Kathy Bauck’s attorney, Zenas Baer, said animal advocates demonstrated a “fundamental misunderstanding of what a dog is under
Puppy and kitten mill breeders are inhumane breeders. They breed puppies and kittens for a profit,
not considering the suffering of the animals under their care. The dogs and cats reside in cramped cages
filled with waste. The animals don’t get
proper veterinary care and little protection from extreme temperatures. There exists little socialization with
humans and no exercise outside the cages.
The mothers breed over and over until they outlive their usefulness, and
are then euthanized or sold to other breeders.
Thus, the animals sold may have genetic diseases or behavioral issues.
The United States Department of Agriculture stands as the
only agency that regulates breeders through the Animal Care Program. Pet stores and breeders, who sell direct to
the public, remain exempt. The Animal
Care Program faced auditing four times in the last twenty-five years, and the
Inspector General discovered that the USDA did not enforce standards or fine
the breeders for failing inspections.
Kathy Bauck has owned and managed Puppys on Wheels and Pick
of the Litter for 20 years. The
Companion Animal Protection Society (CAPS) investigated Bauck’s business. Not only was it a puppy mill, Bauck also practiced
veterinary medicine without a license.
Bauck already faced conviction of this crime both in 2006 and 2008. Her latest trial occurred May 2009, and she
stood convicted of four out of nine counts of animal torture and cruelty. All these crimes gave her a month in jail, a
$1400 fine, eighty hours of community service, and three years of probation.
In 2011, the Dog and Cat Breeder Regulation Bill was
introduced. This bill required that
breeders with ten or more intact adult animals be licensed. They must also comply with anti-cruelty statutes
already in existence. Other improvements
included an animal care plan devised with a licensed veterinarian, and sufficient
staff.
Much opposition still exists to the breeder bill. One opposition is the cost. Nancy Minion, an animal advocate, stated that
foundations would provide the start-up money, and fees would maintain the
program. The Board of Animal Health
would enforce the law and perform inspections, which they already do for other animal
agencies.
Other groups that oppose the bill include the National Rifle
Association and the American Kennel Club.
An NRA brochure, “Freedom in Peril,” called such animal rights activists
“terrorists.” The
AKC opposed the bill because they get registration fees for every puppy born in
these mills.
What can we do? The first step is to research organizations that focus on animal advocacy. Word of mouth serves as an amazing tool; many people don’t know about puppy and kitten mills, and animal laws.
The final word on the breeder bill is what defines a dog or
a cat. Is it a piece of property used
for economic gains? Or is it a family member,
a sentient being? How we treat animals
is connected to how we treat our fellow human beings. If we allow ourselves to abuse and neglect
animals, then the next step to human cruelty extends not far ahead.
Best Friends Animal Society: http://www.bestfriends.org/
Pet-Abuse.com: http://www.pet-abuse.com/
The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals: www.aspca.org
As a child, I
felt like an alien from another planet. I
was born with Klippel-Feil syndrome (KFS), and I looked and moved differently
than anyone else. I was an alien in a
sea of humans.
Klippel-Feil syndrome occurs during the spinal
development of the fetus. Usually the
spine segments, but in this case the cervical spine doesn’t and remains fused. Telltale signs of Klippel-Feil syndrome
consist of a short neck, low hairline in the back, and limited range of
movement in the neck. Associated conditions might involve spine disorders,
heart and lung problems, and facial and organ deformities. There is
no cure for Klippel-Feil syndrome.
Instead, treatment consists of surgery of the spine, bracing of the
spine, physical therapy, or chiropractic care.
A few years
ago I attended support groups for anxiety and depression. Besides medication and counseling, the
support group helped me the most. As a
child, I believed I was inherently defective and a burden on everyone. The members in the support group felt just
like me: alone and broken. I knew they
understood how I felt and I experienced
validation for the first time.
Unfortunately, because Klippel-Feil syndrome is so
rare, there existed no support groups in my area. As a single adult, I still struggled with my
disability, especially in a culture where women are judged by their
appearance. Not only that, I started to
experience the aging effects of my syndrome because I couldn’t lift small
children anymore. As a child care
provider I loved my job, but I became too weak to carry children safely. So I decided to find an online support group for
my KFS.
In my search for the support group, I only found groups
for parents of children with the disorder.
In 2006, I saw an ad for register.com that announced a new Internet site
where I could create my own website. The
ad inspired me to create my own support group! I used register.com to create my website, then
I used google for the group.
Going was slow at first. It took about a year or so before I finally
got regular members who would post.
After I listed the group on the National Organization of Rare Disorders’
database, other medical specialists would list my site on their websites.
