Discovery of Self: Why It Took nearly 30 Years to Define My Spiritual Journey

I was always an introspective person.When I was a kid, was just a smaller introspective person. Maybe it's because I was an only child and spent most of my time outdoors. Maybe it's because my dad taught me to read at least a year before I entered kindergarten, at which point I fell in love with books. But there was no doubt about it that I always felt safe by myself, with only the company of the outdoors, sometimes a book, and my latest stray cat.

Early Childhood: Finding Out

We had a large yard on all sides on my home, surrounded by the Fayette County portion of Forbes State Forest, a Pennsylvania state forest, that in total spans between 50-60,000 acres. I grew up in the small town of Farmington and it was not unusual for me to play in the woods all day by myself. I climbed through creeks and into shallow caves, sat on large rocks and hiked dense trails. By the time I was out of diapers, I could always find my way home, no matter how far I ventured. I made up stories in my mind about the expeditions I was on. Once I entered school I would invite my neighbor friends to my "secret hideouts" where they would join in on my imaginary scenes. I don't ever once recall being frightened of any forest sounds, though occasionally my friends would be. I felt especially safe when my cats followed me through the forest. I felt pretty important, like the whole world was mine to discover. I knew then that was the master of my own destiny.

Sometime around 3-5 years old is when I have not only my first memories of being outdoors, but also my first memories of Sunday School. My maternal grandmother is a devout Christian and never misses a Sunday in church, and encourages all of her grandchildren to attend as well. I don't remember how I felt in the early years but I imagine I loved dressing in my Sunday best; in addition to seeing my cousins, grandparents, and other familiar faces each week. In Sunday School we made a lot of crafts and I can conjure images of cotton and Popsicle stick lambs. I still know all the words to "He's Got the Whole World In His Hands" and "This Little Light of Mine", complete with hand motions.

Lets be honest here, how much can a small child be skeptical of something they are being told? We look to our parents and "grownups" to tell us what is and what isn't. Adults are shaping us and we are but lumps of clay. But as a kid who spent hours with herself, thinking and imagining, and looking at the world around her, I think I may have been a skeptic especially early. I didn't have siblings to mimic or look up to. I had myself, the forest, and my inquiring mind.

In Sunday School I learned about Adam and Eve; Noah's Ark; Cain & Abel; David & Goliath; Jesus & the Disciples; Heaven and Hell. These were great stories. At home when I was indoors, I enjoyed the typical 80s kids TV shows like Care Bears, Pee Wee's Playhouse, Sesame Street, and Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. These too, were great stories. I didn't really see how they were different from one another. I don't remember the age I was or the exact moment when I started being skeptical, but the series of questioning in my mind went like this:

 "Wait ... these grownups want me to think these things actually happened? They think these things actually happened?"

"But how did they know that?"

"Why is it different than any other book or fantasy on a TV show?"

"If Jesus can make the lame walk, the blind see, and walk across water, how come I have never seen anyone do this?"

"Why would things possible 'back then' be so impossible to witness now?"

"How come God doesn't talk to me?"

"How can he really hear everyone's prayers? What if we are praying for opposite things? Why do bad things sometimes happen anyway?"

But I kept my mouth shut. My grandmother loved seeing me in Sunday School. When I didn't attend, everyone always asked about me. Everyone seemed so passionate and so sure that the Bible was true through and through. There must be something wrong with me, I decided. I need to listen harder, and maybe read into the Bible a bit more at home. I asked for a kids Bible, thinking it would be easier to understand. I must have been missing something.

Still, my church attendance started to dwindle, and oftentimes I would beg my mom to sleep in. "Do I have to go this week?" I would ask. But I did attempt to read my Bible at home, in private, where I could really think. This reading and thinking only led to more questions.

At this time, I was also reading a great series of books that my parents ordered for me, called Lets Read and Find Out books. I learned that Ducks Don't Get Wet, What Makes Day and Night, about the Skeleton Inside of [Us], Toads, and Glaciers. I also got an entire Encyclopedia set. These things seemed true. You could see some of these things firsthand. Nothing seemed particularly magical, though like my adventures in the forest, they were awe-inspiring. If I had a question about something in the natural world, my dad would encourage me to "Look it up". So I often did.

But I desperately wanted to fit in with my family who thought church was very important. My uncle, afterall, was a very successful preacher and moved around a lot, taking on better and better opportunities as a minister. And he was a very nice person, kind to everyone, well-educated. He must know something I don't, I decided. Near the end of elementary school, there were some after school programs available for religious education. I guess because Church and State are constitutionally separate, they wanted to give religious parents the opportunity for more Christian learning. I signed up in hopes of understanding more now that I was a bit older. I grew to hate that afterschool program. I was bored, and confused more than ever.

When I was 11, everyone at Church wanted me to get baptized. The kids in my Sunday School class took a series of special classes to learn what it was to accept Jesus into your heart. Finally, I thought! I will get it now, I will get it now! I will give my heart and all my worries to him and I will be Saved!! I took the baptismal dunk in the large, cold tank at my Church, surrounded by family and friends. Everyone was so happy and proud, especially my kind, sweet Grandma.

