A small story:

As anyone who has followed me for a while knows, my volunteering energy goes a bunch of places but I put the bulk of it towards @SanteDOr, a tiny, nearly all-volunteer rescue, based in a single storefront in Atwater Village.

Don't let the size fool you.
In the last twenty years, they have saved and placed thousands of cats, some dogs, a few very confused rabbits and one very alarmed hamster. During the pandemic, they redoubled their TNR efforts because a lot of groups were overwhelmed.

They are good people.

Stuff gets done.
More to the point, animals get second chances. Frequently during a Trap/Neuter/Release program in a feral cat colony a volunteer will realize a "Feral" cat is frantically purring and curling around their hands, desperate for safety and care again.
Very sick animals, very injured animals, get the care they need. Sometimes, it's nothing short of miraculous. Anyone who knows about cat care knows that FIP is a death sentence. This past year, Sante tried a new medical protocol, which cost a ton of money.

It worked.
"Is that a good use of money?"

Well, yes. The price will come down, and pretty quickly. And the information gained from that one cat makes second chances for other animals far more likely. When I fostered Greta, we moved heaven and earth to give her more chances.
We lost her but she didn't die cold, in pain, unloved. Every step the vet, Christy, I took was more information that will lead to second chances for other kittens, other cats.

I mostly talk about cats and kittens because they're easier to foster but as I said, Sante occasionally places a dog. I was just listening to a podcast about...okay, it was about cadaver dogs and it reminded me of a Sante dog.

Don't worry.

He was not a cadaver dog.
Specifically, this story was talking about hundreds of hours of training it takes to bring a dog to that level of aptitude, a honing of instincts to what is literally superhuman abilities.

"Yuki," I suddenly thought as I listened and vacuumed.

"Can you come over, walk a dog?"
A few years back, Christy - otherwise known as Fearless Leader - texted from the rescue. I hiked every day and our then-dog Sam was no longer interested in verticality in any form so, yay! Hikefriend! I went over and met Yuki, a rather tubular beagle, who eyed me.
"He's big for us," I said, petting him as he sat on my foot and glanced around for snacks. Christy explained that yes, our usual dogs were small enough to be able to live in cat-sized pens but Yuki was a favor and he wasn't terribly athletic.

"I can see that," I said warmly.
Yuki glanced at me as if to say, "Hurtful. The only way my feelings will be mollified is with a loaf of bread."

We hiked. He huffed a bit but so did I. We both needed the hike. I started taking him out constantly, at least in part because he was so wonderfully phlegmatic.
Watching Yuki just sort of beagle through my errands was a delight. He was never outraged, never stressed; he was just... emotionally solid.

After a few weeks of our hikes, I noted with approval that he was a little less physically so.
Anyway, one of our board members knew a family with an adult son living with ASD. The son had been gifted an emotional-support shepherd in his teens, a much relied-upon member of the family who had recently died. Christy asked me if I thought Yuki might be up for the job.
I had no idea. Sure, Yuki was less emotional than any other dog we had ever had at Sante but let's be honest, they were nearly all Chihuahua mixes of some kind and that's a "Real Housewife Reunion Special" level of febrile. He certainly wasn't trained for it.
Also, the family had been looking for a young, large dog. Yuki was neither.

"Can't hurt to have them meet him, if they want to" was decided by the powers that be, a group I always arrange to not be a part of. They met him. Hours later, I got a text, "Yuki went home."
Apparently the son, who had understandably been very upset by the loss of his boon dog companion of a decade, had instantaneously gravitated to Yuki.

"The weird part," Christy said later, "Was Yuki, who just ran to the son and pressed against him."
Any animal adopted through Sante has follow-up check-ins, to see how everything is going. This being an unusual situation, there were more calls. Each time, I'd get another story:

From the time they left Sante, Yuki wouldn't leave the boy's side.
When the young man went to an educational program, Yuki would engage with the mother and father but when they went to pick up the son after school finished, he'd ignore everyone but the son again, pressing against him as they walked home.
The son had weekly PT in the park, acres filled with squirrels and smells. Yuki would stay arm's reach of the son, seemingly indifferent to all temptations.

They would eat at an outdoor restaurant and Yuki would ignore food being dropped, watching only the son.
A reminder: YUKI IS A BEAGLE. All dogs love food but beagles would build a time machine for a pizza bone. His entire brain was wired for the accumulation of calories and yet somehow Yuki managed to override it. From the first minute he met this family, he knew his job.
He was never trained to do any of this.
It's been a few years since we got the last report back. If he's still alive, he is very old. But I promise you that if he's still on earth, he's being a very, very good dog and if he isn't, he left huge pawprints to fill.