Now one hundred fifty members of all ages and from
other countries belong. We talk about
how we cope with KFS and give advice to those new to this disorder. Others have
also struggled with depression and anxiety as I have, and continue to do
so. We talk about out childhoods, and
the different surgeries and therapies we have had for our associated
conditions. Our deepest thoughts and
emotions are exposed, and we try to encourage and support each other.
After meeting so many unique and courageous people
like me, I no longer feel alone. We are
a family and friends for life. Even
though we live far apart, we feel each other’s burdens and share each other’s
joys. I’m no longer an alien, but
human.
I'M OKAY
GREEN DAY
I'M OKAY
The snow drifted softly through the
pale sky, covering everything with a blank slate. Patience sat in the passenger side of their
black Ford Explorer with her husband, Grant, piloting the car. As usual, he was stoically silent, listening
to WCCO AM radio, the only station one could hear throughout the state of Minnesota
At her mother’s funeral earlier
that day, Patience sat, listening as people passed by the open casket.
“Oh, she
looks so good.”
“She seems
so peaceful.”
“She looks
just like she did when she was alive.”
She wanted
to scream, “That’s not her! She didn’t
wear all that make-up or have such coiffed hair!” But she sat quietly, clutching her hands
together.
The funeral
itself was atrocious. The requisite
singer who sang at every funeral at the home had a horrible warble in her
voice. She screeched, “How Great Thou
Art” and “Amazing Grace.” These were
Lily’s favorite songs being butchered.
At the
reception, there was the usual Cheese Whiz on a bun, runny potato salad, with
stale cake and weak coffee. Patience
could only imagine the comments her mother would have made: “This coffee is
horrible; I have to pour in the cream and sugar! The sandwiches are mushy, the salad too
vinegary!” Patience could just see her
mother pumping her fist in the air with finality.
After the
funeral in the stifling hot building, the weary lot trudged on to the
cemetery. Lily was buried on the
Lutheran side, while the Catholics were safely tucked away on the other side. Patience knew how the small towns preferred
to divide the dead this way. She
carefully laid a bouquet of her mother’s favorite flower, lily of the valley,
on the casket before being lowered into the abyss. Patience cried bitter tears, burying her face
in Grant’s coat lapels.
Not much
had changed at funerals since her dad, Chase, died forty years ago. Everything was the same, even the bland food
and horrendous singing.
But
everything else had changed since Chase passed on. Her mom, who had never lived alone, found
herself in her own apartment, with no one to share her life with. Lily had to start working outside the home,
since there was no assistance for widows in those days. Through her sons, who worked at the Crystal
Sugar factory, she got a job, cleaning the facility. Lily was ill-equipped for this new
independent life, and relied more and more on her own children to help her.
***
The last two years were a
succession of road trips from Minneapolis Moorhead
In the hospital, she howled in
agony, hallucinating about her childhood.
“James, we got to get the kids ready.”
“James, we got to get the kids ready.”
“Where is she? The house is burning.”
Patience
could only understand half of what her mother was saying. Her brother James and Lily had to raise their
siblings after their mother died of cancer.
Patience didn’t know about the burning house. She assumed it was a childhood friend. What she would have given to know her mother
more. Lily never wanted to talk about
her childhood. Now she would never have
the chance.
Hour after
hour Patience watched her mother slowly losing her mind. From time to time she would be lucid,
complaining of being too cold or too thirsty.
Patience would make sure her blankets were tucked in and help her take
sips of water. Other times Lily would
proclaim she saw a light, and call out a name of someone long gone.
After a
couple of weeks in the hospital, Lily had to be transferred to the nursing
home. Patience was relieved when the
hospital moved her to Eventide Lutheran Home.
The lobby looked like a Scandinavian village, with room entrances that
looked like shops, an aviary, and tables for visitors. Even though it was winter, Patience could see
the garden outside, which had birdhouses, benches, and gazebos. It was snack time, and residents were sitting
in the community rooms, where they had cookies and coffee. A piano was in the corner, where a spindly
old lady was banging out some big band tunes.
Patience
sat in her mom’s room, where she had a roommate. Her roommate, Gwen, moaned all day long. It just about drove Patience crazy. Lily didn’t care for it too much either, for
she would periodically yell, “Shut up!” or “Be quiet!” Lily continued in
her hallucinations and complaining of being too cold and
thirsty. From time to time one of
Patience’s brothers Owen or Bill would storm in.
“Why did
you put her here? She was fine at home!”
“I had
to. I couldn’t count on you to take care
of her. Look at her!”
“Oh, you
think you are so high and mighty, living in the big city in your big house.”