But if anything, it was the biggest let down of all. I didn't feel any different. I still put my feet one foot in front of the other on my own accord. I still made my own decisions, as much as an 11-year old can on her own. I was still a nice person, but regardless, bad things still happened to me and to other people. I still said my prayers each night but great grandparents still died and sometimes I would still get a bad grade on a test at school. Often I would get great grades in school too, but that's because I paid attention and did my homework. Since God is invisible, it's really as if I'm just doing everything on my own anyway, right? If I feel sad or have a problem, I talk to my mom and my friends, and they make me feel better. When I'm around my family, I feel included and a part of something. That seems like pretty significant love right there. Who needs God?

Then when I was 14 years old, my parents and I moved to North Carolina. Without the pressure of Grandma or an established Church, I didn't have to think about God anymore. Really, he just stressed me out. I did so much better just to treat others how I want to be treated, and be done with it. I had so many fulfilling things to do, I wasn't missing God anyway. It was business as usual. I read, wrote in my Diary, listened to music, and doodled letters to my friends.

Though to say I didn't have to think about God wasn't entirely true, because as I soon learned, we had moved straight into the Bible Belt. My first few days of high school went like this from every person I met: "Where are you from? Do you have a church yet? You should come to my church." Much like it was in my old town, everyone assumed if you looked vaguely normal, you were a Christian. I finally relented, as I knew no one and didn't know what to label my religious beliefs as anyway. So here we go again.

I soon joined a youth group with a girl at my school who was relentless about me coming to her church. We went on a local missionary trips collecting food and clothing for the less fortunate, and took a week-long Christian Retreat to the beach where we went to this big hullabaloo about teens and God. Sometimes Youth Group was actually pretty fun. Other times when it got really "preachy", I felt like an alien. Or maybe I felt like I was the normal one, surrounded by crazy people. But mostly I felt like the imposter. No amount of anything was going to make me believe that not accepting this nonsense meant I was going to burn in hell. I was a really nice person. I was kind to animals, behaved in school, listened to my parents, and had a steady job at 16 years old. I was a good kid. And what's more, these Christian kids didn't even seem to be as nice and accepting of other people as I was. The popular kids in my youth group still didn't talk to me at school, and the guys especially were still kind of jerks to everyone. The girl that invited me to become a part of the Youth Group in the first place was really clingy and creepy, and to be honest, really slutty with the boys at school. I soon drew as quickly away from the youth group crowd as I had jumped in.

I started being attracted to the people at school who looked less than normal at school. Now as I write this, it makes perfect sense, but at the time I chalked it up to the fact that I had always appreciated those who were different. They were more interesting and more "real". My mom had always encouraged me in elementary school to embrace the outcasts and less popular. She explained they had feelings just like me and should be treated just as fairly as anyone else. When I grew older, these early lessons took on new meaning for me. As mom had so wisely explained to me years ago, sometimes the prettiest and most popular people are not always the nicest. I think we can all agree, that's a very accurate assertion. And so by the time I was a sophomore, I started to hang around the freaks and geeks, and it got me through the rest of my high school years.

In 11th grade, I started to learn that there is an "other" option when it comes to religion, and that not everyone believes in God, or in organized religion. I met a boy that I would later marry, who called himself an atheist. He was a nice person, but very angry about God and all the people who worshiped "nonsense". This was shocking to me and I didn't know if I agreed or not, but I sure liked it better than the alternative of having to pretend I believed in "nonsense". Still, I really loved my grandmother, and uncle, and a handful of religious influences on my life. So I wasn't ready to denounce them all yet. But I liked what this guy had to say. I liked that he thought outside of the box. No one in my life had ever offered that as an option before. With my high school sweetheart also came some of his friends with alternate beliefs. One in particular, Tim, was Wiccan. And he was one of the nicest, kindest people I had the pleasure of knowing. He was really into nature and was a very affectionate person with his friends. He would be friends with anyone, and wasn't concerned about his "image". There were girls too that also seemed to be of alternative beliefs, and they were some of the smartest kids in our grade. They seemed to be so educated and knew so much about other cultures, literature, and poetry. I didn't always understand what it was they were talking about, but they sure sounded like they knew about many things I hadn't yet been exposed to.

So you could not believe in God, and be a really intelligent person? It wasn't until later, I would learn, that some of the most intelligent people in all of history were also atheists. In general, the more intellectual you are, the less you may believe in God. This is not to say there aren't idiot atheists and brilliant Christians -- there are clearly both. But when you take the time to think for yourself instead of accepting what someone tells you on faith, you can't ever constrain your mind back to it's original proportions. You start to understand what is rational, possible, and realistic; and what might be ancient myths that were created long before modern scientific discoveries and current social progress. But I will get more to that later.

