Avoiding the Pitfalls of Adoption

This is a story warning about pet rescues, specifically dog adoptions, and may only interest some of you. So read, or skim, at will. Here we go....

Sometimes, when the head of the home is unemployed, he has a lot of extra time to search 'the internets' for free stuff, good deals and lots and lots of dogs looking for their "furver" homes. (If I see that phrase one more time.) This isn't a husband bashing post, I'm just simply laying the foundation for this story. One would think these hours would probably be best spent, I dunno, replacing faulty bath fixtures or maybe purging the garage of our tool hoard or maybe even looking for work. (Again, not a bash, just making suggestions aloud. And this is nothing I haven't said to him personally.) Recently we found ourselves in the home of a puppy foster mother with 6-8 adoptable 8 week old puppies. Fascinating! But where did they come from? How did she acquire them? And more importantly, WHAT THE HECK WERE WE DOING THERE?

Rewind to Christmastime: We had our eyes peeled for a canine companion for my mature parents. After seeing an ad on the Chesco SPCA site, my husband took a road trip the very next day to see the pooch. He arrived two hours before they opened to secure his spot in line. I proudly equipped him with my impressive list of personal and Vet references because I'm acquainted with their rigid (and understandably so) application process. Ha. So much for that. He was the only patron there! After a rather cold welcome, they spent an unusual amount of time cross-examining him about his application; about the cats we had to put down nine years ago and the fact that the kitties we recently rescued from a junkyard weren't spayed or vaccinated yet. (They were only months old!) They went out of their way to try to pin something inhumane on us. It was ridiculous. The next day we called and learned our application was not accepted due to our "questionable pet history". (Yeah. We are cruel, not to be trusted.)

Fast Forward to February: Paul whispered something to me and flashed his phone in front of my face; an advertisement for adorable Pug puppies being fostered in Chester County. I thought the puppy was cute and that was that. He showed me the post on Craigslist and I said, "YOU CANNOT SHOP FOR A PUPPY ON CRAIGSLIST!" (I roared, actually. It helps me get my point across quicker.) He told me to relax and showed me that the Craigslist ad provided a Facebook page owned by the same organization. Well, that made sense as the SPCA and many legitimate rescues have FB pages. Hesitantly, we made an appointment to see the puppies (a Pug/Bulldog has been on our list for so long) after all, if we got there and it didn't feel right, we'd move on. We'd escaped the SPCA empty handed several times previously, so I knew we had the ability to say no. Before making the appointment I spoke to the foster mom on the phone at length. She seemed like a nice gal, probably around my age, and tenderly spoke of these particular Pug puppies being surrendered after 'the death in a family (in Pennsylvania) left a grown man with special needs as an orphan; unable to care for the dog and her five or six puppies'. Aw. That WAS a sad story. I asked about several of the other puppies available on their Facebook page. "Where are all the adoptable ADULT dogs??" They seemed to have unlimited litters of 8 week old puppies! So many more than I had ever seen before! I was told that this rescue was just getting started -- and being new didn't have the funding needed to care for adult dogs that usually come with expensive health issues (arthritis, allergies, etc...) She assured me that they DO adopt out adult dogs, but those dogs were featured on her sister's animal rescue site; an outfit in Media, PA under a different name. They are more established and have the wherewithal to handle older dogs. Oh? Ok.

Seconds after we arrived in Spring City to see the Pug pups, my son immediately fell in love with a male Pug. Together my son and I admired his enormous eyes and funny features. But when I looked across the room I found my youngest boy with 7 puppies sleeping on his lap and he was in love, too. He pointed to one puppy in particular that stopped his heart. My husband (yes, we're still married at this juncture) picked up the sleepy puppy and held him six centimeters from my face. "LOOOOOK how CUUUUUUTE!", he squealed. I quickly snapped, "Get him away!" I wanted nothing to do with helplessly falling in love with more than one puppy that day.

I dragged my husband outside and we had words over this very issue. I guess I lost that debate... His reasons included the size of the puppies - "they really won't eat much, their waste is small, in comparison, and they only have small teeth so they can't really do considerable household damage..." My husband left a deposit and we were to return 4 days later when the pups were old enough to be released.

