Humane | The Bark

Animal control officer Cody Berry loaded up five dogs and pushed the button to activate the computer-controlled pump that slowly feeds carbon monoxide into the sealed death chamber. When Berry opened the door 20 minutes later, a dazed and frightened 18-month-old Beagle mix lifted his head, stood up and walked toward him.

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Santa Delivers

by Suzanne Corbett

I was halfway through attaching new trim to my Santa suit when the call came from the Humane Society. The pregnant dog they’d asked me to foster three weeks before had finally been brought in.

A Team Player

by Heather Bloch

Tony La Russa, manager of this year’s World Series champs St. Louis Cardinals, is the only manager of any professional sport who is also a champion to rescue animals. Twenty years ago he and his wife started the Animal Rescue Foundation (ARF) in Walnut Creek, California, that had its start when a liittle kitty ran out onto a baseball field… A few years ago we published this profile of the man and his shelter:

Volunteers travel the globe to help animals

by Rebecca Wallick

The stout, elderly woman — think babushka — arrives at the makeshift clinic with her two aging dogs. The dogs are in good health, but she wants them checked out by the American vets anyway. Later, she returns, pushing an old wooden cart laden with kittens to be spayed and neutered. The woman has decided that she trusts these Americans, and they happily oblige. It is, after all, why they’re here in Sărata- Monteoru, Romania.

Breeding Paradox

by John Woestendiek

As a cynical outsider might snobbishly see it, Americans have the attention span of an Irish Setter, the intellectual curiosity of an Afghan Hound, the turf-guarding ferocity of a German Shepherd and the hungry greed of a Labrador Retriever. Count up all the beings besmirched by those insults — the dogs, the Americans and perhaps most of all, the Americans who breed those dogs — and you’d have the makings of an army, and an angry one at that.

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Me and My (Unemployed) Dog

by Ellen Kaye

It’s another monday morning, and I’m reading the Times and sipping my coffee at an hour when most respectable people are already at work, or at least on their way. Like I used to be. Bam! The “Arts” section flies into my face as Tillie, my two-year-old Lab, head-butts her way onto my lap.

“You need a job,” I tell her as I rub her ears and wipe the sleep out of her eyes.

“Hell, I need a job,” I add.

Look who’s performing not-so-random acts of kindness. Warm fuzzy feelings included.

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