It was
pointless to try to reason with her brothers, they had always been angry and
jealous. She hated that she had to be
the one to make the tough choices, for she knew her brothers never would. And she knew that they resented her for that.
***
About ten
years ago Patience had to move her mom to a high rise for the elderly. Lily had difficulty getting around, and had
to use a cane, although she fought it.
The high rise had a nurse on site 24-7, and all the residents had to put
an “I’m OK” sign on the doorknob before they went to bed. There was also an emergency cord in the
bathroom for when people fell.
“I don’t
want to go that place,” Lily whined.
“I know you
don’t. But you can’t get up and down
those stairs anymore. What if you
fell? What if your apartment started on
fire? I worry about you, living so far
away. I just want you to be safe,” her
daughter explained.
“I am
safe. The kids can check up on me.” Lily was a stubborn goat.
Patience
was just as stubborn. “The kids are busy
with their own kids. Here there is a
person who can check up on you.”
They sat in
the SUV in the parking lot at the high rise, looking at the building. It was bright, sunny spring day, with buds on
the rose bushes and leaves popping out on the oak trees.
“They have
other people your age there too. They
can take you to the store. You can play
bingo and bridge there. And they have a
library. Now you can read all the books
you want. And you love bridge. Maybe you’ll make some friends. You have been alone without dad for so long,
with no one else your age to talk to.
Won’t that be nice?”
Her mother
had a scowl on her face and her hands clenched into fists. Patience wondered when she became the mom
instead of the child. She didn’t like
this role, but knew she couldn’t trust her brothers for their help. She had to be the bad one, again.
As time
went on, Lily became used to her new home.
When Patience came to visit, Lily was usually in the lobby chatting with
the other residents, having a good laugh.
On warm summer days Lily would be out in the backyard, where it met the Red River as it meandered through the valley.
“Hi, mom,”
Patience said, as she gave her mother a hug.
“Give me a
kiss,” Patience gave her mom a peck on the cheek.
“Are you
watching the birds?” Patience asked.
“Yeah, the
chickadees are my favorite.”
“I
know. I see my flowers are coming
out.” Patience had a beautiful garden at
home, and enjoyed bringing transplants to the high rise for the residents.
“What have
you been up to?” Patience asked as she sat down next to her mom on the bench.
“Oh, I
started helping Meals on Wheels, and at the library here. I won five bucks on bingo the other
day.” Lily loved to win, even if just
five bucks.
“Are you
using your cane?”
“Yeah,
yeah.” Lily cast a sideways glance at
her daughter with distaste. She did not
like being told what to do.
After a
while they went into Lily’s apartment, where they had a snack and watched soap
operas. Lily’s favorites were “One Life
to Live” and “General
Hospital
***
“I’ll get out and get the
mail.” Grant and Patience finally got
home after their drive from Moorhead
the night sky. It
wrapped its arms around her like a warm cloak.
“Just a bunch of junk,” her husband said as he tossed the mail into the
backseat.
When they
got into the house, the burglar alarm screeched, and Patience quickly unarmed
the house. Grant shuffled into the TV
room, flipping on the tube to watch the nightly news. Patience gathered some milk and cookies for
their bedtime snacks.
Afterwards,
they silently climbed the stairs to their bedroom, and started on their nightly
ritual.
After
turning on the alarm, they went to bed.
Grant usually snored like steam engine, but since it took a while for him
to fall asleep, Patience was thankful she could fall asleep anywhere,
anytime. Not that night though. Patience lay on her side, thinking of her
mom.
***
The
Greyhound bus was surprisingly full.
Since the interstates were built, more and more people drove their
cars. But Lily never learned to drive,
so she took the bus to and from Moorhead Minneapolis
Lily had
her hands firmly wrapped around the handle of her purse, for fear it would fall
of her slippery lap, due to her polyester pants. Her battered old Samsonite
suitcase was at her side on the next seat. There were no exotic labels on it, just an
old luggage tag with her name and address dutifully written. She wore a familiar top, with bright and bold
flowers on it. She had on her Avon lipstick and perfume, and a cheerful countenance
upon her face. She was laughing, her
body bumping along with the road. She
turned her head to look at Patience and said, “I’m OK.”
***
“Grant, Grant, wake up!”
It was morning, with the sunlight
streaming through the curtains. Patience
was tapping her husband’s arm, trying to jostle him awake.
“What, are you OK?” Grant asked in
alarm.
“I had a dream!” Patience
exclaimed. “My mom was riding the bus
like she used to. She told me she was
OK!”
For a moment there was silence, for
Grant had an eerie look on his face.
