji and Craigslist listings, I Googled Ottawa area rescues. I wanted a dog and I didn't care about where it came from. Ideally, I wanted a pitbull pup. I hit a wall when I learned that these wonderful dogs have been banned in Ontario since 2005. Instead, I ended up with Remi.

Remi is a brindle mutt that captured my heart from the moment I spied him. His sisters galloped towards me; Remi checked me out and then casually made his way toward me. My heart belonged to him as soon as he planted his front paws on my legs. It wasn't much longer after that, that he was sitting in a friend's lap as we drove the three hours back to Ottawa.

My very own dog. Finally.

I filled my Facebook page and Instagram with pictures of him. I showed him off every chance I got. I answered questions from strangers on the street about where I got him. "What breed is he?" is a question that I got a lot. Lots of them were surprised when I said that he was from a rescue. "But he's so well behaved!" was the response I got to my answer.

Looking back, I shouldn't be surprised. Some people don't have a great perception of rescue dogs. But I am continually surprised by the questions that I field on an almost daily basis about my foster dogs. I've fostered two dogs to their adoptions. I've temped several others. And I'm fostering the most wonderful dog now, Nigel. Like my other foster dogs, he's a pit bull dog. He isn't available for adoption in Ontario, and while that's pretty terrible, I'm so thankful that I work with a rescue that values these misunderstood dogs and is willing to care for them while we find homes outside of Ontario.

When I first started fostering, many of my friends and co-workers thought I was crazy to bring an unknown dog into my home. They questioned how smart it was. What if it was sick? or vicious? or old? None of these concerned me. I was reassured by the foster coordinators that the dogs were assessed before they left the shelter and they were vetted; in short, there was nothing wrong with these dogs that love couldn't fix. Every dog that I have fostered has been a wonderful dog. There have been hiccups - Mango had allergies, Peyton needed to be housetrained, Nigel is fearful of everything - but the benefits have far outweighed the trouble.

And yes, it is tough to let them go. But every dog deserves a forever home. I cry a few tears when I get home without my foster. I crawl into bed with Remi and we cuddle. And then I get a message shortly afterwards, "We have a new foster for you!" and my heart leaps! I do a load of laundry and make sure we are prepped for the new arrival. And so the foster cycle starts again: the introduction between Remi and his new foster sibling; a walk with my new dog; a short run through of basic commands and before I know it- another wonderful dog is ready for their own home.

There is nothing wrong with rescue dogs. They aren't broken or unworthy. They deserve love and a soft bed. They deserve soft hands and cuddles on the couch; car rides to the cottage and so much more. So even though letting go means tears and a slightly bruised heart, it also means another wonderful dog gets a second chance. I'm so blessed to be part of a rescue organization. It's filled my heart and my home with love and joy and dogs.




*For more information about Sit With Me check out the website at www.sitwithme.ca. For information about the foster program email foster@sitwithme.ca. Sit With Me is a registered Canadian Charity.

New ink and a tribute to Jessie Craig

Two years and 10 days after the day that Nanny passed away, I got a tattoo inked onto the skin of my left arm.

I had planned for this from the first few minutes after we buried her. I knew that I needed to have her indelibly etched on me. I knew that I needed a constant reminder of her that I could touch and see and have. 

Thankfully, I found a tattoo artist that breathed life into what I wanted: Samantha Read of Inkspot Tattoos.

I booked the appointment and waited impatiently. I fretted over the whole idea. I hadn't told many people that I was getting a new tattoo. And I especially hadn't told anyone back home. Something inside of me wanted to keep the whole thing quiet. 

In the days leading up to my appointment I cycled through lots of emotions - anxiety, excitement, sadness, melancholy, and so many more. I cried, I laughed and I relived the days leading up to Nanny's death. I remembered how it felt to have almost every relative home in her house. I remembered passing around stories of Nanny. Of holding her hand and listening to her raspy breaths. I remember stretching out beside her the night before she passed away and sleeping curled up next to her like I used to do as a child. 

I remembered holding her hand as she faded into the night.  I remembered that on April 2, 2013 at 9:02pm my grandmother, my friend, my hero, my partner in crime, my second mum - took her last breath surrounded by her loved ones. It's a special thing to be able to take your last breath surrounded by your loved ones in the house that you were born in, that you spent your childhood in, that you lived your married life and raised your children in. And it was one of Nanny's wishes. And we honoured it. 

The tattoo that I got in tribute of Nan consists of a ruby throated hummingbird sitting on the edge of a teacup that bears the pattern of Nanny's bone china, with apple blossoms and her initials in a locket. It's beautiful. I love it. I proudly show it off and it gives me an opportunity to tell people about the amazing woman that played a huge role in my growing up. 

I've noticed lots of things that have reminded me of Nanny since she passed. But I'm so happy that I have a reminder of her on me that I can experience whenever I miss her. 

Foster Update: Mango The Ginger Pig

"Saving one dog won't change the world, but surely for that dog the world will change forever."