Humanism Finally Equals Happiness

Early in my first marriage, I was still pretty uneducated about atheism, and the word itself was scary  to me. I may have researched it a few times, and decided that I was more of an agnostic, meaning that for me, the jury was still out on if there was in fact a higher being, because no one can ever truly know. Though my marriage didn't last, my skepticism lingered, and eventually I ran onto something called Humanism. I had seen something about Susan Sarandon being one of "these". I soon could not get enough of reading about Humanism, because the values of this philosophy so clearly matched my own. Wikipedia defines Humanism as "... a movement of philosophy and ethics that emphasizes the value ... of human beings ... and generally prefers individual thought and evidence (rationalism) over established doctrine or faith." But the simplest way to describe it is as my favorite Humanist activist, Jennifer Hancock, does, when she discusses the Humanist approach to happiness: "Be a good person. Strive to be ethical, compassionate, and responsible in all that you do. Take responsibility for your life and for the consequences of your actions. Choose to act in ways that will increase your happiness and the happiness of others."

It was eye-opening to me that there were people all over the world that thought like me, that felt that being good could happen without a supernatural God. People who understood that sometimes bad things just happen, and its not necessarily for a reason or punishment, that it's just the natural order of life. That rather than prayer, if we want to make positive changes in our own lives in the world, we have to take action. We must use our best judgement based on the information at hand, choosing what helps the most and hurts the least.

Empathy decides morality - "'How would you feel if it were you?" - and not an ancient book that promotes slavery, homophobia, and constantly contradicts its own rules.

Even still, after learning about Humanism, I was quiet in my beliefs. My thoughtful and introverted current boyfriend seemed to have a lot of traditional values, and I didn't want to hurt him or challenge his own convictions. Together for almost 4 years, we ran a dog rescue together. There was one piece of religion I was still clinging to at this point - the comforting idea of heaven. Working in animal rescue, a lot of dogs pass away due to euthanasia because of lack of space or behavior issues, or die of old age and disease. It was nice to think that when these animals leave us that they run over a magical rainbow bridge and they wait for us, until we too, pass on. Even so, I became so busy with our rescue and my responsibilities to all of these animals that I didn't think much about my spirituality at this point.

Eventually, the emotional demands of the rescue and the cruel nature of the people involved with it lead me into a deep depression.My romantic relationship had fallen apart, and I was very lost in my own life, not sure where to go next. My best friend had moved to Florida a few years prior, a man I had come to know back during my first marriage. Another possibility for my future started to take shape as I opened up myself to the only person I felt comfortable talking to. Because I already knew my best friend so well, it wasn't much of a stretch to cross from friendship into something more. I was ready for a change, and several rescue dogs in tow, I relocated to Florida too, to begin my new adventure. I was taking action to improve my life, something that hoping and praying had failed to do the past couple of years as things had started to go downhill for me. Praying didn't make people's criticism fail to hurt me, it didn't heal my boyfriends physical and emotional troubles, nor our financial struggles. I was in a bad situation, so at the first sign of a solution, I got out. The best trip of my life was the 11 hour drive I made to my new home in Florida. I had no idea the self-discovery I was truly about to make.

The first few days and weeks and Florida involved lots of reacquainting ourselves with each other, and establishing where we wanted our relationship to go. Living with Michael's religious mother made me more than a little uncomfortable at times, and early on I admitted that I didn't "really" believe in God. I was relieved when Michael said that he already knew that, and he had been prepared for that before I came to stay. He told me that he too had questions, and that he wanted to be myself and believe what I wanted to believe. It was the person that I am that he loved, and he didn't want me to be anything that I wasn't. It was the most honest conversation I had ever had face-to-face with someone about my beliefs, and furthermore, the only one in which someone referred to my atheism as being "okay".

It occurred to me suddenly that I now had the freedom to educate myself, to question, to be skeptical, to learn everything I had ever wanted to learn about this God-free lifestyle. I still had a lot of rational questions about God & the bible, and frankly, about evolution. I soon started visiting Amazon and bookstores to find the information I needed. The first 4 books I got my hands on were

These were maybe the best pieces of non-fiction I had ever read, and the best ones I could have chosen for my purposes. In Godless, Dan Barker examined everything I had ever considered skeptically in the Bible, while sharing his own experiences of self-discovery as he crossed over from an evangelical preacher to eventually become the Co-President of the Freedom From Religion Foundation.

In The Humanist Approach to Happiness, Jennifer Hancock taught me more about what it meant to be a Humanist; living ethically, compassionately, and responsibly.

And then Richard Dawkins explained to me, in his brilliant and comprehensible way, how evolution works. 

The best part of all of theses books is that everything was possible, realistic, observable, verifiable, provable, and rational.

I was finally out-of-the-closet. I was an atheist, and had been for quite some time.

Arrogance and Anger

Now, atheists get a bad rap for being arrogant and angry. But it's not until you are one that it suddenly becomes clear why. Because, the truth is, you do feel arrogant. You have suddenly learned all these facts and asked obvious questions that the believers of the world have failed to take the time to learn and consider. You feel educated and empowered, and with this, comes some arrogance. We can't help it. And although not the most attractive feature, it is a human response. And with no fear of hell or what God will think of this, we experience emotion, often without apology. The results are not always pretty. I hope that most atheists, like me, try to reserve their arrogant thoughts and feelings for the privacy of like-minded atheist groups and websites. Afterall, most of us are good people, compassionate people. If we have any hope of gaining acceptance into the mainstream, we have to show the best parts of us so people understand that we too, are human. The philosophy of Humanism can help with controlling these unattractive behaviors and channel them in doing and being good. One of the reasons I love Humanism is for the very reason that it is so very positive and compassionate of others.