I worried for four days straight, stared at the ceiling, put the milk in the cupboard, didn't answer my phone. What in the world are we going to do? We cannot get two more puppies and my husband isn't changing his mind.

A year ago, during a visit to Lancaster County, we accidentally ended up at the home of an Amish breeder. He was our buggy driver during a tour of the back roads of Lancaster and I immediately made him my close, personal friend (whether he liked it or not) and within a matter of minutes learned that he and his wife bread English Bulldogs. (Our favorite.) Mr. Esh needed a ride home after his shift and I immediately offered to take him home!! WHY NOT!!?!? When we dropped him off, he graciously invited us to see his dogs, his home, walk his property. We were in love. Later that day, we came back to meet his wife who handles all the dog biz. She seated us at her kitchen table. It was warm, dimly lit and comfortable. She had dinner simmering on the stove. (Oh, the irony! Earlier that day we had paid "Plain & Fancy" for a tour of a mock-up Amish home. This was way more authentic.) After our visit, we left our number for her to notify us when the next litter of pups arrived.

During our Lancaster vacation and back at the hotel, I started doing some research and came up with some very concerning facts about breeders in the 717 area code. I shared some photos and my friends suggested I was most likely at a puppy mill. I was in denial. But they had very few dogs. It was clean. Not a lot of barking. My husband thought I was nuts.

I contacted a very well known rescue in the Greater Philadelphia area by email. I wanted to learn more about how to I.D. a puppy mill. She said it was pretty easy. If the breeders are Amish, it's most likely a mill. They breed for money. (But don't all breeders?) They don't name the dogs, they are left in rabbit hutches, they are unheated and they produce litter after litter until they are unprofitable. The owner of this local rescue (Finding Shelter) was so helpful and begged me not to get a puppy from the Esh's. I had made my mind up that she was right and I wanted nothing to do with Amish dog breeders any more. (My husband still thought I was nuts - "Not everybody's out to get you, Sheryl.")

Back to the present-day situation. My stomach churned for days and we set up a meeting to pick up the puppies in Spring City. But before then, I made a call to the owner of this rescue. I had lots of questions. Why did they have so many puppies? Where did they come from? When you adopt from the SPCA, the animals come spayed and neutered to prevent more unwanted puppies! Why didn't this rescue take the same precautions? "I'm sorry to grill you, but I'm just trying to make sure you're a bonafide rescue." I asked and she answered. She had ALL the right answers. "We're just a bunch of moms who rescue puppies." Awwww. Isn't that special? I forced myself to trust her.

When it was time to fetch our puppies, the foster mother offered to drop off the puppies since she was coming "to the mall" that night. Oh. That was nice. Saves us a trip. Little did we know she wouldn't be coming to our home, but meeting us at 7pm, in the dark, in the cold, in a remote area of the PARKING LOT of the mall. She handed us the puppies, said they hadn't eaten yet (it was 7pm!!)because she was at work all day, gave us the vaccine report and that was it. She had two other puppies in the car being picked up at the same time. Oh, and the check? Was made payable to her. Not the shelter. I KNEW IT.

Welp. Here we were. The owners of two new puppies from a dealer. Not a shelter. I was going to be the shame of the dog park. Tarred and feathered, no doubt.

Please use caution and do your homework before getting a dog from a dealer (posing as a rescue.) Clues that I suspected but ignored: 1) The foster mom was a single mom with 3 children, working as a waitress, trying to keep her home. Surely she wasn't fostering because she had lots of extra time??? Needed more responsiblities?? 2) The Facebook page they ran didn't have the option for patrons to grade them with a review. 3) The payment was made directly to the foster, not a shelter with a 501c3. 4) The application they made me complete was too abbreviated and they never checked my Vet or personal references. 5) Days after the adoption, I texted the foster with questions about coccidia. She answered me by saying she was in North Carolina. (Picking up more puppies?????)
6) My spirit of discernment (womens' intution) was on amber alert. I should have stopped there.

