It was about 18 months ago. June, 2014. Remember? Francis and Dutch, the two and four-legged long-haul truck drivers. During their Portland stop Francis ended up in the emergency room. Dutch got left behind in the truck.

That’s where he remained. Alone. In a strange place. All night long. Nearly 15 hours.

Early the next morning Francis had the good fortune to connect with Sarah as one of his physicians. This proud US Veteran told her his worry. Dutch. Still in the truck. That’s all he cared about.

He was fighting for his own health and Dutch was the only thing he cared about. The sun was coming up. It would be too warm. Sarah got it right away.

She called Pongo. From right there in the hospital she made that call. Why Pongo? Because Sarah is Pongo too. She’s been one of us for years. Pongo Family. But she could not leave to help because she had a whole floor of patients. And her professional oath was to them.

Things moved fast. A rush to the emergency room to talk with Francis while he could still talk. And then a mad dash to a huge truck parking lot to find his truck in the midst of thousands of others. Trucks and trailers that all looked pretty much the same to me.

It was in the corner, all by itself. I remember like it was yesterday. I revisit that moment often, the moment I opened the door and crossed my fingers it would all be ok. From there we got Dutch to Sniff Dog Hotel. They were waiting for him. And they had already decided he would stay long as needed. And there would not be a bill.

He got bathed and brushed and he sat in laps. He got kisses, lots and lots of kisses. He enjoyed days and nights of luxury and love. He trusted. He lived it up big time.

Every day I gave Francis an update, telling him about Dutch and his days. Francis loved those updates. Only wishing he could do his own recovery at Sniff instead of the hospital.

I visited and walked Dutch every day. We had long conversations. The best part? His suite had a huge window that looked north, directly at the hospital where his Dad was recovering. He knew.

More than a million people followed that love and rescue story on our FB page. By saving one, we saved both. And that was the best part. Francis was safe. Now Dutch was safe too. And that meant Francis could focus on his own healing, because he needed a lot of it.

Soon as Francis was released from the hospital he went straight to Sniff Dog Hotel to see Dutch. TV stations covered the joyful reunion. There were plenty of tears. From me too. I loved Dutch so much. And he knew that.

They went home to recover; that took some time. Francis finally got clearance to drive again and fast as they could he and Dutch hit the road. Because that’s what they loved.

Dutch and Francis. Francis and Dutch. Being behind the wheel of the big rigs. Doing what they do. And doing it together. With love.

Those are the stories I like to revisit to recharge my spirit, my heart. They remind me of how much you and we have been able to do together. The difference we have made for so many.

Those two will always be extra special. The trust Francis placed in me, giving me the keys to his truck. The trust Dutch placed in me, leaping into my arms when I opened the door.

I think about them all the time, reaching out every now and then to say hi, to see how they’re doing. And always so happy to hear they’re doing well.

Such good souls, those two. Such good souls.

And that’s why it caught my attention right away yesterday when I saw the email. I opened it quick as I could because their updates always brought me joy.

Dutch passed away yesterday morning. It was quick. He did not suffer. They wanted us to know because they knew how much we loved him. We all did.

Another one has joined the Rainbow Bridge Welcoming Team. What a great team that must be! In a way, this one makes sense. Because so many have crossed that Bridge lately.

So I’m thinking the treat supplies must be getting low. And there’s a big truckload ready to go. But how to get them there? Dispatch called Dutch. He answered the call. The treats are on the way!

To Francis and your Family, please know that we share in this loss with you. And to the entire Keeshond community we offer our condolences to you as well. Because we know Dutch was your dog too.

The Pongo Fund is a Pet Food Bank. And so much more. Doing all we can to make a difference. For Dutch. For Francis.

And this is why we Pongo.