- unknown

This past summer I decided that I wanted to foster dogs. I did my due diligence and research and chose to contact Sit With Me Shelter Dog Rescue. I went through a series of interviews and checks and a home visit before a dog was placed with me.

I was entrusted to look after a small pocket pitty, Mango. She was less than 40 pounds when she arrived, she has just been spayed and so she was doped up and miserable. And she wanted nothing to do with my dog Remi. Remi on the other hand wanted to play with her so badly that he was vibrating. And so Mango entered the Ottawa branch of the McLellan Family.

In the next few days, it became obvious that she still wanted nothing to do with Remi. Any time he came near her she snarled and tried to bite him. And not in a cute don't bother me way. I was starting to get worried that there was something wrong with me or Remi or that in the short amount of time that I had had Mango, that I had turned her into a dog aggressive pitbull and ruined her for life. After a week of trying every trick that I knew, I contacted that rescue group ready to admit defeat and tell them that I couldn't look after this adorable dog. Thankfully, Mel (my foster coordinator) dropped in for a home visit to see how the dogs interacted. After a few tense moments where Mango went for Remi, Mel could see that Mango just needed to be shown that she wasn't in control of Remi and coached me in how to help Mango snap out of that mind set. We practiced a few times before she left and that was that.

Since then, she and Remi are inseparable. They eat, sleep and play together. It has been so rewarding to see her come out of her shell and turn into this playful, goofy dog. She has learned her commands in English (I learned the commands in French!) and is learning to walk gently on a leash.

Not bad for a little over a month of love and gentle work.

I've also become well versed in pitbull stigma. In Ontario any dog that looks like it could be a pitbull is banned. Because Mango is a 'pitbull' type dog she is subject to the law. She is only allowed in Ontario because she is a ward of a rescue organization and her foster home is in Ontario. This means that every time she goes outside she has to wear a muzzle. And the muzzle is what brings attention to her. I've become used to people stopping and getting out of the way (even going so far as to cross to the other side of the street) as we stroll down the street.

I've heard people comment that I shouldn't be allowed to have a vicious dog. Lots of people make snap judgements about the dog I'm walking, and also about me. I had one couple stop me and ask me if it made me feel powerful to own a dog that was so vicious it had to be muzzled. I quickly explained that Mango was my foster dog and that she wasn't vicious at all. That because someone somewhere thought she was a pitbull, I had to put a muzzle on her. I told them her story, how she was essentially abandoned and even though she was so young had been pupped on at least 2 occasions. I told them that I was responsible for ensuring that Mango was looked after until she was adopted. I explained that the Breed Specific Legislation (BSL) is actually ineffective as a law, and that it should be changed to target dog owners, not dog breeds. All this is happening while Mango sits quietly at my side, tail wagging as people and dogs walk by- clear evidence that she is not what they judged her to be.

This is what I do as a foster for Mango, I engage with people and take that opportunity to educate the public on what wonderful dogs 'pitbulls' can be. I get dirty looks and rude comments, but I can put up with that as long as it means that strangers are willing to stop and listen when they ask a question.

As for Mango, she doesn't even realize that people judge her before they even know her. She's happy to go for walks and chase Remi when I let her. She knows that if she is good, she'll get belly rubs and cuddles. And if she's bad, well she'll still get those things, just after her timeout.



So far, fostering is one of the best things I've decided to do. It's just as easy to look after 2 dogs as it was to look after just Remi.

And while I know I will a little sad, when my ginger pig gets adopted, it will be nothing to the joy I will feel. So until then, I will love Mango like she's mine.

When your bad luck outweighs your good

It has been said that if I didn't have bad luck, I would have no luck.

I would agree with this statement. Whole heartedly. 

Two weekends ago, Kate and myself were slated to transport three dogs from our area to the Montreal SPCA. I'd done this once before and it was easy and painless. So we picked up the dogs and started out. It was a great little drive. Except for the fact that one of the dogs, a shitz-tu that we named Yzma, didn't stop her shrill barking. So I had to pull over an hour into the drive to take her out of the crate and give her to Kate to hold. Unfortunately for Kate, she was covered in old pee. And stank. Every time she moved, we got a whiff and it was enough to make us gag. 

We made it to the Montreal SPCA with no more difficulties and got the dogs unloaded and signed into their care. Then we jumped back into the Jeep for the ride home. Except when I went to back out there was no power steering. So I popped out to check that everything was okay. And let's just say that it wasn't.

Thankfully the people and staff of the Montreal SPCA were lovely and cool headed, we spread kitty litter all over the lot to soak up the various liquids spewed out and they had one of their people look at the engine. And then Kate and I sat in the building to think about what we were going to do. Kate had to open the next morning at 5 and we both have 2 dogs that needed to be fed and walked. Spending the night in Montreal was not an option. 

So I did what I do whenever I'm in a spot of trouble: I called Lisa. 

