Then, during races, or shortly after, horses are injured,
die and are put down right on the track.
And this is called a “sport”!
Killing
horses for meat is “the final betrayal of their connection” with people – as
companions, faithful steeds at stables, competitors or working horses -- as the
HSUS puts it. (photo below: horses in export van)
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| HSUS pic |
Please: contact your representative(s) to request support for this crucial bill! https://tinyurl.com/7hnvcmrn
Needy cat or not?
A timely
question during kitten season: Does that outdoor cat need to be rescued? The answer, no longer, is an automatic
“yes.” In a guest blog post for the
HSUS, its senior analyst for cat protection and policy writes well and
convincingly about “How can I help this cat?”
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| HSUS pic |
Don’t automatically do that! For the “why-not,” please read what Danielle Bays has to say: https://tinyurl.com/3mwp2e9m
Squazillion
squirrels
Try to
imagine stepping out your front door into a ground cover of gray squirrels,
visible as far as the eye could see.
In 1842, and
then a few more times since then, an amateur naturalist saw just that sight:
“thousands of squirrels scurrying across the landscape in an unbroken
wave.” They were Eastern gray squirrels,
moving in a roughly southeasterly direction, usually in autumn.
For reasons
only guessed at even now, they went through forests into prairies, through
cornfields like locusts and through water – crossing the Ohio, Niagara and
Mississippi Rivers -- like “great furry armadas.” (What an image!)
Remember
it now?
Finally, approaching hot, dry (maybe!) summer, we’ve almost forgotten this year’s
wild, wet spring. But nearly a century ago, a poet described it. Beautifully.
from “The Land”
by Vita Sackville-West
That was a spring of storms. They prowled the night;
Low level lightning flickered in the east
Continuous. The white pear-blossom gleamed
Motionless in the flashes; birds were still;
Darkness and silence knotted to suspense,
Riven by the premonitory glint
Of skulking storm, a giant that whirled a sword
Over the low horizon, and with tread
Earth-shaking ever threatened his approach,
But to delay his terror kept afar,
And held earth stayed in waiting like a beast
Bowed to receive a blow. But when he strode
Down from his throne of hills upon the plain,
And broke his anger to a thousand shards
Over the prostrate fields, then leapt the earth
Proud to accept his challenge; drank his rain;
Under his sudden wind tossed wild her trees;
Opened her secret bosom to his shafts;
The great drops spattered; then above the house
Crashed thunder, and the little wainscot shook
And the green garden in the lightning lay.
(published in Poem-a-Day on 4-3-22, by the Academy of American Poets)
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