The rescue gave him a second chance.
Sante D'Or gives animals a second chance, every day. And every day, a human's life is better for it.
And now, the ad!

It’s time for the big fundraising event for @SanteDOr and they are SO close to their goal; can you help? Any donation is useful and Greta and I would be so grateful.

racefortherescues.org/index.cfm?fuse… Image
They are SOOOOOOOOO close to their goal and we have 48 hours to get there. Like a tube-shaped beagle, you can help!

racefortherescues.org/index.cfm?fuse…

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More from @quinncy

14 Oct
A small story:

"I'm sorry," someone who knows me in three dimensions says apologetically, "I'm not on Twitter."

It's fair for them to assume this will wound me deeply. As I have noted before, "I was on Twitter" will always be my alibi, no matter the day or time.
Anyone who spends as much time as I do on here must like it.

Right?

"Good for you!" I say supportively to the non-Twitter person, then add, "And never start. It's a septic tank."

I believe this.

Turns out, I'm that bacteria which has evolved to thrive in septic tanks.
Until this morning, my answer was always, "There is no good reason an emotionally healthy and fully-actualized person should be on Twitter. The Nazis alone are reason enough. Also, no edit button."

This morning, I received a text from a friend's son, newly in this tank.
Read 10 tweets
12 Oct
A small story:

"I LIKE this dress!" Consort says appreciatively. I nod in agreement; it's very flattering, clever enough to keep me from yelling about who would pay over $700 for this dress. I mean, I wouldn't but I respect that someone with near-infinite resources would.
I swish around so the dress can have a moment and Consort says happily, "I'm glad you're enjoying this experiment."

I stop mid-swish.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I say, then add, "I mean, it's fine. It's a good writing prompt."

Even the best couples have unbridgeable chasms.
I think of Consort's temperament as the byproduct of his Mediterranean ancestors, a man capable of great pleasure merely by being surrounded by the things in this world which matter to him. A great red wine being drunk with lifelong friends on a lakeside porch?

Joy.
Read 16 tweets
12 Oct
A few weeks ago, it was suggested a certain “self-made” “billionaire” is expecting a male child.

Court Jester immediately suggested a terrible joke, a joke so bad Quinn informed her, “That joke is not going out.”

She agreed, but suggested we send it to @AlecMapa.

“Fine.”
He laughed.
This morning, I saw this.
Read 5 tweets
9 Oct
Started the podcast and realized, "I MUST LISTEN TO THIS BOOK!"

Got it on @librofm.

@HallieRubenhold has written a compelling, fact-based, sympathetic but clear-eyed history of the people who actually matter in the Jack the Ripper stories; the victims.

Think you know them?
You probably don't.

For one, they were probably not sex workers. Not that their job matters but it set the narrative of blame, a narrative which continues. Rubenhold tells some harrowing stories in her podcast of Ripperheads rating the victims in terms of their sexual appeal.
(You already know that the people attacking her on social media for telling their actual stories, for not being interested in "solving" the case, for giving the victims their humanity back are, by a wide margin, men)
Read 21 tweets
9 Oct
A small story:

Very small.

I don't think you will be surprised to learn I have zero interest or aptitude for the domestic arts. If you've ever heard any of the Biblical passage waxing lyrical about what a real woman does (Proverbs 31:10-31), well, I am Goofus to that Gallant.
This past year, I was (badly) ironing some dress shirt belonging to Consort as we were going to a Zoom funeral. I was watching a pleasantly anodyne baking show while I ironed when I suddenly realized the shirt was done and I still had more show.

I like things to line up.
I looked around and spotted the sheets I was about to (badly) fold and put away. On a whim, I ironed the pillowcases. Owing to them being rectangles, some might even say I didn't do it badly. I started the show again and the baker who won the week mentioned orange-flower water.
Read 6 tweets
8 Oct
My father-in-law was a cameraman who won two Emmys for his work shooting live. Because of his experience, he was brought on for a new live weekend sketch comedy show, where he worked until he retired. He worked for decades in the business, rarely said anything bad about anyone.
There was exactly one person he said was a fucking asshole.
Huh.

It's Chevy Chase's birthday.
Read 4 tweets

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