My plans are to report this shelter and foster to PA Dog Law and share my story so others don't end up ensnared in the same mess. Here's where to go...
http://www.agriculture.pa.gov/Protect/DogLaw/Pages/default.aspx#.VuqdlOaH_hA

*DEALERS MASQUERADING AS RESCUES:
Hinde's Animal Safe-haven
STAR Wags & Whiskers

*EXCELLENT RESCUES I RECOMMEND
Delco SPCA
Finding Shelter Animal Rescue
Francisvale Home for Smaller Animals
S.N.O.R.T. Short Noses Only Rescue Team
among others...

Christmas Newsletter 2015

Due to some recent cut-backs and markedly reduced cash flow, this year's Christmas greeting will be electronic. So if you can SEE this, read it. It's your Christmas card. It begins here >>> Rejoice! It's that time again! That time of year, full of wonder and mystery. Where newsletters from family and friends far and wide come pouring in! Perfectly staged family pictures, taken by paid photographers, each out-doing the next. Families gracefully stretched out on giant throws, nestled between the high-reaching brush of a deer tick infested field during Fall's peak photo shoot season. Fashionably costumed in harmonious Pinterestesque-looking hues. "Behold, A Savior Is Born!" is really spelled more like, "Sebastian's excelling in all of his studies. He was awarded summa cum Tootsie Roll among his 3rd grade peers...he also toured with the boys' choir to Prague, so we decided to meet up with him and ride camels through Egypt on the way home...anyway, HAPPY HOLIDAYS!" Listen, I don't begrudge you all the nice things you've worked hard to do and have. Scratch that. Maybe I do. Nevertheless, don't feel sorry for me. The wonder continues in our home. It's just a little different than yours. For instance, every day I wake up and wonder if the heat will work... If the phone's just off the hook, or perhaps my service has been suspended. I wonder if my pants will fit. Or if this will be the last time we survive another crack at the Russian roulette I play with questionably out-of-date poultry products. Or if anyone notices that I haven't really tried to do anything cute with my hair in over two, OK six years. I wonder if my A1C really is reaching fatal highs. And perhaps, if I play my cards right and I put off having a baseline mammogram one more year, maybe I won't be alive long enough to actually have to have one. I wonder if it's possible that my neighbor can actually hear the family feuds that take place in the driveway and perhaps that's the reason she no longer talks to me. Well, enough about me. I'm guessing you want to hear how my perfect children are doing? So, Jake is 23 now. And things are great. Yes, all those charges were dropped. Levi is 9. We've been working hard to address the bullying. He's no longer allowed to target Muslims on the playground, and he's under strict instruction to only go after girls half his size and greater. And Jude. He's 7 and ALMOST potty trained. Atta boy! As for the homeschooling, I've decided to give the boys a year off to decide what they want to do with their lives. (You don't ever want to push kids too hard.) Paul is still unemployed so I'm using this opportunity to experiment with welfare provisions. I'm excited to announce my new holiday cookbook, "Easy, Elegant Entertaining with Government Cheese". Look for it on Amazon in the coming days.

From our nearly repossessed home to yours, MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY 2016!

In all seriousness, anything we have is more than we deserve and God's been gracious and faithful all year long, as always, despite our complaints of temporary, worldly struggles. Even the very air we breathe is a gift. Just to live another day in this country, proclaiming our faith in Him without fear of losing our heads, is something we highly underestimate. Happy Christmas wishes and love from all of us at The White House.

Matthew 1:21 “And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name JESUS: for he shall save his people from their sins.”

Praise Hands? Warehouse Hands?