And she offered to drive from Stittsville to Montreal to pick us up. So I had the Jeep towed to a garage that was still open, and then Kate and I wandered the streets of Montreal, ate MacDonald's and tried to find a Starbucks that we could take refuge in until Lisa and Jan rescued us. 

Although, the whole situation was pretty terrible, the silver lining in it was the confirmation that I have wonderful friends in my life. I don't know many people that would have offered to drive 3.5 hours to pick us up and then turn around and head back to Ottawa. 

So although I have terribly bad luck, the one area I have an abundance of luck in, is my friends.

A belated thank you note.

Not too long ago I sat in a pub with a couple of friends. We were chatting about this, that and everything in between. Weirdly, the conversation turned to social workers. Now I can't remember how it started or what exactly was said, but needless to say my ears perked up.

What you may not know is that I am adopted. Thankfully, my parents have always been open about it. They answered the tough questions (why didn't my mom want me?) and the silly questions (did you have to pay for me?) and they've always been open about the people that helped them through the process. It can be quite invasive. There have been many times I've been out with mom or dad and we've run into my case worker, my foster mom, various social workers involved, the lawyers involved, the judge.... I think I've met everyone involved, except my birth parents.

One of my friends remarked that being a social worker was a thankless, terrible, dead end job, where the social workers felt they weren't actually accomplishing anything, all this via a friend's dad. The rage I felt at the comment was instantaneous and fiery. I actually had to bite my tongue to not verbally eviscerate my friend. Keep listening I thought to myself. Don't say anything you'll regret. I felt sick to my stomach and cold as I listened to the others join in. I couldn't take it anymore and I jumped in. I think I sneered. I never sneer. But my anger was growing and my temper (which can be formidable) wouldn't allow me not to. I told them they obviously didn't know what they were talking about. That I had been/was a part of the system and that as far as PEI went I had heard nothing but positive responses from the social workers that I had interacted with. That my aunt, who is a social worker, loved her job and was often found speaking about how she felt she was a part of something that accomplished good.

And then I went silent in my rage. I stared at my phone and texted my sister that I was having a moment. The conversation at the table in the pub slowly picked up. The subject changed to something completely different. I made no move to interact with anyone. I was still too angry. I was shaking. Never a good sign. I began to replay the conversation over in my head. And I realized I had to let it go. It didn't matter than my friends didn't see the good in social workers like I did. It didn't matter that my conversations throughout my growing up years all indicated that social work was a profession filled with positives and negatives (and yes, tough cases where children are removed from homes and families) but overall these men and women that worked in the field felt proud of their work.

It's been a couple of days and I still feel anger when I think of this conversation. I can't help but feel sorry for the people that are social workers who think and feel this horrible way. I guess I can see how it would feel thankless.

So, to anyone and everyone who is a social worker, works with them, is married to one, is a child of one, is a parent of one; I hope you know what a wonderful person they are. This person has a heart so big and filled with love that they are advocating for children who have no one else to advocate for them. Your loved one is a hero in my books. They saved my life. They gave me my family. They talked to my teenage bio mom and calmed her fears. They helped dry her tears at giving me up for adoption. They held me to their chest and rocked me. They called my adoptive parents and shared the news that they were finally going to be parents. They made my parents happier than they've ever been. They gifted me with a baby brother. They came for visits and had tea with us. They called to check on us.

They are the reason I exist as I do.

I have to apologize to my friend. Perhaps her friend's dad really didn't like his job. Maybe he only saw the negative and never got to see the wonderful things that I experienced growing up.

I ended up emailing my case worker the day after this happened. I thanked her for her work and everything she did for me and my family and all the other kids like me who she came into contact with. I've decided that thanks is the least I can give.

And maybe that's better than anything else.

Letter to my grandmother

Dear Nan;

It's coming on summer. You know- those hot, sunny days you always said were perfect for picking berries. I think I'm going to miss picking berries with you.

I watch the sunsets. Every time I see the blue that matches your eyes, I know you are watching. I miss you.

I miss how papery your hands were. They never seemed fragile though. I watched you hull hundreds of pounds of berries, and peel thousands of potatoes. I never thought I'd miss that.

I miss going to the trailer with you. Stocking up on the necessities; which always seem to include bacon and chocolate bars. Remember how you'd get us all tucked in, and then pass out the chocolate? I miss those mornings when you'd get up to start the bacon, but let us stay in the bed all cozy.

I miss watching you make tea. I miss making you tea. Did I ever learn to make it properly? Probably not, but I don't remember you seeming to care.

I remember the day I told you I was moving away. You got a sad look in your eye, but you smiled for me anyway. I'm sorry I didn't come home as often as I could have.

I miss Scrabble games, and orange pop and salt and vinegar chips and holding hands and laughing and going for walks back the lane with you. I miss listening to the clacking of your knitting needles. I miss knitting with you. I miss reading with you. I miss everything.

I miss you.

I miss you a lot.

I love you. I always will.