Blog the Change for Animals: Lost Our Home Pet Foundation

Phoenix is one of the cities hit hardest by the real estate and economic crisis. The many who have lost their homes here can't always bring their animals with them, wherever they are going. Pet owners may be unable to support their animals, financially, and are at risk of surrendering them or abandoning them. Lost Our Home Pet Foundation has come to the rescue. "Our mission is to be a resource for real estate professionals and other members of the community who discover an abandoned pet, and to provide options for pet owners faced with difficult economic circumstances while promoting the spaying and neutering of pets," stated Jodi Polanski, founder of Lost Our Home (LOH) Pet Foundation. The organization was founded in 2008 "as a grassroots response to the thousands of pets in need as a result of the economic downturn in general, and the Phoenix-area foreclosure crisis in particular." Thousands of dogs and cats have been abandoned in yards and homes, surrendered, or underfed. Lost Our Home is the only organization in the Valley of it's kind. Not only do they focus on the animals they rescue from foreclosed homes or after evictions, but on the owners and the human-animal bond, as well.

LOH's programs include:

Food Bank: In these difficult economic times, sometimes even providing food for your pet can seem impossible. LOH understands the trouble pet owners are going through and takes pet food donations to individuals in need of assistance.

Temp Foster Program: Foreclosure or a forced move can prevent people from keeping their pets. The LOH Temporary Foster Program provides care for pets whose owners need to stay somewhere temporarily so that they can be reunited.

Pet Friendly Rental Program: LOH's realtor-volunteers help pet owners find pet-friendly rentals so they can keep their pets when they need to move. 100% of the commission earned (usually $200-$300) is donated to cover pet deposit fees.

Rescue Assistance: If pets are in need of immediate assistance, LOH helps to place pets whose owners are in crises up for adoptions or consider them for other programs.

To keep these programs up and running, LOH relies on the help of incredible volunteers and and donations of money and supplies for their shelter or food bank. The foster volunteers are one of their most valuable resources. The more foster families the organization can rely upon, the more animals they can save.

I asked founder, Jodi Polanski, to tell me about one of her most memorable adoption success stories. Though she had many tales to draw from, one recent adoption, in particular, was very dear to her: Shea.

Shea is a gorgeous male cat who has been through a lot. He was found as a newborn cowering under an oleander bush in Phoenix. Jodi explained, "his eyes and body were infested with fleas, and he was extremely ill. He was so young that he had to be syringe-fed, and it was not certain that his eyes–or life–could be saved."

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Shea pulled through, but his chances of being adopted seemed slight. One of his eyes had to be removed, and he had limited vision in the other. "And he is black," said Jodi. "Black cats and dogs are often the last to be adopted and, if they are not adopted, they are often euthanized for space."

Shea beat the odds.

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Shea's strong will to survive and loving personality won over everyone around him, and, finally, won over Travis and Michelle, who adopted him two years after he was brought to Lost Our Home. "I dreamt about him after we visited the shelter," said Travis, "so we knew we had to adopt him."

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Shea is now happy and healthy, loving life in his new home with Travis and Michelle. But if not for the tireless volunteers, vets, and supporters of LOH, Shea may never have made it out of that oleander bush.

It's about compassion for animals, first and foremost, which is sometimes difficult and contested in such a time and place of economic crisis. When a family is struggling to feed themselves, and survival is the stress they hold every minute of every day, tough choices have to be made. Some families give up satellite TV. Some don't have electricity. Some are so desperate that they surrender or abandon their pets–their family members. Lost Our Home Pet Foundation has recognized a desperate need in our community and has taken action to help furry family members stay with their pack. And when that just isn't possible, they help the animals find new forever homes. The organization is an advocate and miraculous resource for so many animals and people.

LOH needs your help, and there are many ways do donate. Please consider helping. And if you're looking for a new addition to your family, consider pets who, through no fault of their own, are tragic victims of this crisis in our economy. Think about adopting a Lost Our Home pet.