Sit. Stay. Eat. Live. thepongofund.org

#pongo #dog #dutch #keeshond #rescue #love #portland #sniffdoghotel #sarah #francis

 

 

Sometimes the only thing left to say is that there’s nothing left to say. The words aren’t gone. They’re just not needed. Not in that moment anyway, not anymore. It was 18 days ago that she called. Her home had burned down. Along with it a special jar had been destroyed, the money inside of it was gone too. The jar was common, just a mason jar. But there was nothing common about what it meant.

It was the money to be used to pay for the euthanasia and cremation for this big boy named Ragnar who would not win the fight. Money they did not have but they knew they would soon need. So they saved. The old fashioned way. A dollar or a quarter at a time.

At 150 years old Scooby is like a beautiful vintage printing press. Not just for looks, but still used daily. Humming like a soothing song. You listen for every sound because you know what every sound means. With grace and good fortune, that printing press still turns out the most gorgeous works of art. Brilliant with color, depth and clarity.

Keeping that printing press going takes a wee bit of extra work. So every day every part gets rubbed, polished, greased and oiled. With love. And that work, that wee bit of extra work, that work is a joy because you love being the pressman for this printing press that loves you back.

This one’s going to feel like a punch in the gut. Beatrice. That’s not her real name. I listened to her message twice because I thought I missed something the first time. But I hadn’t missed anything. It’s just that some things I needed to hear weren’t there.

But what really got my attention was her voice. I wanted to hug this woman through the phone. There was something special there. Her cadence. Her tone. I had a hunch.

My gut told me she didn’t leave things out of her message. She just didn’t know to include them. Because she had never made that call before. But I had her number. Even though she had forgotten to leave it in the message, it tracked on my phone.

When I called back it all made sense. And I thought about it the rest of the night.

She said in her message yesterday that she needed food. A dog and two cats. But no food. She was referred by another social service agency that helps people and that group knows The Pongo Fund.

I called her back for more information. And there it was again. That voice. It was solid. It was calm. It was comforting.

This woman who needed our help was comforting me without any idea she was doing that. It was just who she was. And that pulled me in even deeper. And I knew that whatever it took, we were going to get it done.

She has a dog and two cats. Some young, some old. And they all needed food. When did they run out? The day before.

What happened? Was there an unexpected emergency? Yes.

Adult family members moved back in and they do not work. Her social security only goes so far. And right now they were broke.

She said it so calmly. In the sweetest, most casual way. Then it got worse. I asked if she had anything for dinner tonight, knowing our Emergency Kibble Response Team could not reach them right away being 75 miles away.

She said no. They did not even have a slice of bread left. Not even the heel. And I choked.

Tell me more about your dog. “He’s little, a Papillion. I love him so much.” Tell me about your cats. “They are just great.”

“We don’t need much,” she said “Anything you can do to help would be appreciated. “

And then she said something that did it again, flooring me with her words in that soft, kind voice.

“Just the fact that you called back so quickly is so kind of you. Even if that is all you can do, thank you.”

The whole time I was just jumping out of my skin, I knew there was more to the story. So I asked. And my jaw dropped. I didn’t even know it had, but it did. I literally found my mouth hanging open. I crumbled.

But there was one more thing that I needed to know. And I knew it was wrong to ask but I was going all in at that point and without hesitation I went for it. I asked how old she was. She said she was 90. She could hear me gasp.

She then said “almost 91. My birthday is soon.”

And here is this woman who was giving me so much just by her voice, a woman who has lived through wars and depressions and catastrophes and epidemics, now on the phone with me because for the first time she cannot feed her pets or herself or her family.

And she is 90 years old.

Everything stopped right then. I told her I’d call her back. I got on the phone to the Petco in Albany, Oregon, spoke with the manager. I said this is Larry from The Pongo Fund and I need your help. I told him the story and his jaw dropped too. I asked if he could help, he said absolutely. And that bought us some time.

I called her back and told her the news. She would go to Petco right away, the same time she stopped to pick up her food box, the first food box she had ever received in her life. And she said thank you in that special voice of hers that made me sad when the call ended.

And I hung up and just sat there, unable to do anything for a few moments.