“What, what’s wrong?” Patience
started to get concerned.
After a pause, Grant said, “I had
the same dream.”
GREEN DAY
I awoke to another hot day wishing
we had air-conditioning in this stifling caldron. I crawled out of bed in a pool of sweat and
fear.
“Come get
your breakfast!” my mother, Jasmine, yelled from the kitchen.
“I just got
up!”
“Suri, get
dressed and get down here. We don’t have
all day, you know.”
I rolled my
eyes in disgust and stumbled to the bathroom.
Looking in
the mirror, I sighed having to cover my hair with my hijab. I considered my hair my best quality, with
its long, dark waves and auburn streaks.
Instead, I had to make do with dark eyeliner and ruby lipstick.
“Here, have some chai. Do you want some naan and pomegranate
jam?” My mother never ceased to try to
feed me. “Eat, eat, you are too skinny!”
“I’ll just
have the chai; I’m thirstier than anything.”
“Stop
trying to be so thin. You’re skin and
bones.” My mother had a tendency to
exaggerate.
“I’m
fine. I had a big dinner last
night. Besides, if I know you, we have a
big lunch planned, don’t we?” I smiled.
Jasmine
nodded in affirmation.
We took the
subway from our home on Khomeini
Square
At the
Martyr’s Cemetery, there were many other grieving families having picnics on
their loved ones’ graves. We walked
through a maze of whitewashed concrete tombs until we saw the familiar face of
my father, Darius. He looked ready for
war in the
larger-than-life picture on his gravestone. After straightening the Iranian flag on the
ground, we laid out our provisions.
“I miss
your father, Suri. We had a much nicer
home in a quiet neighborhood. Darius
worked hard for us. And now it is all
gone.”
I remained
thoughtful, not remembering much about him, except for the muscular arms that
would hold me, and the dry kisses that would graze my cheeks.
“How is
school?” my mother asked, disrupting my reverie.
“It’s
ok. I hate having to be so separate from
the men all the time. How can I meet
someone? I can’t speak my mind at the
lectures; I just have to keep quiet. How
can I learn?”
“When it is
time, we will get you a mate. You know
how it works!”
“I don’t
want an arranged marriage. I want to
fall in love!”
“Oh, you
have read too many Western novels. As
for university, it is for you to learn by listening and observing. It is not a place for you to open your mouth. You will get in trouble that way. I have worked too hard and too long to get
you there. Don’t waste this opportunity,
not everyone gets it.”
Her
lectures usually shut me up. As usual, I
felt guilty for not appreciating my mother’s sacrifices for me. It had not been easy for her, being a single
parent for so long, with no support or help from anyone.
After the picnic, we again took the
subway home. We rode in silence. I thought about the protest tonight,
wondering when to broach the subject with Mother. I knew she would not want me to go. Every time she heard someone speak against
the government, she would try to change the subject. Jasmine lived in a constant state of
fear. She was an “obedient” Iranian
woman, wearing her chador, no drinking, no parties, no reading underground
newspapers or watching anti-government TV “propaganda.” She preferred to make her traditional Persian
foods, clean her old, rundown apartment, and visit her beloved’s grave every
weekend. She worked long hours during
the week, cleaning others’ homes, and cooking others’ meals.
Mother
disapproved of all this new technology: the cell phone, the internet; also the
underground media. Jasmine’s hands shook
quite often from nerves, and she had a constant worry crease in her forehead. I wondered if she would one day explode from
all the tension within her.
At 4 o’clock , my friends and I met at
the same subway station. We all had
something green on; I had a green hijab.
We held signs with “Where is my vote?” and “Death to the Dictator!” On the subway ride, we chattered with each
other, exclaiming our excitement.
Nevertheless, deep down I was terrified.
I thought about when I finally told my mother of the protest.
At the kitchen table as we were
having our afternoon chai, I blurted out, “I’m going to the protest at the
university.”
My mother
paused, looking at me with blank eyes.
After a few moments, recognition kicked in and she affirmed, “No, you’re
not.”
I was
prepared. “I am fighting for Iran
“That’s
different. Darius was fighting with the
government. Here you are against the
government. How can you say it is the
same thing?”
“I am
fighting for the people of Iran
Mother’s
eyes began to moisten. “Don’t you know
what happens to these people? They get
arrested, beaten, and raped. They are
killed. You are all I have!” my mother
shouted as she banged her fist on the table.
It broke my
heart to hear her say that. I knew it
was true. I also believed that it wasn’t
enough. I wanted more. I wanted to be free; all of us to be
free. If my dad was willing to sacrifice
his life for his people, I had to do the same.