Then there is the anger we experience when we suddenly see clearly. Angry at our education that our teachers are forced to tiptoe around the reality of evolution so as not to "offend" religious parents. Angry that our own families never encouraged us to learn about all beliefs, not just theirs. I personally was encouraged to seek answers about the things that interested me, EXCEPT when it came to God. I was told there was one way and that it was the right way. What kind of mixed message is that sending to youth? Education and innovation are what is necessary for societal progress, but believers discourage thinking critically about religion and belief. How are we supposed to accept that our parent's religion is the best one for us, when we have been shielded from learning about the others? Don't people in other areas of the world think that their religion or God is the one true one? How can you be so ignorant to assume just because your authority figure told you "this is what is true", that it is, when there are so many unanswered questions and unexplored religions you have yet to learn about? I am angry I spent so many years being conflicted because of fear and imposed ignorance. And I'm very frustrated that these logical questions, and the answers that are quite easy to find, were never posed by my elders. I'm not any more intelligent than the average person, and my skepticism always came quite naturally. Perhaps the only thing remarkable about me, is bravery.

"Faith does not give you the answers, it just stops you from asking the questions." - Frater Ravus

The Wondrous World of Science and Reality

My mother once told me, shortly after my arrival in Florida, that lack of belief was "sad". The truth was, I never felt happier than when I figured out what was right for me. What made me "sad" was hearing my mother say this. How can anyone say that? How fair is it to say that after all the time, thought, and consideration I put into what I believe? I didn't arrive at my convictions because someone told me I shouldn't believe in God - it was quite the opposite. I had struggled my entire life because of what other people thought I should believe, and I had been miserable. The world is still beautiful no matter what God you do or don't believe in. When you understand science and evolution, everything is all the more fascinating, because you realize how incredibly connected we all are to each other, and how many billions of years it has taken for us to arrive at the amazing creatures we are today. You see science in action, and there are always more you can learn about to understand everything you are perceiving. I don't have to believe in invisible Gods, spirits, or magic. Reality is so much more fulfilling.  

Ninja's Story

Separation Anxiety, Choosing a Dog Over a Marriage, Growing Pains, and Choosing Goodbye for a Canine Good Citizen

This is the story of just one of many dogs to capture my heart over the years, but Ninja is more than just any dog ... he is one of mine. From the moment I saw his big blocky head in the poorly-angled MySpace photos in July 2008, I felt instantly drawn to the heartworm positive, underweight pit bull that a fledgling rescuer was in need of a new home for. Ninja's first known origins were as a stray, and the kind girl who had taken him in had too many family challenges to be able to adequately care for him. Just a year and a half before, I had adopted my first pit bull Daisy, and in the back of my mind I knew it was a matter of time before I found her a best doggie friend she could wrestle with. My roommate at the time went with me to meet his caregiver in a mall parking lot and pick up "Nash". When his short stubby legs trotted across the parking lot and he nestled against my shins, I knew that this dog was definitely not a foster. On the ride home, Nash rode in the floorboard at my friend's feet like a doggie magnet that could only exist while touching a human.

The next day he came with me to work at the the spay-neuter vet clinic to confirm his heartworm positive status and to be neutered. Already the night before he had insistingly "claimed" the right to many items both inside and outside the house, much to my husband's dismay. He was long overdue for his neuter! I had had the dog less than 24 hours, yet he curled up cozily in my passenger seat on the way to my job, making it quite clear that he planned to be my copilot for a long time to come.

Nash soon became Ninja, for the quirky way that he kicked his feet when rolling on his back or getting comfortable on the sofa. At that time, I knew nothing of proper dog introductions and had never seen true dog aggression, and Daisy, Ninja, our 2 chihuahuas, and 4 cats(!) were already coexisting quite peacefully. Sure, Ninja harassed the cats at first but soon learned that cats didn't take kindly to being chased. I didn't know that things would ever be any different, or that all pets couldn't be friends. The harmony of this foursome reinforced my misconceptions. And for a few years, it really didn't seem to matter much at all.

Best friends, Ninja and Daisy

The real turmoil began when Ninja had recovered from heartworm treatment and my husband, our roommate, and I began to see just how much Ninja's magnetism toward people could be a bit of a problem. He could push open a crate door with the force of his blocky head alone, and if anything plastic or electronic was near the floor, he would chew, swallow, and destroy those items in a frenzy of separation anxiety. Already my pit bull Daisy couldn't be crated b/c of how ill she became when enclosed in a crate -- but she didn't destroy things when allowed to roam free, except for the occasional fluffy blanket. We became more diligent about picking up chewable items; we were lucky he never chose furniture, doors, or walls for his destruction. I even took him to the vet where he was prescribed an anxiety medication for dogs called Reconcile. And while that seemed to curve his overall anxiousness in our presence and during shorter absences, there were still missteps. On January 20, 2009; everything changed, for all of us.