I just called her back this morning to find out how things were. She said they were great. GREAT!

There’s a lesson there. They aren’t great, but she said they were. Because she has known times so much worse.

They have little. But at least she has pet food. And she just raved about how kind they were at the Albany Petco. And then I did it again. I asked the questions that maybe should not have been asked.

And she answered in that voice of hers, sprinkling in her laughter and sarcasm along the way. Because this woman, whose real name I shall not share because Albany is a small town, is still running at 100% and she is a trip to talk with.

She told me she has several adult children and they help as they can. But none of them are happy that she let one of their siblings move back into her home. They told her she should have been tougher.

But as she said to me, “What was I supposed to do? Let them become homeless. No, that’s not right. They are my daughter and my grandson.”

So on one small social security check each month, a check that continues to shrink, she said they get by best they can.

I asked, what then? What do you do when the money is gone and there are still days left in the month?

She said “We scrimp.” “What we can afford to buy, we buy, and what we can’t afford, we go without. Sometimes that’s food.”

What she doesn’t know is that now, she’s one of us. She is Pongo too. And I’ll be working on the plan to get her what she needs so she does not need to make these calls again.

Even if it’s just me and Scooby driving to Albany ourselves, we’re going to be there for her.

Because at 90 years old, almost 91, she deserves better. Lot’s better.

And we’re going to make it so.

And this is why we Pongo.

If you’d like to donate to help this beautiful and kind and sweet 90-year-old woman we call Beatrice, please click here:https://www.thepongofund.org/contact/donation-page/

Sit. Stay. Eat. Live. We’re All In This Together. thepongofund.org

(To protect her dignity, the woman in the story is not really named Beatrice. But I love that name so have used it for this special woman. The photo is also not her. The photo is photo credit to Barbara Bates –Montgomery County Animal Shelter)

Sometimes the calls come faster than we can respond. From years ago to likely years from now. Like the calls we remember that came rapidly about a man at a freeway exit with a sign requesting dog food. Several people notified The Pongo Fund to see if we could help. We checked on the man and found we already knew him. He regularly received food from The Pongo Fund and had no further need at the time.

But he admitted with embarrassment for using the sign seeking dog food that he did not currently need. This is not a time to criticize because there was little question that he had other needs. And if the money helped him get breakfast or new shoes or dog treats then that’s great. But we wanted him to change his sign so that people did not continue to worry about his dog.

After a short chat he agreed to do so. Sincerely apologizing for misleading people. Petting his dog softly while he apologized.

But on the way back we found a young girl at another less visible location with another sign. Her sign had no words. She was just beginning to write it and said she did not yet know what to say.

Because she said asking for help was not as easy as it may look. So the first thing she did, before she wrote any words, was push a single flower through a small hole in the sign so everyone passing by would see it. She was young, ashamed and reluctant to talk for fear she would be criticized.

She explained that she had not been in Portland long but was concerned for her safety. And she did not want us to take any photos, almost moved to tears when she saw I had my camera.

I’m not sure how long she’d been in that location or how long she’d been traveling. I could tell she was tired and worried. And I hoped deeply that whatever it was that caused her to run would someday no longer be there so that she and her dog could find peace.

We were not with her long. But it was long enough to be reminded of how fortunate we are to have life’s basic needs met. To have peace and warmth and comfort and food and the same for our dogs. Because this girl did not.

Yet instead of complaining she endured. And she did so quietly, almost gracefully. Thinking about her sign while sitting alongside her dog, who was busy thwack thwack thwacking his tail bouncing back and forth off my leg. He was such a happy guy. He had floppy ears and a gentle mouth. And he loved having his neck scratched so much that he flopped straight down when I found the right spot.

A wonderful dog taking the best care of his friend who needed him. And he made me even happier to see that he had been neutered.

Because of this young girl’s efficient packing style she had room for a new sleeping bag, blanket and some other more personal belongings too. And she was also given a special list of contact numbers to call to help her find a safe place to sleep for both her and her dog.