I took my mother’s hand into mine.
“I’ll be careful. I’ll be with
friends. I’ll come home right after.”
With a
solemn nod, she let me go.
When we got
off the subway at Tehran
University
too, hoping to later post them on YouTube. There was such an air of community and
purpose. For the first time in my life,
I felt powerful. I threw off my hijab
with a triumphant shout, while my mates followed suit.
“Pop, pop!”
The crowd
scattered like ashes from a fire, blown this way and that, not knowing where to
go or what to do.
A small
group of people hovered around a young woman lying on the ground. Blood was pouring out of her mouth and nose,
a man was pumping on her chest, yelling at her to “breathe, breathe!” Some bystanders took hurried videos of the
scene, while a posse of young men ran to find the shooter in the direction of
the killing sound.
I stood in
silence, with my hand over my mouth, trying to stifle my sobs. My friends were long gone, running to the
sanctity of their homes. I did not know
this woman, but she could have been me.
She wore a green hijab like me that had fallen down around her. She had long black way hair, with red
lipstick, or maybe that was the blood on her lips.
“Go, go,
and get out of here!” someone urged me.
With a push towards home, I took off.
I ran all the way, forgetting the subway. I was only thinking of home, my promise to
Mother that I would be all right.
“Suri, Suri, you are here!” my
mother wailed as she wrapped her arms around me. “The neighbors told me someone was shot. I was so afraid. I thought I’d never see you again.”
I stumbled
into the house, silent, lost in a sea of confusion.
“Here, sit
down here, let me make you some chai.”
My mother soothed as she sat me down at the kitchen table. “I made rice and chicken for dinner. I kept a plate warm for you.”
How could I
eat? I just witnessed a murder. I had never seen one before. On TV, yes, but not in real life.
Jasmine sat
across from me. “Are you OK? Did you know this person?”
“No,” I
mumbled.
Mother
could see I was in shock, and scooted her chair next to mine to hold me in her
arms. I sobbed into her shoulder, my
body racking with horror.
We watched
the news before going to bed that night, wanting to see what the media would
say about the protest.
“A woman
was shot by a university student at the protest. The young men and women were waving guns in
the air, looting stores, and throwing rocks at the police, who were there to
keep the peace,” the announcer stated.
“That’s not
true,” I muttered, finally jolted awake from my silence. “We didn’t do any of that, we were
peaceful! The woman was shot by the
Basij.”
My mother was calm at my
pronouncement. I didn’t know if she
believed me or the TV, but I didn’t care.
I knew what happened, I knew the government lied, the media lied. I knew the truth.
Before I
went to bed, I twittered my friends, relieved to know they were home safe. They watched the news as well, and were as
incensed as I was by the lies told. We
vowed to each other to keep up the fight.
But inwardly, I was petrified. I
could die. I wondered if I should just
be like my mother, give up and just function through the day, with no hope, no
peace, or joy. I shuddered at the
thought. I didn’t want a life like
that.
During the
night, I awoke to the sounds of weeping.
I opened my eyes to see my mother kneeling at the side of my bed, her
head in her hands. I reached over to
cover her hands with mine. When she
looked up, I saw tears sliding from her eyes.
“I am so
sorry. You are right. The government lies, the media lies. I’ve known that all my life.” Mother’s words came out in stutters between
sobs, trying to keep her nose from dripping.
“I don’t want you to live like me.
Even if your life is short, it must be a life worth living.”
After a few
moments to catch her breath, she went on. “I was so afraid. I lost your father when you were just a
child. I felt so alone in the world. I held on so tight to you, not wanting to
lose you too. But now I know I have to
let you go.....Your father would be so proud of you. You are fighting for us, as he did so long
ago.”
I leaned onto my elbow to embrace my
mother. After a few breaths, her voice
became even. “Your courage gave me the
strength to be honest with myself, and to you.
I thought I was afraid to die, but really I was afraid to live.”
I knew what a sacrifice she was
making, and I saw her in a new light.
She fought too, in her own way, to keep me alive and safe all these
years. She sacrificed her life for me,
in the hopes that my future would be better than hers. She did have hope, I just never saw it. How blind I was, how selfish. I never considered what my actions might cost
her.
Later that
night, I saw my father in a dream. He
was a handsome young man, with a rakish grin and light in his eyes. “Suri,” he called.
“Here I
am,” I replied.
“Take care
of your mother. She suffers for you.” he
admonished. “Salaam, my child.”
I wanted to
touch him, feel his dry kisses again on my cheek, and feel his massive arms
give me a squeeze. Instead, he vanished
as fast as he appeared.
No comments:
Post a Comment