So, as you may have heard, my husband's out of work. Which I find particularly funny. In fact, I think it's a riot. Especially at this time of year. If I were to look at it any other way, I'd most definitely decompensate. Growing up with two older (much, MUCH older) sisters, I had to assume my share of "boy jobs" around the ranch. Moving air-conditioners, lifting things with Dad, loading a cargo truck, mowing the grass. These were all pretty normal for me as a kid. My stage name for these jobs was "Sammy" (since my sisters and I all had S names). When I heard my dad call, "C'mon, Sammy. I need your help", I knew I should reach for my designer support belt and work gloves and get to steppin'. Which opens the windows of my memory a little... My parents had a retail business in our hometown where we also sold wholesale out of our warehouse. My Saintly mom, piano hands and all, packed boxes filled with weighty pillar candles, steered them down a roller belt and was on a first name basis with the Duie Pyle and UPS drivers. I remember how chapped her hands became from using the brown, water based packing tape. Poor mother. She worked so hard. A friend recently told me about a job she took at a FedEx warehouse; working part-time while her family sleeps. This inspired me to look online and behold, this morning I set the alarm for 3:30a and arrived at 5a at UPS in West Goshen for a "tour/interview". It was dark and the directions for arrival were non-existent, but I was so happy to have been able to zoom South on 202 ALL BY MYSELF. That's the only way you should ever travel 202. Ever. So all that was provided via their online application process was the address. I followed the arrows and steered my Buick into a parking lot where I saw a weigh station -- HUP! NOT GOING THERE! I don't care WHAT they pay. No, really, I saw a sign that said, "Human Resources" and followed the arrow. NOW I was the only passenger vehicle surrounded by herds of tractor trailers lined up like soldiers, and men in orange safety vests were ZOOMING them around at a breakneck pace. I looked at the clock. THIS didn't look right either and now I had only five minutes to get to my interview. I waited patiently while two enormous trucks waltzed around me. Such precision. I couldn't believe how they moved those giant monsters so quickly and carefully with such speed! I thought to myself, "I'm going to get squashed like a bug, aren't I. I'm probably not supposed to be anywhere near here." I finally slipped through the trucks and as I was turning my head trying to figure out where the beans to park, I glanced left just in time to see a furious UPS trucker "waving" at me (ahem!) to get the bleep out of the way. Good thing I had K-LOVE on at a pretty high volume to block out the obscenities. I was sorry. I didn't mean to almost get myself killed. Really. I parked miles away and was scanned by the safety guy in the guard shack and checked for weapons. Cool. Once I made my way up the steps to the HR department, I was escorted by a nice lady into a quiet room. I turned and saw twenty people, mostly young men, seated around a giant conference table looking at me funny. Gulp. I was the only one wearing pink. Which brings up another point. WHAT EXACTLY does one wear to a warehouse interview? If it's dark when you get dressed, do you select an evening look? And are you expected to apply mascara at 3:30 in the morning? I did, but it wasn't easy. My lashes ached with every stroke, that's how tired my eyes were. These guys obviously didn't give their outfits much thought. I think almost all of them, urban in appearance, had on black or gray hoodies, with the hoodie in the UPRIGHT position. Wow. I totally could have skipped the lip gloss and shaved minutes off of my prep time. Back to the event. A very slender, 66yo lady with long brown hair, blunt bangs and bright coral nails talked about her love of UPS and her twenty-five years with them. She explained the hours and pay and the torture we were to expect. And work boots. There would be work boots. (Uh oh. This wasn't explained on the website.) You see I wasn't afraid to work hard, but my goal was to be able to maintain at the very least a modest, sporty gel manicure. By the looks of this place, that wasn't gonna happen. And the hours on the website looked doable; 4a - 8:15a. The only problem with that is that would put me back on 202 during morning rush hour. GAH! After further explanation, Suzanne confessed that the advertised 3-4 hour shift would mandatorily grow quickly over time in the days leading up to Christmas... (She said CHRISTMAS! PRAISE HANDS!)...and that REALLY I would be required to report at 3a, then 2a, then 1a, then 12mid --- and work until 7 or 8am. That's ok. But when again am I supposed to sleep? She escorted us downstairs to take a look at the brave men in brown up close. I stepped carefully up to truck #102 and got to see LIVE how the boxes are separated by shelf and how they must be rapidly loaded in order to get the deliveries out on time. It was dark. Really dark. It was kinda' cold, but everyone was in tank tops sweating their tails off. But I noticed no gloves. These guys didn't care about callouses?? I continued to smile and be my charming self. They were probably all laughing at me. Suzanne asked how many of us were still interested in an interview -- the jobs would start Monday. "Um, I'm interested---but with questions." She was not amused by me. She didn't know anything of the advertised pay on the website nor the hours that were listed. She said they're shifting into Christmas overdrive and if I didn't want to work lots of hours, then this wasn't the time to apply. I decided I was too young to die. But it's 6:15a and I'm all dressed up and have nowhere to go. Oh well, it was worth a try. At least I got to take this picture of UPS's neighbor for all my Q friends. Back to selling stuff outta my garage for now.