I remember the date because that was the night I left my first husband. We had come home from a night out to a home littered with white plastic pieces. The horror of the realization that it was our Nintendo Wii remotes started a monstrous argument. In no uncertain terms, my husband told me that it was him or Ninja. I had already tried to leave my husband at least twice over the past 6 years of our crumbling marriage, and for me, this was an opportunity to finally follow my heart. I remember some of what I said that night. "Ninja does this because of how much he wants to be near me. He can't help it. We're leaving." Ninja hopped in my car with me as we drove to hang out with a friend until late, when I came home and slept on the couch. The next day, my husband and I made real plans to separate.

Without being able to afford our house on my own, and a small zoo of pets to think about (my husband would take none of them), my only offer of a place to live was with my dad, who was also recently seperated from my mom. But it was on the condition I found a new home for my 4 rescued cats. As it was, my dad, who was not the biggest pet fanatic, was letting me bring 4 dogs into his neat, spotless, and pet-free home. I felt backed into a corner. Tearily, I took my four cats to the no-kill adoption facility affiliated with the vet clinic I worked at. They were all adopted quickly by 4 separate families. It was one bittersweet relief in a very tumultuous time in my life.

Ninja's destruction of course continued in his new environment and even progressed into house soiling. My dad was livid and told me he should be taken to the shelter. Again, I was in the same "me-or-the-dog" situation that got me here in the first place. I came up a temporary solution for Ninja to come to work with me during the day and to ride with me in the car during any errands or outings at night. It was a mild NC winter so it was perfectly safe and reasonable to do this. It actually worked very well and by the time the spring and summer came, I was living in my own place again, now with my boyfriend who became the co-founder of our rescue we began in August 2009. We had happily combined my 4 dog family with his one elderly dog Vanilla and things were really good for us two understanding and patient dog lovers.

Left to right: Spiderman, foster dog Izzy, Nabisco, Daisy,  & Ninja

In about June of that year, right before the rescue was officially established, we adopted a dog named Spiderman with a broken leg, and raised money for his rehabilitation. As Spiderman healed, we realized we just couldn't let this dog go either (I know, I know: suckers!). But something else curious happened, and as Spiderman started using his leg again, we found ourselves in the middle of huge, one-sided dog fights, as Ninja viciously attacked Spiderman for no apparent reason at all. Spiderman's only defense was his own strong and vivacious body, and he escaped with merely a few scratches and punctures when we pried the jaws of life (or death?) from him. We knew it wouldn't be easily, but we openly discussed what long-term life life with Spiderman and Ninja would mean: Crate-and-Rotate, a term we became familiar with as we began helping others with their dog-aggression problems within a household. "C/R" had just become a reality for us.

As we progressed into fostering, we soon learned Ninja wasn't safe with most dogs we brought home, probably none of them. He only refrained from attacking the 3 that had lived with me when he came home - Daisy and our two chihuahuas. He had even had a few incidents with Vanilla, our elderly shepherd, but I think b/c of her very calm and meek nature he eventually lost interest and learned to live with her. Yet, our guard was always up. I was very disheartened the day I saw him attempt to grab a small puppy. Puppies were usually the "safety net" for temperamental dogs. Not for Ninja. Ninja's behavior was a big part of the reason we realized we couldn't do the rescuing all on our own. We could only C/R so many dogs. Ninja and Spiderman both needed their split time with our family, and fostering multiple dogs was not an option for us.

One big help was that my work had given me an industrial-strength, commercial-size dog crate that allowed us to finally crate Ninja safely and successfully. This allowed us to live pretty worry-free for the length of the time we had the rescue and were living with our multi-dog family. Vanilla eventually passed away, and it wasn't too long before another dog entered our heart by the name of Greyson, a tiny shy pit bull. We never intentionally allowed Greyson and Ninja access to each other, but twice there were "accidents". Grey was not as strong or large as Spidey, and the injuries he sustained were much more severe. He had deep punctures and tears that became infected and took months to heal. Our "guard" became a steel wall and we worked even harder to keep everyone safe from Ninja.

Ninja wearing his CGC bandana at an agility fundraiser for Carolina Care Bullies, in Charlotte, NC

This is not to say that Ninja was not a good dog, b/c aside from his aggression and anxiety, he had accomplished quite a lot. Although he had failed his first Canine Good Citizen certification attempt, once on medication, he retook the class and test with my partner Terry and passed! He could easily walk by and be in a room with other dogs with no strong reaction. The problem was interacting and being off-leash in an uncontrolled environment with them. Terry and Ninja started taking agility classes and Ninja loved the running, climbing, and all the treats that came with it. At home, Ninja was a couch potato, and generally very quiet compared to everyone else. He still had his anxious quirks of pogo-stick-jumping, mid-air jaw snapping, and magnet-like behavior to people, but it was usually just part of our day-to-day routine.

Ninja and I, before the NC Pride festival parade in September 2009. We asked all the other dogs to please give Ninja space (see DINOS for more info on "Dogs In Need of Space"). Thanks to our understanding colleagues, Ninja was able to walk in the parade to be a good ambassador for the breed that day. 

