It's all about saving and caring for as many as we can. We believe education is the key to ending abuse. PomRescue.com, Inc. a nonprofit corporation under the laws of the state of SC and the IRS 501(c)(3) code public charity. Located in Spartanburg, SC.
PomRescue.com inc
PO Box 482
Drayton SC 29333

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

My husband, human kids, and furkids!




A funny story- I have no idea who wrote it. Just enjoy!!

Ole Spot


A group of country neighbors wanted to get together on a regular basis
and socialize. As a result, about 10 couples formed a dinner club and
agreed to meet for dinner at a different neighbor's house each month.

When it came time for Jimmy and Susie Brown to have the dinner at their house, Susie wanted to outdo all the others and prepare a meal that was the best that any of them had

A few days before the big event, Susie got out her cookbook and decided to have mushroom smothered steak. When she went to the store to buy some mushrooms, she found the price for a small can was more than she wanted to pay.

She then told her husband, "We aren't going to have mushrooms because they are too expensive.

He said, "Why don't you go down in the pasture and pick some of those mushrooms? There are plenty of them right in the creek bed."

She said,"No, I don't want to do that, because I have heard that wild
mushrooms are poisonous."

He then said, "I don't think so. I see the varmints eating them all the
time and it never has affected them."

After thinking about this, Susie decided to give this a try and got in
the pickup and went down in the pasture and picked some. Then she went out on the back porch and got Ole Spot's (the yard dog) bowl and gave him a double handful.

Ole' Spot didn't slow down until he had eaten everybite. All morning
long Susie watched him and the wild mushrooms didn't seem to affect him, so she decided to use them.

The meal was a great success, and Susie even hired a lady from town
To come out and help her serve. She had on a white apron and a little cap on her head. It was first class. After everyone had finished they all
began to kick back and relax and socialize.

About this time the lady from town came in from the kitchen and whispered in Susie's ear. She said, "Mrs. Brown, Spot just died."
With this news, Susie went into hysterics. After she finally calmed
down, she called the doctor and told him what had happened.

The doctor said, "It's bad, but I think we can take care of it.
We will pump out everyone's stomach and everything will be fine.

the EMTs got out with a stomach pump and the doctor arrived

One by one they took each person into the master bedroom and pumped out their stomach.

After the last one was finished, the doctor came out and said, I think
everything will be fine now.

About this time the town lady hired to serve food came in and said,

"You know, that fellow that ran over Ole Spot never even stopped!"

Monday, January 05, 2004

I found this picture at a thrift store. I hang it over my computer to keep me motivated to help the helpless as much as I am able.

Saint Francis of Assissi




If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the
shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal
likewise with their fellow man.
- Saint Francis of Assissi-
Sharon with her blind and deaf red Min Pin



This is my sister Sharon with her blind and deaf red Min Pin 'Spunky Monkey' and her little girl 'Money Penny'. When she asked me if she should consider adopting a blind and deaf dog, I was all for it.
Mackenna (my AOL Pom pal) had adopted a senior blind and deaf Pom, now named 'Scupper Pup', and he has done so well and been such a blessing. He is even the mascot for their search and rescue team and goes to schools to teach children how to 'sit and stay' if they should become lost in the wild.
I told Sharon about him, and he has become our inspiration. As I am sure most of you know, I adopted Trevor, who is blind almost 6 months ago. What a love he is!

Sunday, January 04, 2004


Dad and their puppy mill survivor 'Sweetie' (aka Isabella)
They are both survivors in my book!



The Old Man and His Dog

Author is unknown to me - found this at http://geocities.com/dennis_smith362/p7.htm



        "Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!" my father yelled at me. "Can't
        you do anything right?"

        Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man
        in the seat beside me, daring to
        challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't
        prepared for another battle.

        "I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was
        measured and steady, sounding far
        calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me then turned away and settled
        back.

        At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my
       thoughts. Dark heavy clouds hung in the
        air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my
        inner turmoil. What could I do about
        him?

        Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being
        outdoors and had reveled in pitting
        his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered rueling lumberjack
        competitions, and had placed often.
        The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his
        prowess.

        The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy
        log, he joked about it, but later that same
        day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable
        whenever anyone teased him about his
        advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger
        man.

        Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An
        ambulance sped him to the hospital while a
        paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the
        hospital, Dad was rushed into an
        operating
        room. He was lucky, he survived.

        But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately
        refused to follow doctor's orders.
        Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults.
        The number of visitors thinned, then
        finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

        My husband, Dick and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We
        hoped the fresh air and rustic
        atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in I
        regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing
        was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and
        moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up
        anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out
        our pastor and explained the
        situation. The clergyman set up weekly couseling appointments for us. At the
        close of each session he prayed,
        asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind, but the months wore on and God was
        silent.

        A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up
        there was "God". Although I believed a
        Supreme Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing that God
        cared about the tiny human beings on
        this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. Something
        had to be done and it was up to me to do
        it.

        The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of
        the mental health clinics listed in the
        yellow pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that
        answered. In vain. Just when I was
        giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something
        that might help you! Let me go get
        the article!" I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable
        study done at a nursing home. All of the
        patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes
        had improved dramatically when they
        were given responsibility for a dog.

        I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a
        questionaire, a uniformed officer led me to the
        kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row
        of pens. Each contained five to
        seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly hared dogs, spotted dogs, all jumped up,
        trying to reach me. I studied each
        one but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too
        small, too much hair.

        As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to
        his feet, alked to the front of the run
        and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this
        was a caricature of the breed. Years
        had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out
        in lopsided triangles. But it was his
        eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me
        unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. "Can
        you tell me about him?".

        The officer then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny one. Appeared
        out of nowhere and sat in front of the
        gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him.
        That was two weeks ago and we've
        heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.". He gestured helplessly. As the
        words sank in I turned to the man in
        horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"

        "Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every
        unclaimed dog." I looked at the pointer
        again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him, " I said.

        I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the
        house I honked the horn twice. I was
        helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.

        "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I exclaimed excitedly. Dad looked,
        then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had
        wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better
        specimen than that bag of bones.
        Keep it! I don't want it!" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back
        toward the house.

        Anger rose inside me. It spueezed together my throat muscles and pounded
        into my temples. "You'd better get
        used to him, Dad, he's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I
        screamed. At those words Dad
        whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides. his eyes narrowed and
        blazing with hate.

        We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer
        pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled
        toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he
        raised his paw. Dad's lower jaw trembled
        as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes.
        The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad
        was on his knees hugging the animal.

        It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the
        pointer Cheyenne. Together he and
        Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty
        lanes. They spent reflective
        moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. The even started
        to attend Sunday servies together,
        Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.

        Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's
        bitterness faded, and he and
        Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel
        Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through
        our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke
        Dick, put on my robe and ran into
        my
        father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left
        quietly sometime during the night.

        Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying
        dead beside Dad's bed. I
        wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried
        him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently
        thanked the dog for the help he had given to me in restoring Dad's peace of
        mind.

        The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. "This day looks
        like the way I feel", I thought as I
        walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to
        see the many friends Dad and
        Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a
        tribute to both Dad and the dog who
        had changed his life.

        And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2

        "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for by so doing, some have
        unwittingly entertained angels."

        For me, the past dropped into place completing a puzzle that I had not seen
        before; the sympathetic voice that
        had just read the right article...Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the
        animal shelter...his calm acceptance
        and complete devotion to my father...and the proximity of their deaths.
        Suddenly I understood. I knew that God
        had answered my prayers after all.