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N.A.S.H.A., a profile

My husband, (Big) Brennen, is thankful that I am a professional pet sitter because it satisfies my craving to bring all strays home. Before caring for animals was my primary vocation, I wanted to adopt and nurse every living thing I came across, the canine variety being my biggest weakness. Although I still love to help animals, I have become a bit more practical and can now survive without making each one of them mine. In September of 2005, just two months after we relocated to Phoenix from California, I found a little dog. B, my then-eight-year-old step-son, was my willing accomplice in acquiring her. We entered a local pet store innocently enough. All we needed was food for our dog, Kermit. A rescue group had set up shop, so I couldn't resist checking out the goods (I've since learned not to go to pet stores on adoption days). They had only pit bull terriers, as far as I could see, all sweet as could be. The rescue volunteer explained that all of them had come from the gulf coast area, part of the Hurricane Katrina aftermath. During that time and for many months afterward, homeless and displaced animals were sent around the country in search of homes. B and I soaked it in.

There was a sharp, quiet scratching sound that didn't seem to belong. Something coming from a small crate on the floor. I bent down and was startled to see an adult rat in the crate. A very active rat...bouncing around in a blur. "She came from the gulf, too, with these bigger guys," explained the volunteer. "She can hold her own, but we have to keep her separate, just in case. She seems to really like you. Would you like to hold her?"

B and I looked at each other. "Okay." We were unified.

What she pulled out of the crate was not actually a rat, but the smallest, poorest excuse for a dog we had ever seen. She had golden wiry fur and needle claws. She wiggled so much I could hardly hold her. After a brief exchange, we put her back in her crate and thanked the volunteer. Off we went, in search of kibble.

Neither of us could resist one more peek before departing. It was a bit like a circus freak show. Such a tiny little devil, she was. As we approached for the second time, the scratching started again. "She really just sits there, usually," said the volunteer. "She really likes you." We observed her, but didn't take her out again. "It's like she's chosen us," B said.

I told the volunteer that we were interested in adopting her. What? Did that just come out of my mouth? I called Big. "No. No. No. Let's stop and think about this. No," is what he said.

I've never been one to take no for an answer. On Sunday, I called the volunteer, and she said she'd be back to the pet store on Tuesday, and she'd bring the little rat.

On Tuesday evening, we selected the tiniest collar and thinnest leash (so as not to drag her neck down), and then collected our new dog. "THAT'S IT?" Big said when he saw her for the first time. "No. No. No. That is not a dog. It's a rat. No." I reminded him that he'd already said yes. "But that was before I saw it," was the excuse he gave. "This is insane. No way."

Yes, way. We drove her home in my lap, Big shaking his head and sighing in disgust the whole way. "Fine. But I get to name her," he declared. Whatever.

He was decisive. "N.A.S.H.A."

"No, that's too princess-y," I argued. "You want a sissy name for such a little dog?"

"That's just the point," he said. "It sounds like a Russian princess, but it means something more. It's an acronym."

"For what?"

"Not A Siberian Husky Again." You see, all my husband ever wanted was a Siberian Husky, and I keep bringing home just the opposite. The uglier and more freakish the dog, the more I like it.

"Okay," I agreed. "N.A.S.H.A. it is."

N.A.S.H.A. did have a little bit of the devil in her. She was actually, truly, an ankle-biter. And she actually, truly, drew blood with her needle teeth. So we all went around sopping blood up off the carpet behind us. You could hold her sitting in the palm of your hand, yet she could do more damage to the veins in your feet than a knife attack could. Big hated her, but he bought her a little pink furry coat as winter approached.

And she then acquired a vital accessory: her forever collar.