When Terry and I eventually broke up early this year; my life took me down to Florida with Ninja, Daisy, Spiderman, and one of the chihuahuas, Nabisco. With our two very different living situations and Terry's physical limitations, this is how we decided to best split the dogs. It worked out greatly for Greyson, who now gets to roam free 24/7 with Terry and his chihuahua cohort, Bluto. The challenge was bringing Ninja and the crew into a new environment with dogs already present. My new boyfriend and now husband and I discussed our strategies for integrating the dogs successfully. My husband already knew all of my dogs, as I had known him since well before I ever adopted Ninja. He was a close friend that often pet-sat all of the dogs. He knew many of Ninja's quirks and challenges, had seen his dog aggression before, and had heard all the stories of the incidents he missed. We were ready. Or so we thought.

After one "That-Was-Totally-Our-Fault" altercation that occurred between Ninja and my husband's schnauzer, Hooch; the next fight came as a complete surprise and was nearly fatal, despite 3 people being in the room trying unsuccessfully, for several minutes, to pry the 45-lb pit bull off of the 20 lb, 12-year-old helpless schnauzer. All of my training and experience of breaking up dog fights over the 4 years I had rescued pit bulls, though handy, did not do much for the tenacious and powerful Ninja. Lifting up his back legs no longer made him flinch; but that with a wooden spoon used as a break stick and my husband hanging on to Hooch for dear life at that exact moment did eventually cause a break in the fight. The results were beyond anything I had ever seen.

Hooch, post-surgery

Now we knew that there was no other alternative to keeping Ninja not only separate from Spiderman, but Hooch as well. But then in August, my husband and I found out we were pregnant. And this changed everything. How were going to keep 3 dogs totally separate from one another, and from a child? Was it plausible? Is it wise to try? But that wasn't the half of it.

Since Ninja's attack on Hooch, Ninja's behavior declined dramatically. Always a tail-chaser when stressed, now he would stand in a quiet room, during no obvious stressors at all, and chase his tail. He had progressed from obsessive water drinking to water gorging, and shoot threatening looks to Daisy or Nabisco when they too, wanted some water. He becomes nervous during bathroom breaks over high grass, chirping birds, trucks off in the distance, or perhaps nothing at all. He stands and stares idly as us or at the wall on a calm night watching television. We doubled his anxiety medication, but with no helpful results. Ninja has become the worst version of himself, and it terrifies us not knowing what we might see next.

And it's not as if Ninja had never fought with his best friend Daisy. At least 3 times over the years they had got in a real fight, and only Daisy's unwillingness to back down seemed to frighten Ninja enough so we could break them up. Once Terry had gotten severely bitten on his hand, while shielding Greyson from Ninja. I once received punctures on my legs through my jeans from early attacks on Spiderman from Ninja. Currently, my husband and I are in constant walking-on-eggshells mode, as we pick up all water bowls, food sources, toys, bones, and try to limit attention to prevent jealousy.

As my pregnancy progresses and the future became more of a reality, we know that completely controlling every situation involving a child would be impossible. But there is a lot of emotion involved, and I have a lot of history with my dog. I began re-reading my pet bereavement book, particularly the part about when the right time is to say goodbye. We went to our vet to get an unbiased opinion and to discuss Ninja's history. And the information in front of me was telling me from all angles, that it is time to let go. The vet said a few things that shook me to the core. "This is a dog that should never under any circumstances, be trusted with a child ... I do not believe in euthanizing healthy dogs. But Ninja is not a healthy dog; he is very psychologically unstable. And you already know that."  It was unnerving, especially because she didn't even know every last detail; every dog fight or human injury that "accidentally" had came with him over the years. She was quite surprised that we had lived the "eggshell" lifestyle for as long as we have. It's just a testament to my attachment to my dog. And his reciprocal attachment to me is part of what frightens us. How will Ninja feel when our world no longer revolves around him?

Ninja and I at Oak Island, December 31, 2012

Maybe for some, particularly those that aren't parents, and/or are especially dedicated to animals, especially rescued animals, think that it's okay to take it one day at a time and "see what happens". Perhaps we should let Ninja live out the rest of his life, keeping in mind that he's already at least 7 years old now, and the average lifespan of a bully breed is about 12 years. All the while, those managing him daily know, that he is a real threat to our other dogs, and to our first and only child. Sure, he has never willingly directed aggression toward a human, but his behavior surprises us every day, as he hangs on to the last threads of the dog we once knew. It's not the good days and the good qualities that worry us; it's all the bad days, the accidents, and the uncertainties of what we can't control. Would these naysayers feel the same if their other pets lives hung in the balance, or they feared for the safety of their child? How many dogs have perhaps passed through their home temporarily that just wasn't a good fit, for one of these such reasons? And what if that dog wasn't stable, or placeable in another home? During my time leading a pit bull rescue, I said goodbye to many dogs who were not able to be rehomed, and some of them did not have the laundry list of anxieties and difficult histories that my own dog Ninja has. I can't let the fact that I deeply love my dog cloud my judgement. It is because I love him that it's my responsibility to end his suffering; and it's the love for the rest of my family that makes it my responsibility to keep everyone safe.