Need a laugh today?

The following conversation took place at our local pool. Normally a very, very quiet place during the day. Folks start to file in after 4p when the rates drop. But the other day I was seated by the deep end and I see (and hear) a grown woman swim over to the hunky Lifeguard stand (the Lifeguard was seated up high) and she yelled out of the blue, "Better not get that melanoma cancer!" (He was wearing a hat, dark shades and was neatly tucked directly under a large umbrella.) I thought to myself, oh how dear. She continued, "I had that last year! I have 6 kids. Yup. Got 4 boys and 2 girls. One's a singer in Nashville. He's on the COMPUTER! He records with Bon Jovi." I continued to think, oh she IS dear. She went on and on about her kids and then I got distracted and turned off my ears. Yesterday at the pool, my boys were yelling at me to get the skimmer (like I work there?) to remove some of the floating debris that remained after the previous day's tornado that ripped through King of Prussia. (Jamie, if you're reading this, Gulph Mills Apts suffered loads of damage. 2 cars lost their windshields, plus other destruction.) Out of no-where I hear, "I used to swim in the creek! Kids today!!" There she was. My friend from the other day. She was sunbathing, laying down, and then WOOP, she sits up to speak to us. It startled me a bit but inside I was cracking up. I engaged her in casual conversation about the terrible damage sustained by the apartments behind us. "I saw that on my way to Bible Study this morning", she tells me. Then the following happened... ME: You go to Bible Study? SHE: Yeah. You heard of it? Ever do it? ME: Sure thing. Where do you go? SHE: (She points to the trees.) Down the road. At a house. ME: Oh! That's great! SHE: Where do YOU do it? ME: Well, we went to Church of the Saviour for years.... SHE: Oh, I go to prayer meetin' there. But they're closed for the summer. Are you reborn again?? ME: Yes I am! SHE: Aw, it's the best, isn't it? That Catholic stuff is all mixed up. All they want is your money. They never call to see how you're doin' or nothin'. ME: (I call out something to my boys...) SHE: How many kids you got? ME: I answer SHE: I got 6 kids. I got 4 boys and 2 girls. Ohhhhh my boys are so GOOD LOOKING!! ME: What about your girls?!! (I laugh) SHE: Oh, they're BEAUTIFUL! Wait I'll show you. She LEAPS up, no shoes, just bathing suit and starts to leave... SHE: I got pictures in my car. I'm gonna show you... She returns a few minutes later with a large photo ALBUM. I leaf through what are the MOST GORGEOUS, Pinterest perfect photographs of a Harvest Moon wedding last August in Honeybrook. I swear, everything was perfect. An old fashioned typewriter with which to sign the guest book. The men wore whatever suits they wanted, but they all blended in shades of brown tweed and gray. Lots and lots of texture complimented by the cutest little sprigs of wheat as boutonnieres. The the ring bearer had long blond hair. HIS name was Ocean. The bride wore a simple, outdoor appropriate dress. SHE: She's a lactose intolerant breastfeeding nurse. (I had to think about that for a minute.) Yeah, she makes good money. They bought a house down the Art Museum. Guess how much it was. (I shrug my shoulders.) $400,000. She then directed my attention back to the photos, and pointed to each of her children with such pride. It was really adorable. In the meantime, my curious children were standing directly behind me looking with great care at every photo and hanging on every word this sweet lady was saying. SHE: Look at these boys! Look! He's mine,(pointing to each son), HE'S mine. Aren't they good looking? That's Richie. That's Tommy. He's gay. You can kinda' tell, can't ya? (This is when I started to pray she wouldn't say too much.) This is the one that lives in Nashville... Oh my gosh that wedding was work! It was all organic. Even the beer was homemade. That's the best kind. Ya get REAL DRUNK!! (I'm screaming on the inside, and I can hear all the questions I'm going to get later from my little boys.) I guess my facial expression made her rebut, SHE: Oh, but I haven't drank in years. Yep. I got two in Nashville, two at the Art Museum, one in (???), and one in (??? ) and my youngest I got home with me. I fell all over the photos! I really did love everything I saw. They were perfect. And she returns to her seat. LEVI: (In a whisper) Mom, she adopted all those kids? ME: What honey? LEVI: She said she got one in Nashville and one somewhere else.... Oh, I'm screaming. This was the conversation I had with my new "reborn again" friend. She told me she comes to the pool every day to get away from her handicapped husband who works from home. He "does computer science". So I'm sure I'll be seeing her tomorrow. Stay tuned.

