Jill Rants and Raves

free trade is neither

I wanted to buy a pretty simple product - a portable, collapsible water bowl to take out on my dog hikes. You know, they are made of fabric with a waterproof lining, and are made by companies with cute names like Ruff Wear and Outward Hound. They are really useful. Those of you without pets - well, I don't think anyone reading my blog is petless - but even those of you with animal companions may not be as endlessly fixated on how vast a business the 'pet industry' is, as I am.

Americans spend over 30 billion dollars a year on their pets - that includes the big ticket items like vet care, grooming, boarding, training. But there is a rapidly growing market for 'designer' products - including organic and 'raw' foods, personalized leashes, $100 collars, hemp clothing, bejewelled name tags and associated services like dog walking, doggy day care and 'in home' visits for the pets of busy professionals who wanna make sure Max and Sophie don't become raging freaks being left home alone all day.

I watch all of this with a sort of wistful 'what if'. What if I had seen this fad coming a decade ago? What if I really could get my vision of a gallery of amazing - and it goes without saying, high quality - animal art off my imaginary back burner and out onto main street, what if I had thought of designing a collapsible water bowl, you know....

So I go to buy one of these things and they are reasonably cheap so I end up buying two of them. I'm particulary incensed by the one I bought at trendy REI, a store populated by global warming fixated, environment protection obsessed, adoring Berkeleyites who think that when they put on a pair of hiking boots they just saved the planet. Groovy pricey REI. This bowl is made by a company, Bison Designs, whose website homepage features a staff photo with everyone in front of a massive American flag and all are wearing a white T shirt sporting a Stars and Stripes. But the products of course are....errr....well....made in ....China. And I aint talking Chinatown in Atlanta, Georgia. The other bowl from Outward Hound, a company based in Orange County, California is also made in China. I'm not a protectionist. I believe in FAIR TRADE.

Didn't a container ship carrying goods manufactured in China destined for the shelves of environmentally fascistic Berkeley just dump a vast amount of oil in San Francisco Bay, despoiling our coastline and killing thousands of birds and marine mammals? What the freak is wrong with this picture? One helluva lot.

It starts with us. If anyone can point me in the direction of a collapsible water bowl made in America, by a company employing union labor and providing a living for working people right here, I'll buy it. No, I'll buy two of them. Meanwhile, I'm taking at least one of these bowls back to the store for a refund which I'm going to donate to an organisation which is trying to prevent the growing trade in animal parts from China, including bear paws which are becoming a delicacy in soup.

life, near death and the changing of the seasons

Roo Surrounded By Friends, Point Arena, March 23rd, 2008 © Jill Posener

It was easter Sunday two years ago, here in the beautiful woods among the redwoods and madrones, amid the yellow soil and the bluejays, and the house on the ridge that I love so much, that I lost sight of Roo for a moment. And then in an instant her cries pierced a foggy morning, a misty, cold lonely morning, as Mamma, a feral dog I had known and loved for years, grabbed Roo by the throat and carried her into the woods beyond my reach. Roo's small frame hung from the large jaw and her eyes were empty with terror. I felt a searing horror, and a pleading longing 'no' burst out of me with such volume that birds fluttered from trees and my border collie Frank rushed from the house and on a pursuit of Mamma, though he did not know why.

In those few minutes when I thought I had killed Roo with my carelessness, I watched helplessly, racing through underbrush, and over embankments, sliding down the rain slicked trails as the larger dog would stop ahead of me and drop Roo, only to gnaw at her legs or stomach and then pick her up and run some more, Roo's limbs drooping by her sides. She made no more sounds.

Frank kept me on the right track. Suddenly we emerged into a clearing, Mamma looked back at me almost adoringly, as if to say, 'look, look what I did'. I ran harder then and screaming at her to back off kicked her in the side just as she bent over to retrieve her prey once more. I reached for Roo and without thinking tried to pick her up. Her eyes flashed fear and her jaw snapped open and shut on my hands puncturing them over and over. I took off my sweater and wrapped her, lifting her to me, as her head dropped to one side. I flailed then, sobbing and saying her name again and again.

I was alone, it was easter Sunday and the blood from my tiny dog spread over a grey sweatshirt on which I can still see, after dozens of washings, the palest of brown as a reminder of her agony, and mine.

It was the kindness of people whom I didn't know well, that saved Roo's life. The woman who was able to reach the vet during his easter family dinner, the vet who did what he could but who warned me that she might not survive, that she must go to an emergency vet in Santa Rosa, a two hour drive down the fog draped coastal road, and the emergency staff who took her from me when we arrived, leaving me with blood seeping through clothes and empty arms, Roo already in a state of disengagement from the world, and me.

I left Roo there and drove back to the house on the ridge in the woods and to the rest of my pack and looked at Mamma and her mate Yogi, now back in their locked enclosure and decided they had to die. Not out of vengeance, but because I could not ever let them run free again after this attack. Roo survived. The two dogs died.

Today, sitting at the same computer I had sat at starting that dark day, the world could not be a more different place. That day a melancholy settled into my brain and leaked into my soul and it has taken almost two years to exorcise it. I, who am filled with the sheer joy of living, exuberant in the way the days begin with light, enamored of the visions I see dancing around in my head, and excited by the way in which simple things exalt the art of living - I was lost in a tunnel. No air, or light and no sure knowledge of it ever coming to an end.

I'm not sure what brought me to the door through which I was able to burst out of the tunnel - the zone, I describe it to the therapist I have depended on for two years. I remember the night of the day I had the two dogs killed, I called Jody and a dear friend Sarah, and they both called me back hourly until I was able to fall asleep, exhausted by my horror and self loathing. That was a night so black, so dense, I knew it was the beginning of a terrible journey.

Today, the fog sits somewhere across the ridge, Roo is lying on a chair with sun streaming in through a window, glistening in her rich thick coat of fur. She never seems to look at me or this place, even the spot on the trail where her blood mingled with dirt and leaves, with anything but a grin of life affirming pleasure.
Depression is, I'm glad to say, a companion whose claws left scars. The memory of that journey makes me even more alert to life and it's unexpected joys.