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We were living in a furnished apartment, waiting for our home to be built, when N.A.S.H.A. became part of our family. She was relatively potty trained, thank goodness. Despite this, a few weeks after she came, we kept smelling the very distinct aroma of dog poop in our master bedroom. We searched closets, corners, and under the bed. Sometimes the tide would swell, then fade again, but to some degree, it was always present. Big and I each accused the other of having a medical issue that needed attention, and each of us denied it.

One afternoon while we were making the bed, we lifted the box spring and it sort of fell back down onto the bed frame. We noticed a bit of dried poop under the bed. Unfortunate as it was, we had a sense of relief. At last, some evidence. We weren't nuts! Big went to dispose of the pile and noticed that there was a small tear in the fabric in the bottom of the box spring. Hm. Odd. He investigated to see how badly it was torn. When he did, another pile of poop appeared on the carpet below the tear. "What the f(¢%?"

He tossed the mattress and turned over the box spring (insert horror movie climax audio track). Our Russian princess had deposited her droppings inside our box spring, climbing up inside through the hole she created each time she felt the urge, then dropping back out, an innocent, for weeks. We both gagged. Words were said. The entire bottom fabric from the box spring was removed. We soon. Moved. Out.

Since that most develish and plotted act, N.A.S.H.A. has improved. In fact, you'd never believe it, but now, at nearly eight years old, she's become almost angelic.

She was spayed when she came to us, but she's still a mama. She has the heart of a mother and probably should have had her own litter. Several years ago, she nursed a family friend's tri-colored Collie. Mr. Shane. He travelled to see us for Thanksgiving, but he couldn't quite navigate the stairs to sleep with his mom. Though N.A.S.H.A. had never spent the night out of a human bed since she came to us, she chose to stick by him on the lower level, on alert. Whenever Shane tried to get up, she was right there, ready to break his fall, should his comparatively gigantic body falter. She accompanied him outside and to the water bowl. She didn't leave him alone for a moment. She knew the end was near.

She also attended to the babies when they were born, creating a bolster on their sides so they wouldn't roll off the couch before they could roll, and making sure they got their share of french kisses, helping to build their immune systems.

And for Kermit, she was a hero. Her older "brother" fell quite ill with Addison's Disease. She could sense if he was going to pass out, and she'd let us know by frantically scurrying around him moments before. And when Kermit developed a non-specific seizure disorder, she would lick his eyes for about forty-eight hours before his seizure cycle would begin. Her mysterious diagnostic abilities have amazed us.

In general, she's a ten-pound seven-year-old puppy of unknown terrier lineage. She's scrappy. She's yappy. She'll bark at the wind. She loves sprinklers, waterfalls, and water gun fights, but will only swim if her life depends on it. Her favorite toy is "sock toe," which is literally a sock toe that was cut off B's soccer sock for some long-since-forgotten school project. She throws it up in the air to herself and catches it, and the whole family protects it for her as one would a toddler's blankie. She punches me in the leg when she wants a treat. She always looks dirty and tangled, even if she's just been groomed. She loves to kiss on the mouth. If you come over, you will be hers. She will insist on laying in your lap or up against your leg, and she will demand to nuzzle in your neck. She prefers males. Especially Big. The guy that got her that furry little pink coat and the forever devil collar.

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Cliff Swallows, Season 2

For the last year, I've been observing a suspicious hive-ish thing mounted in the corner of the entry to one of my client's homes. I never noticed any inhabitants, but I imagined them to be giant hornets that would someday stage a sneak-attack on me as I enter this family home. A few weeks ago, I noticed bird droppings beneath it, so I hoped the birds had made a meal of the deadly insects. But, then, I noticed more bird droppings on the opposite side of the entry way. With great fear and a horror film soundtrack playing in my head, I looked up and saw... Image

GASP! A mama bird peeking her head out of a new deadly-insect nest!

I had to reconsider. Could this be a bird nest?

I called my client to whose dwelling this mysterious deadly-insect-bird-habitat was attached. "Oh, yes, I know about it..." she said. Turns out it's a legit bird nest suddenly built next door to the one that's been vacant for a year, and there are baby birds (awwwwww), and she promised that she had no intention to remove or destroy the nests in the near future. Whew!

