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Tag: identity

Woman in China finds out her spitz is a fox

foxIt only took a few months for Ms. Wang to start noticing her “dog” was a little odd.

The woman bought the fluffy white pup from a pet store in China about 10 months ago.

She thought she’d bought a spitz.

But in the months ahead she noticed its tail was growing longer and fluffier than that of the average spitz.

And when it was three months old, it stopped eating dog food, preferring fruit and produce.

And its snout grew more pointy.

And the “dog” never barked.

Then there was the reaction other dogs had to it when they went out on walks. They seemed a little scared.

Eventually, Ms. Wang took her doubts and her pet to Taiyuan Zoo, where she was informed that what she’d been living with was a fox.

“Based on the size, it is a domesticated fox,” the zoo’s Sun Letian told Shanxi Network Television. “It carries a smell in their body and the smell can get stronger as it grows older.”

The fox is currently about a foot long and is expected to grow larger.

Ms. Wang gave the fox to the zoo, where after a month in quarantine, it will live in the fox enclosure.

She was invited to come visit it anytime.

That’s not Hope: New York woman gets wrong dog back from the groomer

Hope looked like a whole different dog after her makeover by a groomer in Queens.

Turns out she was.

Not until she got home did Sandra Jaikissoon realize her prized 2-year-old shih tzu, Hope, didn’t just have a different haircut — but was a different dog.

She took Hope to be groomed at Puppy Land on Lefferts Boulevard on June 15.

When she got home, she realized she was given the wrong dog back. She took the dog back to Puppy Land, and the groomer insisted she was wrong — that the dog only looked different because of her shorter haircut.

Jaikissoon pointed out that Hope had a microchip, and the dog she’d been given did not; and that her dog had been altered, while the one she was given apparently had not been.

She ended up calling police. After they arrived, the groomer admitted there had been a mix up, and signed a statement to that effect.

The shop owner said he couldn’t remember who Hope had been given to, and was unable to provide a name or phone number.

He did, at least, provide her with photos from surveillance camera footage of the people who left with her dog.

When PIX11 tried tracking down the groomer, they found the business was closed and no one was home at his residence.

Jaikissoon is asking asking anyone whose shih tzu was groomed at Puppy Land on June 15th to check the dog for a microchip.

“We need her, we love her, we want her home,” she said.

Definitive proof that America’s already great

Given America’s continuing decline, and all the threats posed by outsiders who want to creep into our country — and likely into our homes — you just can’t be too careful nowadays.

To make America great again, it’s a good idea to have — at least until that wall gets built and we all live in gated communities — a home security system.

If not for one of those, this young offender — and we can only guess from his name that he is French — might never have been identified.

His name is Josh Breaux.

And he was stealing hugs.

Josh, who looks to be no older than 10, was regularly violating the sanctity of a woman’s home in Pierre Part, Louisiana — brazenly entering her garage, hugging her dog Dutchess and making a speedy getaway.

In this surveillance video, he accomplishes his entire mission in about 15 seconds.

Proving that love can be spread as quickly as hate.

Homeowner Hollie Mallet — far more touched by the display than she was alarmed — shared the video on her Facebook page in hopes of learning the boy’s identity.

She wanted to let him know he was welcome to hang around a little longer.

“Every now and then when he rides his bike he will quickly come and love on my dog or play fetch real quick, but always leaves quick like he doesn’t know if he should be here!” Mallet wrote. “I’d like to tell him he’s welcome to stay and play, she loves the attention!”

Through the post, Mallet learned of Josh’s identity, and she has been conversing with his mother, Ginger Breaux.

joshSince then, Josh has been dropping by the Mallet home every day.

“He’s taken a few pics with Dutchess, played fetch, laid in the yard with her in the shade, runs around the yard with her or just a quick stop to pet her and say hi,” Breaux told The Dodo.

“Josh talks about your dog all the time!” Breaux wrote in a comment to Mallet. “Every time we pass he looks to see if she was sitting where he could see her. Just didn’t know he was doing things like this.”

“Hope this sweet little boy Josh continues to come play and love up on Dutchess!” Mallet responded. “A dog is a friend for life!”

Josh, of course, already knows that.

His dog Bella, who the family had since Josh was 2, passed away last year.

“Things have been busy and Josh is active with after school activities so we have not jumped back into taking on the responsibility of starting all over again with a new pup quite yet,” his mother wrote.

“It will happen though.”

I’m sure it will. In a country where love trumps hate, it just has to.

