Why I Hate HSUS

Everything you could possibly need to know about HSUS, in one convenient sentence:

“In 2008, the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS) spent just HALF of ONE PERCENT of its total budget on organizations providing hands-on care to dogs and cats.”

Dig that one out, the next time some nit wit tells you how awesomely awesome HSUS is.

Remember this, as well – every dollar that HSUS manages to suck into its giant, gaping maw is one less dollar donated to an actual, working Humane Society, rescue, or animal welfare group. Every dollar they don’t get, is one less dollar that can be used to save animals. Every dollar they don’t have to use to save animals, is one more animal that can’t be saved. And every animal that can’t be saved is an animal that’s potentially dead. Therefore, donating to HSUS kills animals.

See? I can use AR logic, too.


And, once again – “Why is anyone still donating money to the Humane Society of the United States?”

Journey, Snow, Cops & 'Hypocrite of the Year' Awards

"Who are you people, and why am I here?"

"Who are you people, and why am I here?"

Journey has spent the last two weeks ‘trying out’ her new retirement family, Matt and Kat of Toronto. She returned to us yesterday so she could be spayed by our veterinarian, and will go back to her new forever family tomorrow or later this week.

Rather than the joyful, “oh I missed you” homecoming we might have been hoping for, Journey moped into the house with a look that clearly said “Why the hell am I back HERE again?”. She was almost as unthrilled to see us as she was her four legged family, who gave her an olfactory once over that clearly said “Where have you been, and what have you been eating/doing/meeting?”. Journey hunched her back, looked miserable and curled up on the dog bed, occasionally shooting us murderous looks that we interpreted to mean “Take me back to my REAL mommy and daddy now, please”.

While it’s nice to see she’s fitting in well with her new parents, it was rather disappointing to learn that not only weren’t we at all missed, we weren’t even remember overly fondly. Today, she’s at the vet clinic, which I’m certain has only solidified her opinion of me as a dog tormenting jerk, and will serve to make her even more grateful to escape our clutches.

French Bulldogs are ingrates, I tell you. They’ve made trading up into a breed characteristic. No other dog breed I know is as happy to leave their lifelong home behind for a new set of people, without even a backwards glance.

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