On Robin Williams...

To my fellow Christ-following friends: Another Hollywood actor has died. It's terribly, terribly sad. All I can think about is the final judgement that awaits him - the same that awaits me, and you. Some how "rest in peace" feels like an incompatible sentiment when quite possibly, if we know the Scriptures, peace may never again be within his reach. And raising a glass? How can we celebrate, with a glass no less, the passing of a man whose eternity separated from his maker is a real possibility? It makes me ache. Yes, hopefully somewhere along the line he trusted in Christ as his risen Savior, but I haven't heard anything yet that would give me that hope. Further proof that this world has nothing to offer. So instead of and empty "RIP" when something this tragic happens to someone the "world" esteems, let's not miss the opportunity to ask the people around us the hard questions. Let your light shine. Don't miss another chance to tell THE good news. Your tweet might force people to finally seek the truth. This sorta' stuff hits me hard.

Speaking of LIFEGUARDS...

Today marks the celebratory last day of the West Chester University sweaty swim lessons. It's been up and down -- up for Levi, down for Jude. But starting just yesterday (day 9 out of 10!?) Jude finally decided he was no longer going to be nervous. (Thanks for not making me wait, buddy.) Being water safe is obviously our ultimate goal so Jude was enrolled to strengthen his swimming skills. Levi was enrolled just to tag along and have fun. And I don't know about you but, as soon as these swim teachers take my child by the hand, they immediately become very, very important to me. I don't take this stuff lightly at all. In fact today I noticed a mom almost blowing off the coach at the end of the lesson. Where I, conversely, thank them repeatedly, make my sons look them in the eyes and thank them sincerely, then wrap both of my arms around them and...well, sometimes I don't let go. And I don't just mean on the last day -- I mean EVERY day. Ha!! And because of my imaginary "relationship" with these teachers, on the last day I make it my goal to present them with a token of my profound thanks and give them something that will hopefully last into eternity. So in keeping with this tradition, yesterday the boys picked out their favorite gift card (Wawa. What else?) and a small, pocket New Testament for each one. After all, they spent two weeks teaching my children life-saving techniques, the least we can do is help them to save theirs. Upon leaving we present the gift to the teacher, then I have my legendary, lengthy and mildly awkward embrace - and I snap a photo. Today, Levi tugged on my shirt, "Mom!! Aren't you going to ask him?? ASK HIM!!!" "Jason, before we leave you, Levi wants to make sure that you're a Christian." "Yes, I am. I'm a Lutheran Christian." I answered him, "THAT WORKS!!" This short story isn't to magnify the good deeds of my family or to elevate your feelings about my evangelical children. My hope is that you will take a moment in your regular lives to reach someone for Jesus. Spread the Word. Salvation is GOOD NEWS.

Modest is Hottest

Dear Moms: Summer is here. I'm raising 3 boys. (Well, technically 4.) Please help protect the eyes, minds and hearts of boys and men everywhere by dressing your daughters (regardless of age) and yourselves in one piece swimsuits. In this oversexualized world we're living in today, they need as few temptations as possible. Now I know what you're thinking, "If Sheryl had only one rear end, she'd probably be wearing a two piece herself!" You might be right. You know my motto: If I was thin, I'd be dangerous. All kidding aside, please take modesty seriously. And if you haven't already, pick up a copy of Steve Arterburn's book, Every Man's Battle and learn what happens to the male mind when their eyes see things they shouldn't. Modest is hottest.