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been saying hello to the mama, who is always peeking out to say hello to me, quite socially. Sometimes she flies out and then back. And sometimes she just stays put and blinks at me.

I wondered what type of birds they could be. I'd never seen these kind of mud-nests before, so I did a bit of research. I now declare them Cliff Swallows, in my non-expert, expert opinion.

The Cliff Swallow does live in the desert (I got my information from DesertUSA.com). It builds these nests against buildings and bridges, now, but, originally, they built them on the undersides of cliffs and outcroppings in the foothills of the mountains in the western U.S. As man has built, they have built upon our buildings. Good for them.

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A male and female will become a pair, if only for a short while, and build these spectacular nests out of about a thousand mud daubs. Sometimes, in true HGTV-fashion, they will rebuild and refurbish a nest from a previous year, which is what I suspect our little Cliff Swallows have done, with a new house next door. These birds live a life akin to a soap opera, often falling out of their nests while copulating before the dwelling is complete. The passion doesn't last long, as the male is soon off to discover other "opportunities." In the meantime, the female switches eggs with the more desirable eggs in another nest and might have the same done to her. The happy couple will raise their small flock of two to five fledglings, almost always from different parentage. Scandalous! Did you set your DVR?

According to DesertUSA, the little ones should soon be embarking on their own (I saw the mama giving flying lessons today), and the nests abandoned. It seems that once the fledglings can fly, they become independent and move out for good. If only humans could attain such lofty goals.

I'll miss them when they go, but I'll look forward to Cliff Swallows, Season 3, next year. Perhaps there will be another apartment or two constructed. We'll have Melrose Place all over again.

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tails on trails today: who's guiding whom?

When I began Well Minded, I envisioned it primarily as a pet sitting business, but I didn't want to close myself off. I'm an entrepreneur and an adventurer at heart, so I didn't want to discount the possibility of going into training or grooming, both of which I have come to learn are not my strengths. Although I like to try lots of things, I recognize my weaknesses and try to focus elsewhere. I'm good at caring for animals. I love to hike. It's an activity I took up only after moving to AZ. There are countless trails in Phoenix, and my favorite local spot is South Mountain. I recently decided to combine my love of hiking and my love of animals. I started "Tails on Trails," small-group hikes for dogs. Once a week, I pick up dogs, drive them to the trails, provide secure leashes, water, poop bags, and post-hike pictures to my clients so they can see our adventures.

Though we've had other dogs sometimes join the ranks, today it was just me and my two really regular regulars. They have been to every hike since the start, and we definitely have a multifaceted bond. When I arrive for pick-up, the brown one goes ape-shit. The black one is calm, yet welcoming. Both are SO excited that I'm there, and they know why I'm there. They enjoy the car ride to the trails. When we first hit the dirt, they go, then sniff. Mark. Walk. Trot. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Mark. And then I tell them "that's enough," and they seem to understand that though there will be countless animal smells, excrement aromas, and tiny fast-moving reptiles, birds, and small mammals to grasp their attentions and snap their necks in this direction and that, we're there to hike. And hiking means moving. So then about five minutes in, we get into our groove. And then they go poop. And then we get going, for reals.

Enjoying the spring wildflowers.

Trotters.

While they get over all of that, I'm making sure the leash isn't cutting my wrist in the wrong place, my phone (for camera access) is in the most strategic pocket, and that my underwear isn't riding in the wrong spot since we're in it for the long haul. When we hit our stride, and we're all in sync, I feel like something was meant to be. The dogs start to pick up the pace, and so do I. They navigate the trail beautifully, and I pick my footing as if I had instinct for the thing. We do this jog/walk/hike thing that feels good. Just as I notice a nice view, they slow down, as if they recognize something to be seen beyond the dusty trail their noses run along. And they show me details in the path.

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