There was no way to know if she would use that list. But when I went back the next night she was not there. Her camp was clean. Not a trace.

A young girl and a young dog. Alone together. Sharing a word, a moment and a flower.

And this is why we Pongo.

Sit. Stay. Eat. Live. thepongofund.org

(photo of dog is not the dog I met. The dog that I met is older but they had the same soulful eyes and same floppy ears)

The food by itself is good. But when delivered with hope it’s even better. The amount is less important. Because more and more is rarely the solution. Whether we help someone one time or 100 times, the end goal is the same. We’re here. But sometimes it’s not about the food at all. It’s only about the hope. We’re here for that too.

The young boy on the street who would hate for anyone to refer to him as a young boy because he pushed his chest out far as he could and wore too many layers of jackets to appear as big and brave as he could because young boys don’t fare well on the streets and he would not be one of those young boys.

This young boy, this confused, fragile, hurt and hopeful young boy who so desperately wanted to be a man asked if we could help him get a dog so he would have someone to take care of, someone that would look up to him. I told him yes we could, because that is what he needed to hear at that moment in time.

He needed hope.

What kind of dog did he want? A small one. Why? Because that’s the kind of dog they had at home. What would he name the dog? He was not sure. Did he want a boy or a girl dog? A girl. Why? Because girls treated him nicer. What color dog did he want? It didn’t matter. Why not? Because color wasn’t important.

I wrote these things down on a list so he knew I would not miss anything. He watched me to make sure I got all of the details right. Because he knew what he wanted and he was the one giving the orders.

And under the streetlight we talked about this dog I would deliver to him. When would he like it? He wasn’t sure. Tomorrow? The day after that? Next week or month? Still not sure. How about if I gave him my phone number so he could call when he was ready?

Yes, he said, that would be best.

But while we’re still there under the streetlight, how about if we talk for a few minutes about what it would mean to have someone to care for, to have someone that would look up to him. Let’s talk about how he would care for the dog I would bring him.

The more he spoke the more excited he became. His dull eyes started to sparkle when I talked about the young homeless man we used to help who had built a doghouse in a wagon so his dog would always be comfortable even when he was tired. Could we do that for him too? Yes, we could.

And could we get a “fierce” looking collar for the dog, because he thought it would be fun for his little dog that he did not yet have to wear a fierce collar that he did not have. Yes, we could.

We wrote it all down, every single word. He checked to make sure I had it right. Then I handed him the tablet and asked him to keep writing. And I told him I’d meet him the next day in the same spot to talk more about the dog that I would bring him whenever he was ready.

And the next day at about the same time underneath that same welcoming streetlight we looked at his tablet of writing. And the words he wrote were not only about his dog-to-be, but some of them were written to his dog. Telling her how much he would love her and always be there for her. And then his words travelled beyond his dog and became the poetry of his heart.

He had begun to write about several things that had hurt him. Some of them had happened long ago, he said. Yet he was so young. And in so many ways, they had really happened only yesterday.

When I got ready to leave he wanted to know if I wanted the tablet back with all of the notes so I would remember what kind of dog to bring him. I said yes, thank you. But I also suggested he might want to keep it and keep writing things down about his dog so he would not forget.

I told him he’d need to decide on what kind of food bowl to use. And he would also need to pick out a water bowl too. And what about leashes? What would the leash look like and would it match the collar? And I told him he’d for sure want a harness and I could get him one with little tattoos all over it. He said he’d better keep the tablet.

And as I left he stood there with a small backpack I brought along too, filled with all of the things he’d need for more nights on the street, the things I knew he did not have. Even though they might never get used because he would be going home soon.

He was hurt. He was angry. He needed to go home. He wanted to go home. And he said he knew his parents would be looking for him. And the night before, the first night I saw him, was his first night on the street.

