I am “Somebody”.

A handsome, but extremely noisy 15 week old pup serenades me as I sit down in an attempt to put my thoughts on paper, or electric medium as the case may be. What am I passionate about? I live in rural Georgia in a county larger than Rhode Island that only five weeks ago had the first animal control and shelter put in place.

I've fostered for a rescue in my county for more than a decade. The animals medical needs etc. are financially handled by the 501(c)3. The issue is the time it takes to care for the fosters makes it damn near impossible to do anything else (I refuse to contemplate the fact that I have lived three vicennial has anything to do with it), the electric bills still need paid, and the occasional dishwasher or dryer kicks the bucket. You know, the mediocre realities of Somebody's life. Although the mass quantities of towels washed with two litters in the house and housebreaking a pup can shorten the life-span of many a washer and dryer.

You see, I am “Somebody”.

I am the person you read about on social media when the post goes something like “Somebody needs to go see about the litter of pups abandoned at the county landfill.”. Or “Can Somebody help this poor furbaby?”, and then one of 200 or so variables on the same story about how instead of working out a way to keep the dog they took into their home as a puppy – they now have to place them in a new home.

Facebook in particular overflows with instances where many, many posts agree Somebody needs to step up. It really astounds me how seldom they reach the conclusion that somebody is themselves. I even have a term for them – Keyboard Warriors. They sit on their butts, and wallets, as they solve the abuse and neglect issues in front of them by simply typing their sage remarks.

Then there are the ones who say, “Praying Somebody helps.” I absolutely will agree that many times the animal needs all the prayers they can get, but a bit of effort would not go amiss either.

The assignment is “tell us why people should support your passion”. To me it is rather self evident, but elaboration will help give you a deeper perspective.

I always tell people my rescue reality is akin to the sand dollar story. I heard the lovely tale about the grandfather and his grandson walking a beach with the old man tossing in sand dollars when I was still in high school. The kid looks around and sees the multitude of sand dollars still spread across the sand and questions his granddad's ability to make any difference as he returns some to the sea. The old man just reaches down and plucks another from the sand to sling back into the ocean. “It made a difference to that one.” is his response to the boy.

Remember that pup I mentioned a minute ago? The one I used for the cover photo. I named him Tyson – because he is a tenacious little thing – suitable to be the namesake of Mike Tyson, and yet he was crouching, trembling and urinating when ever handled when he first got here. Tyson® Chicken - yeah, I know tacky – but my Tyson is JUST now getting where he does not pancake and puddle when approached and he has been here almost 3 weeks.

Somebody had to step up for Tyson – he was at the county shelter and his time was up. They call it euthanasia – what a cold, technical term for ending a puppy's life. Tyson LOVES to give kisses – his tongue is seldom in his mouth if he is near me. He has the softest ears, really they are addictive to rub – nicer than the softest velvet. And those eyes. When was the last time you saw a pup with any prettier, “Cough” more handsome – Tyson objects to being classified as pretty when he is all boy. Or at least is for now, on the 29th he will go from being an Almond Joy to a Mounds. But he'll still be handsome. He has gotten quiet as I type – crate training is finally beginning to work. He loves his time running rampant through my home until he, in typical puppy fashion, falls into a near-coma nap. But, Tyson requires that Somebody keep an eye – or two – on him at all times or he can go backwards in his house training or find something to get into that he should not be in.

Yeah, I know, typical puppy behavior. But did I mention he is one of many fosters? You see Somebody, has to step up a LOT to make a difference.

There is also Audrey. Again, from the County Shelter. I got the call - could I take her in and but had to delay because of already being over crowded. She was pregnant when I got the call, and three days later when I shifted things to make room, she had whelped. When I arrived at the county shelter three pups were already dead. Born on the cold concrete floor they scooted into the shallow trench on one side where the urine and feces is washed into to facilitate cleaning the pen. They drowned. Three more were laying on a towel damp from the mother's birth fluids, and were refrigerator cold. The silver male died within moments of me picking him up – the other two joined him in a few hours as despite best efforts they were too far gone. Three survive and of course there is Mom – Audrey is what I call a part-time mom. She just as soon not be in the kennel with her pups. She would much rather be out in the yard or on on the couch or really anywhere else. But she grudgingly takes care of them if Somebody sits with her and insists she lay still for them to nurse. Did I mention she has to go outside at LEAST five times a night, Somebody has to get up and let her out – wait for her to do her business – then let her back in and enforce she go back in with her pups. Their eyes are not open so they cannot maintain their own body temperatures yet, she is their heat source.

Another mom is Edith. She came into care about 10 hours behind Audrey. The city pound got a call from an owner was moving and needed to surrender his dog. They do not have facilities for pregnant moms or moms and pups so I agreed to take her. I arrived at the location we agreed to meet and the city dog agent pulled in to tell me that she had not been able to reach the owner again. By this time it is storming, lightening crashing and pouring down rain. We wait a bit as she continues to try and reach him while I take in eight pups that we had been contacted to take as owner surrenders. Somebody needed to take over their care, as they were only five weeks old.

The storm intensified, so we arrange for her to get back with me as soon as she knew something and I began to pull out – only to be flagged down before I could enter traffic. “He said the dog was whelping – you can pick her and the pups up tomorrow.” I told her, “Unless Somebody was going to stay up with this mamma all night to make sure there was no issue, I want to get her now.” He grudgingly agreed and I followed animal control to the house. The owner maintained her the dog on a logging chain tied to a dilapidated wooden box he called a dog house. She had ignored the house and dug a small pit beneath a near-by bush and whelped in the mud. Water poured into the depression as the second pup was born. We loaded her into my vehicle and she whelped the rest of the litter with Somebody to help her. Edith is a sweetie, she will make a great pet once she raises these pups and is spayed.

I am not sure exactly HOW I can monetize this passion in a perfect world. So very often I am frustrated or completely raw with the hurt and pain of watching these poor beings suffer. Truly the six dead pups at the county shelter hit me like a gut-punch. It took days for me to throw off the guilt of not having gone and gotten her when I first got the call. I can still see their little bodies, chilled and unresponsive... It sucks. I want to continue to help and maybe even do more. I am seeking a means and guidance to do so. These three stories are an infinitesimally tiny sample. Heck, there are five other litters here on my property as I type – each with their own stories and all deserving Somebody's help.