(Photo: Courtesy of Ginger Breaux)

Who is this dog, and why was he carrying an old black and white photo?

photoincollar

Animal control officers who picked up a stray last month in Greenville, S.C., face a double mystery as they try to track down the identity of a dog, and of a man pictured in an old black-and-white photo found inside the dog’s collar.

soldierThe friendly brown pit bull-type dog was found wandering through a neighborhood on Monday, Jan. 13.

Susan Bufano, community relations coordinator with Greenville County Animal Care, said the dog was not neutered or microchipped.

There was no identification on the dog’s collar.

Under the collar, though, a wrinkled black-and-white photo, carrying no name or date, was found.

photoIt pictures a smiling man, possibly in a military uniform, seated on a railing.

The stray dog, described as skinny and well-behaved, was given the name Soldier.

Bufano said the dog’s is about two years old, and the collar appeared relatively new.

“It’s so bizarre,” she said. “Absolutely anything is possible.”

Bufano told ABC News that the collar was an unusual one — extra wide, with a built in pouch.

The shelter posted photos of the dog, the collar and the unidentified man on its Facebook page, but no substantial leads had surfaced as of last night.

Bufano hopes that publicity about the dog and the mystery photo could lead to some answers, including who owned the dog.

“This photo should mean something to somebody,” she said.

Soldier  is, as of now, available for adoption.

But the shelter has limited space, and it’s possible Soldier could be euthanized if he goes unclaimed.

Anyone with information about Soldier is encouraged to contact Greenville County Animal Care at 864-467-3990.

(Photos: Courtesy of Greenville County Animal Care)

Highway Haiku: Adventures in unpacking

 

Pieces of my past

Freed from their dark cardboard jails

What the hell is this?

We’re at that point in our unpacking now where there are just a few lingering boxes, and they all contain what I will loosely call junk — items that I’ve hung onto for reasons sentimental, hopeful and, more often, unclear and irrational.

All those 34-inch waist blue jeans? Hoarding those paid off. After decades of wishful thinking, they suddenly fit now, after our near year on the road. My baseball autographed by Willie Mays? It — though his name is fading — still falls into the category of forever keeper.

But what of all the rest — the five unpacked boxes that remain: a jumble of shoelaces; matchbooks; cables, cords and adaptors that I have no idea what they go to; marbles; sea shells; little green plastic toy soldiers; a doggie Christmas stocking; old dog collars; artwork by my son; artwork by my self; unlabeled VHS tapes that contain who knows what and I have no way of finding out; cassette tapes of which the same can be said; old sunglasses; remote controls with nothing to control; owner’s manuals for things I haven’t owned for a decade or more, old keychains, some of them with mystery keys; a set of large plastic ears that fit over your real ears; a fake severed finger in a pool of blood; balls of all kinds; musky smelling pipes; business cards for people I can’t remember ever meeting, mysterious names and numbers scrawled on bits of paper?

All, mostly, things that served a purpose, things that were important, once; and at least one item that, as mentioned in our poetry above — it has been some time since our last Highway Haiku — we’ve never been able to figure out.

Mixed in with these are souvenirs accumulated during my travels as a writer — some Korean money; two stuffed dogs from a company that clones dogs; chips of wood from the woodpile outside the Unabomber’s isolated cabin in Montana, a framed get-out-of-jail-free Monopoly card; a matchbook from the Mustang Ranch in Nevada, a no-longer-greasy stone from the Exxon-soiled shores of Alaska; a photo of a twenty-something me swilling Thunderbird wine with two hoboes on a dirty mattress in Lexington, Kentucky.

They, too, occupy the boxes of items not essential to everyday life — boxes labeled “junk,” though not all fall under that rubric. (Speaking of which, where did I put my rubric? I thought I packed it away with my milieu, under my ephemera.)

I remember a time in my life when I only had one junk box. How did I get up to five? It seems once we outgrow and leave behind our childhood toys — hey, there’s my squirtgun! — we find other stuff to squirrel away, in my case enough to fill a box every five years or so.

In these boxes — oh look, a yo-yo! — are items of great sentimental value, nestled with items of questionable value (plastic vomit, anyone?), nestled with items of no apparent value and, sometimes, no clear purpose.

Which brings me to these wooden things — pictured atop this entry.

I’ve probably had them for a couple of decades at least, and I believe they came from the home of grandparents. I haven’t a clue what they are, yet I’ve held on to them, moved them from home to home, and packed and repacked them away in junk boxes.

Maybe you can help me out.

Allow me to describe them. They are made of wood, polished on one side, grooved wood on the other. They interlock. They have a brand name, “Blitz” emblazoned on one side. They are slightly bigger than your average blackboard eraser, about the size of a telephone receiver, or what used to be size of telephone receiver.