I'm not sure how to end Ninja's story, except to say that it needed to be told. This blog is for my Ninja, the dog whose best interest has always been at the forefront of my heart, above my relationships, sometimes above even the safety of my other dogs. I love you, and as our family spends the next few weeks saying goodbye to you, I hope you feel and understand the love we have for you. As I write this and tears run down my face; Ninja knows. He gets up from his spot on the doggie bed and clings to my side, his dark chocolate eyes baring into my soul. He cocks his head to the side as if to say, "What is it mommy?" It is a fair glimpse into the close relationship we have always had, one that I will never forget, and always cherish.

Why I Quit Animal Rescue

I am 6 months into my animal rescue sabbatical. I've always been drawn to the world of animals, and I know that the animal rescue world needs me. But I can not on good conscious ever return, at least not anytime soon. Not until I see that world remember its humanity. Because truly, before we can assist another species in achieving the dignity they deserve, we must first learn to treat each other with compassion and kindness. Right now, what I see falls glaringly short. It's a shame, because the innocent suffer as a result of our human selfishness. Not just the dogs, the cats, or whatever species you choose to alleviate suffering. But humans are suffering, whether emotionally or physically. And the animal rescue community couldn't care less.

Four years ago, to the day in fact -- entirely coincidental that I should be up in the middle of the night contemplating this blog post on the very anniversary of my former rescue's incorporation -- I began a passionate journey to do something that I saw a desperate need for. That need was a strong group of people who cared about pit bull-type dogs. After the support behind mine and my partner's "independent" rescue of our dog, Spiderman, I saw a group of people who only needed a name. We could do so much good in the world, or in North Carolina at the very least, if we all worked toward the same goal. The idea, at first, was not even mine. As a joke, our friends began to press, "What will be the name of your rescue?" This very question kept me up night after night, ringing in my head. Pit bull rescue had stopped being a choice, and instead, had become a calling. There was hardly anyone that wasn't willing to stand behind our endeavors. There were so many dogs to be saved.

The first few months were almost too easy and too successful. We recruited foster home after foster home, and after careful screening, placed dog after dog into seemingly amazing homes. This was my life's work, I thought. I never had felt so complete, so needed, so appreciated, and so much a part of the greater good.

I'm not sure the exact moment it began to crumble, or more accurately, when I began to crumble. I know it wasn't really a defining moment, but instead a compounding of disappointment and heartache that drove out every ounce of passion I had in me. I woke up in the morning, and almost physically instead of metaphorically, I didn't recognize myself. I just wanted to sleep, and never wake up. I wanted to cry until my eyes were dry. I was always hungry, but nothing had taste, and nothing sounded good. I didn't want to get dressed, or see people, or, quite frankly, try at at anything. I know for at least two years of my life I didn't cook a single meal. It was a costly habit that I couldn't break b/c I just couldn't garner the motivation to make any effort to take care of myself. I showered and bathed knowing it was a societal expectation and I really didn't want to be the smelly pit bull rescue lady. I after all, had some dignity.

I always knew the dogs needed me, but the phrase "going through the motions" settled into my psyche like a headache I couldn't rid myself of. I packed up the monthly heartworm and flea & tick medications; not really remembering why I once found this monotonous task so empowering. I drug myself to another shelter for another temperament test and became fleetingly excited as I saved another dog's life, but the high was so short lived, I was barely back in the confines of my own home before I was ready to crawl into my cave and shut out the world.

By January of this year, I felt so miserable on a day-to-day basis, that I convinced myself that if I just quit my job and delved into putting all of myself into the rescue, as a full-time paid non-profit employee, I could help a lot more animals. It was totally irrational and ill-advised; but consider I was suffering from severe depression, and my brain was fried from 3 1/2 years of over-caring. The freedom of being my own boss picked up my spirits for a few days or so, but that too, was short-lived. The drawback of not only suffering from depression but bipolar disorder as well, is that we often make hasty decisions in manic moments, only later to come crashing down when the results don't meet our expectations. At this time I was on so many medications for anxiety, depression, and insomnia, that my bipolar tendencies did not always come to light. However muted, there they were, the highs and lows; the vicious cycle that as an animal rescuer, I was apt never to recover from. I was 29 years old and felt 50. My hair had almost completely washed out to gray from the roots to halfway back on the crown of my head. My body ached, I was always tired. I wasn't living anymore. I was killing myself.


Meanwhile, it was a curious thing of the relationships that were around me. Once I had ran out of fingers and toes, I stopped counting all the "friends" who had hurt me when my executive decisions didn't match their vision. People didn't simply turn away, or go quietly into other endeavors. They left kicking and screaming and dragging my name in the dirt. Their backlash consistently hurt the reputation of the rescue my partner and I had built, and over time it became more and more difficult to find donors and foster homes because of other people's claims it "should be about the dogs"-- a phrase, I by, the way, hate with a passion. The very people that toss this phrase around as an antidote to explain their cruel behavior against another human being, are the very ones who have made it nearly impossible to continue rescuing. There is no one left to take in returned dogs, let alone bring in new ones, when other rescuers have driven all the foster homes and financial resources away with rumors and scandals.