He had my card and phone number so he knew he could reach me anytime. I also gave him the names and numbers for several great groups that would be there to welcome him and help him figure out what he wanted to do. Luckily he told me he knew them already. Because Portland has lots of great groups like that. And one of them was just a few doors away, open then and ready to help.

But inside that backpack were a few other things too. Some special ink pens that felt good to hold because I’ve got a good friend that always talks about his favorite pens. Some pencils too, because sometimes the written word sounds better when it is lead on paper. A small pocket-sized pencil sharpener.

An eraser. Because we all need an eraser to fix our mistakes.

And a writing journal. With a thick cover and strong paper that would stand up to strong words.

And I wrote something inside that journal for him too. Just a few words on a random page somewhere near the middle. I thought he’d find them when he needed them.

The Pongo Fund is a Pet Food Bank. There was no dog food that day. But food of a different sort. To nourish in a different way.

And this is why we Pongo.

Sit. Stay. Eat. Live. thepongofund.org

‪#‎portland‬ ‪#‎dogs‬ ‪#‎love‬ ‪#‎helping‬ ‪#‎pongo‬ ‪#‎pongofund‬ ‪#‎petfoodbank‬

A look back at the scabby sores and itchy inflamed pink skin that needed help fast. You can’t see them in the photo because they were intentionally left out. Because that’s not the way this sweet guy would want to be remembered. There’s just no way he’d want everyone to know the agony he was in. So let’s give him that respect and instead focus on his sweet smooshy Beagle face. Because that, as you can see, is perfect!

Because this little 7 year-old Scooby doppelganger named Spud was such a happy boy. And he could also be a poster dog for The Pongo Fund. Such a strong reminder of the work we do and why we do it.

Because Spud’s Dad had a good job. But due to some other serious money emergencies involving other family members the dollars ran out and that meant everyone, including Spud, was living on nothing for another week. And for Spud and the agony he was in, that was really bad news. And it was breaking his parent’s heart.

Their call came late on a Saturday afternoon. A message left on our voicemail. The message was crystal clear, made even more clear by the distressed tone of the caller. A man that was scared, sad and running out of options as he was watched his beloved Spud suffering.

Luckily a local emergency animal hospital referred him to The Pongo Fund. And that’s when we went to work on Project Spud. Because thanks to people like Janet and Sara and Bev and Kris and a handful of others, The Pongo Fund has a small emergency veterinary care fund ready to help in emergencies.

There’s not a lot there. But luckily every time we’ve needed it there’s been enough to save a life. Like Spud.

A quick call back confirmed what was needed and that it was needed fast. The late Saturday afternoon time was working against us as was the anguish of the caller. Because while we are unable to diagnose we can certainly understand the urgency of the situation and certain key words tell us when things need attention right away. And this did.

Luckily this was the time that everything came together perfectly. The call to the veterinarian brought Spud what he needed in less than an hour. And after the vet visit Spud and his parent’s met our emergency kibble response team at The Pongo Fund for a special Saturday Pongo visit.

They left with a big bag of great food, along with the meds needed and a list of other items helpful to get this little guy back on the road to recovery.

People that have everything going for them and then, all at once, things change. It’s scary! And it could be anyone of us. The dollars are gone before the month is gone. And no matter how carefully we plan for emergencies, sometimes those emergencies can be more than any of us can prepare for.

It doesn’t matter how big they are. Because when the money is gone, even small emergencies get big fast.

This one didn’t. This one worked out ok. Because The Pongo Fund’s Emergency Veterinary Care Fund was there to help.

Bringing comfort to a little Beagle friend with great big ears named Spud and the family who loves him.

And this is why we Pongo.

Sit. Stay. Eat. Live. Go Spud! thepongofund.org

The tears before the tears might be the hardest ones. A reminder of what’s to come. The hurt that is right there, right now. But not all of it yet. And when those tears before the tears are gone, the next ones will arrive. Maybe not right away. But they will. That’s the hard part. As Yogi Berra said, it’s déjà vu, all over again.