What they do — or ever did — I don’t know. My best guess, given the grandparents I think they came from were once in the laundry busines, is that they have something to do with the maintenance of garments.

If you know, I’d love to hear. If you just wish to hazard a guess, I’d love to hear that too — for often there can be more fun in the guessing than the knowing. (The first person to provide the correct answer will receive some slightly used plastic ears; I won’t just lend you an ear, I will give you two.)

We are nearing the last of our boxes, and have made five trips now to the Goodwill donation center down the street. I love that place. One can drop off unwanted items with such ease — you pull in, drive over one of those gas station hose bell ringer things, and a smiling man comes out with a cart to help you unload. Then you’re off. It all goes so smoothly — unlike much else in life — that I’m tempted to start dropping off items I actually need.

Need, of course, being a relative term. If we learned anything during our travels it’s that so much of what we think we “need” is really just what we want, or are convinced we must have by advertising and the media. In our 11 nomadic months, food, water, coffee, something to sleep on, a roof when the weather’s yucky, an electrical outlet and, of course, each other, sufficed nicely. Not until Ace and I moved into a structure of our own did I start feeling the need to accumulate things — even as I’m doing the opposite of that, getting rid of the junk.

I really shouldn’t call it that. It’s an overly broad term that’s unfair to some of those items that reside in the boxes so classified. “Accessories,” or “accoutrements,” would be a kinder label, but those are too easily misspelled, and take too long to write on the side of a box.

And, in truth, they have value. In a way, these items — your junk, my junk — are like life’s loose change: However seemingly trivial they appear, taken together they amount to something. We keep them because, even when packed away, they are pieces of our identity, they’re what makes us us, and throwing them away is like throwing pieces of ourselves away.

That, in my case, those pieces include yellowing newspaper clippings, whorehouse matchbooks, big plastic ears and a severed thumb in a pool of blood, says something.

I’m just not sure what.

The road to financial insecurity

I found 1975 again — right where I left it.

For this story, you need to go back to the year you entered the real world, the working world, the man-up (or woman-up), you’re-on-your-own-now world.

For me, it was at age 21 — like many I was able to forestall my entry into it with college — but, during my senior year, I started looking for a job in journalism. After more rejection than I care to remember, I finally got an offer — to be a reporter for the Arizona Daily Star in Tucson.

There was a three-month probationary period and, self confidence never having been my strong suit, I decided — here in what appeared to me, as an easterner, a lonely and alien land of dust and cacti — to live somewhere I wouldn’t have to sign a year-long lease.

That’s how I ended up at the Howdy Manor.

It was old even then, as were all the other little motels that lined Benson Highway — a once major thoroughfare that, when the Interstate came, saw its clientele turn from tourists to transients.

The 1940s and 1950s vintage motels, with rare exception, had lost their charm — places like the Eagle’s Nest, on whose sign pigeons now  squat.

The Howdy Manor wasn’t nearly as hospitable as its name sounded, but it had a kitchenette, and it was close to the newspaper, and the price was right, given my $160 a week starting salary — $5 a night, if you signed up for a full week.

At first, it was a depressing little place, full of people I didn’t think I wanted to meet. And given my shift, I didn’t. I worked 4 p.m. to 1 a.m., spending most of that time at the Tucson Police Department, waiting for crimes to occur. (Now there’s no waiting). The captain was Linda Ronstadt’s brother, and the desk sergeant was a big man with a mustache man who always greeted me the same way when I came in: “How’s your hammer hangin’?”

I was always a little intimidated by the question, and try as I might to come up with an appropriate answer — “Oh, it’s hangin’,” or “quite well, thank you” — I never did.

In the wee hours of the morning, I’d get back to Howdy Manor, lock my door, turn on the TV — I’m pretty sure it was black and white — and heat up something on the stove to eat while I watched Perry Mason reruns, until falling asleep. Around noon, I would wake up, eat, shower and it would be time for work again.

My stay at the Howdy Manor — I can’t remember now if it was for only one month or all three, before I moved into a modern, boring apartment — came during one of only two two-year periods in my life that I didn’t have a dog. I probably could have used one. I was, except for work, leading the insular life I’m prone to slip into.

That, though maybe I didn’t realize it at the time, was why I got into journalism — to force myself into the world, to force myself to meet people, to force myself to learn new things. It was one of the best decisions I ever made, despite the fact that the industry’s hammer hasn’t been hanging to well for more than a decade now.