Maybe I could have persevered if these were simple disagreements; to agree to disagree, if you will. Sure, it was dizzying, to be at one moment giving a dog "too many chances"; but in the next breath "giving up too easily", on for example, a dog with a bite history. But it wasn't even about the "business" of rescue anymore. I was being attacked personally. My very character was called into question. I have tried to kick out the residents renting free space in my head, so I have forgot a few of the choice adjectives that have described me, but I can't help but remember a few. I was described as a "dictator posing as a democracy"; my mental illness was "a convenient excuse"; and during my short few months being unemployed Oct 2011 - February 2012 (when the spay/neuter clinic I worked for was closed) I was told to "quit being lazy and just get a job". Long scathing emails, texts, and Facebook messages on what a horrible human being I am, were more commonplace on a week-to-week basis, than not. And for someone suffering from severe depression, this drove me further into the abyss of hopelessness.

I wasn't the only one suffering. Though not my place to air other people's private struggles, I will say briefly that if I was suffering from severe depression, my partner was suffering from incapacitating depression, and honestly, still is. Where I was one to want to get up and achieve something from time to time, he was apt to be too tired and too much in pain to do the things that needed done. And when I say achieve something, I mean, perhaps, just folding the laundry, or going to the store (not that I really was wanting to leave the house much in those days). I had no one around me that offered any kind of hope for the future. I was aging rapidly, and my partner, who was already much older than me, had aged 30 years in just 3. I could no longer love someone who didn't love himself. I honestly, I didn't love myself very much either. With my passion completely dried up, I was a struggling shell of an animal rescuer at best. After the past few years of revolving door foster homes and severed business ties, the rescue itself wasn't fairing much better. After all, other people had all along thought they could do it better. After being part of placing over 250 dogs in 3 years, I was ready to make my exit. Or, as many see it, The Great Escape. The dog intake was at a minimum, and there were people in place who loved these dogs. I couldn't keep "going through the motions" just because the dogs needed me anymore. I needed me, and I had lost that.


When I let my colleagues know of my intentions, I had an eerie feeling that I could not be swept under the rug fast enough. Without my consent, people started trying to push my partner out of his rightful position as the surviving director. Depressed or not, the rescue had been his vision as it was mine. It was his livelihood, and to take the rescue from him would be to take everything he had. He had known every dog that had passed through the metaphorical doors of the rescue, and I wanted him to be the soul decision maker for their futures, shall they ever come back to the rescue again. And most of all, he told me that is what he wanted. I love him, and I love what we had built, and every bone in my body was telling me that he was the rightful predecessor to my Presidency. I did what I thought was best at the time.

Unfortunately, when the revolving doors turned again in opposition, it cost the rescue nearly everything. Rumors and half-truths swirled, and after 6 months my absence, there was no one left to sustain the dogs. Those that remained placed as many as they could, but when dogs were returned as the rescue was closing, where were they to put them? I have been snidely asked what my plan was for any returning dogs, when there was no longer a rescue for them to turn to. The answer is simple; I never fathomed that the rescue would one day not exist, not for a moment. I thought I had found my calling. The unwavering support at the beginning was misleading, and I thought we could only build onto our support system. Why would anyone want to quit supporting a rescue that saves lives? These are questions I never even asked, because they seemed ridiculous. I was passionately optimistic. And that's what made our rescue successful. The more you would tell me that I couldn't do something, the more I would try to prove you wrong. When that optimism was crushed, the rescue had run its course. I was no longer doing right by the dogs.


Fleeing to Florida was not a convenient escape, but it was the path I was meant to take. That's why it was carved out so perfectly. My best friend of many years had relocated here 3 years before, and I missed him more than I cared to admit. And breaking away from a rescue was a bit like leaving the mafia; its the kind of thing that follows you. Many late nights of baring my soul to the one person that truly cared about me and not their own agenda, developed into much more than a friendship. Suddenly, in one fell swoop, it became clear what I had to do. There was only one person that could change my life, and that was ME. I needed sunshine, I needed a career change, I needed love, I needed my passion back. My heart led me to pit bull rescue, and in February 2013, my path had changed, and my heart led me to Florida. Never had the puzzle pieces of life fit so perfectly together. I was smiling, I was happy, and I was being exactly who I wanted to be. As per my passionate nature, I fell head-over-heels in love before I even set foot on Florida soil, and yes, just 4 months later, Michael Tubbs and I were married. We were even expecting a baby! Sadly, a week after the big announcement, we lost the baby due to miscarriage. It's not the kind of thing we shared publicly, and because it wasn't publicized, there were quite a few people interested in my surprise pregnancy who thought they would use it as a cruel jab to hurt me. I received a text from a rescue volunteer who had left the rescue nearly 2 years ago and she said something to the effect of "Congratulations on your baby ... dogs are dying because of you ... I don't know how you sleep at night." Ouch. It was at that moment I once again saw perfect clarity of why I left animal rescue.

This brings me full circle to why I started this blog, and that is to emphasize the importance of human compassion. It's our human interactions that drive us and empower us, and if you are consistently trying to hurt others, there will be no one left to achieve great things. Animal rescue or not, our actions toward others say a lot about ourselves. Don't point the finger and seek to hurt those that are part of the solution, because soon, they may no longer be, and you will have no one to blame but the person staring back at you in the mirror. Be a reflection of exactly what you wish to see in the world. Today, I am finally doing just that.