The point is, the time came, there at the Howdy Manor, that I got tired of being in my room, that I ventured out and met its other denizens — or at least those who weren’t bigger recluses than me. And I found them — just as I found the people I’d encounter on the job, which took me, in siren-chasing pursuit, to neighborhoods of every ilk — fascinating.

That is probably when, rather than ignoring and evading oddballs, I started seeking them. That’s when I began to realize that the common man isn’t really common at all, and I’d much rather rub elbows with him than schmoozers in suits.

So, as another leg of my six-month journey with my dog across America came to a close, I decided I needed to visit the Howdy Manor, or at least where it once stood, before my planned month-long layover in Phoenix. 

To my surprise, when I looked it up on the Internet, it seemed to still exist — mostly in newspaper crime reports, some of which provided the address.

But when I hit Benson Highway earlier this week, I couldn’t find the Howdy Manor, or the address. Eventually, I realized the relevant portion of the highway, rather than having disappeared, is still there; it’s just a matter of making a couple of turns after it seemingly comes to a stop. I found the proper block and drove slowly down it — passing the Lariat, the Western, the Bucking Bronc and several other motels and trailer parks with cowboy names. But not, as far as I could see, the Howdy Manor.

The block looked a little more faded, a little more battered — but pretty much otherwise exactly as it did when I left it. It could still be 1975 there.

I was headed back up the block when I spotted my former home. One side of its sign is blown out, so it’s visible only to the westbound traveler.

Today’s Howdy Manor appears even more down at the heels than it was when I — fearful and uncertain, young and naive — became a resident. It’s a little more worn and torn, and the plywood cowboy who I recall stood waving his hat in welcome is gone now, replaced by a sandwich board sign, supported by cinderblocks.

I pulled over, and was immediately approached by a young woman who asked me what was wrong. “Nothing,” I answered, I’m just looking. I used to live here. Thirty-five years ago. It was five dollars a night.”

It’s now $99 a week, she pointed out, and $20 a night. That’s what her brother pays. She pointed me in direction of manager, and I knocked on the door.

A girl with blue hair and multiple face piercings opened it, and called her mother. When she came to the door, I told her I used to live there, 35 years ago, and that it was only $5 a night. She was unmoved and unimpressed.

“Do you want a room?”

“No,” I answered, “but could you give me the name of the owner? I’d like to talk to him”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“To learn more about the history of the place,” I answered.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“So I can write about it.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I’m a writer.”

Our conversation seemed to be going in circles, so I thanked her, excused myself and got back in the car, leaving a trail of dust in my wake as I pulled out.

Back on Benson Highway, I thought back to the old days, and compared them to my current ones. Back then, I managed to make it through my probationary period, to learn the ropes, and to fall in love with the desert and Tucson. After three years there, I spent 30 more in a newspaper career that wasn’t entirely undistinguished.

When I left the business, I wrote a book, and continued to write my own website, making about enough in the latter pursuit to afford the modern-day Howdy Manor, if I paid by the week.

In some ways, I’m even more insecure than I was when I moved into my motel room with a kitchenette in Tucson 35 years ago. I have no real job, no health insurance, no boss, no salary — not even a salaryette.

But, two years after departing the newspaper industry, I continue — stupidly, maybe — doing the thing I love and know how to do: seek out stories and write them. I continue to occupy, like some kind of squatter, my former occupation.

Why?

Because I’m a writer, dammit.

And that, good sir, is how my hammer hangs.

Bear-Bear decision still a week away

Prosecutors say they are still at least a week away from deciding whether charges will be filed against the federal officer who shot and killed a Siberian Husky he thought was acting too roughly with his dog at a Maryland dog park.

The officer, though authorities have withheld his name, has been identified as Keith Elgin Shepherd, employed by the Army at Joint Base Myer-Henderson Hall in Northern Virginia.

Anne Arundel County prosecutors told the Baltimore Sun yesterday that it may take another week for them to finish their investigation. The investigation was prompted by a public outcry after authorities originally said no charges would be filed.

Public interest in the case remains high. About 20 people demonstrated yesterday outside the Anne Arundel County courthouse in Annapolis, supporting of the owners of Bear-Bear, fatally shot Aug. 2 in a private dog park in the Quail Run community in Severn.

Police say the shooter thought Bear-Bear, who was unleashed, was getting too rough with his German shepherd, who was leashed. 

Police have refused to identify the shooter, and his name was blacked out on police reports supplied to the news media. But a report without redactions obtained by the Sun identifies him as Shepherd.

Prosecutors said last week that key issues focused on whether the shooter was legally allowed to carry a personal handgun off-post, and whether he broke the law in shooting the husky or was acting to defend his dog, self and wife.