She said her home had burned down just a few days ago. The shock of it all was pretty much all that was left. And two dogs.

And one of them, that was the reason for the call.

Thankfully both survived. But the sadness so strong. Because one of those dogs who had just lost his home and was now staying temporarily in a motel, he was dying of cancer.

Cancer they can’t fix. That means this giant of a dog, truly a giant, a Cane Corso Mastiff, is enjoying his last winter.

But the fire and the cancer, that’s not even why she called.

She called because she remembered The Pongo Fund from a few months back when their struggles were extra hard. They were turning the corner then, but their dogs needed food. We helped. But that was then and this is now.

And this time the call was not about food.

Of all the things lost in that fire, some could be replaced and some could not. Urns and ashes from previous four-legged friends that had crossed the Rainbow Bridge years ago. They could not be replaced.

A jar filled with money. Not much money, but some. That was gone too. But it’s what that jar meant that brought the tears before the tears. And that’s what hit me so hard.

That jar had a sign on the front. It read “Cremation Fund.”

And there she was on the phone with The Pongo Fund, saying she didn’t know what to do. Because she desperately wanted her dog that would soon be leaving them to get the same loving sendoff that her others had received before.

And she cried because she had no way to make that happen. The cost for the euthanasia they could already not afford would be placed on a credit card they could not afford to pay. But after that there would be no room left on the card for the cremation.

Thus the “Cremation Fund” jar. Just a little bit at a time, she said. Always with the hope they would have enough before it was time. But now it was gone too.

She knew Pongo had helped once. Maybe we could help again? That was her hope.

Needing to call on strangers to help cremate her dog that only had a short time left. How hard that must have been. A dog still fighting the fight he would not win.

Damn that cancer! It gets way too many, two-legged and four.

So here we were, being asked to do something that goes beyond our stated mission. But nonetheless, it hits smack on the head of everyone’s most important mission, be it stated or otherwise.

That is, to do the right thing.

We told her we would help. We would find a way, it was simple as that. But it’s what she said next. That’s when the goosebumps crawled up my own spine.

“I know this is probably too much to ask, but it would be so great if you could find a way to have the cremation done at the same place that had cared for my other two dogs.”

She said that place had made her feel so good during the times that hurt so bad. Even though it had been many years earlier, she still remembered them and she told me their name. She knew it was a longshot, but she wanted to ask anyway.

Little did she know.

Because the very place that she held so dearly in her heart was already going to be my next call.

When Michael Remsing of Dignified Pet Services answered his cell phone, I knew that we were going to be ok. Because when you’ve got Michael on your side, you’ve got it all. And when my story finished, we both went silent for a moment.

He said the only thing his heart would let him say. “Please call her back and tell her that Dignified Pet Services will be honored to be there for her and her dog whenever it’s time.”

The private cremation. The special urn. The ceramic pawprints. The works. All of it lovingly gifted by Dignified Pet Services.

But that wasn’t all.

Because Michael asked me to tell her that Dignified Pet Services would also send one of their veterinarian friends to help her friend cross The Rainbow Bridge.

And there would be no cost for that either.

And then, as if that were not already enough, Michael said, “let me know what else we can do.”

I called her back. I told her what had happened. She began to cry. But I had not yet had a chance to tell her that it was Dignified Pet Services I had spoken with. When I did, a river of tears followed.

And when I told her they were also going to be there to cover the cost of the euthanasia, she pretty much lost it.

All she kept saying was Angels. Angels. Angels.

Her dog friend is still here and we hope he will continue to be here in the best health possible for as long as possible. Although sadly, she assured me it will likely be much sooner than later.

I thanked her for calling. The call ended. My tears came next.

Calling to say she needed our help, to help her friend die. We said yes.

And this is why we Pongo.

If you’d like to help too, please click here:https://www.thepongofund.org/contact/donation-page/

‪#‎cancersucks‬ ‪#‎helpers‬ ‪#‎love‬ ‪#‎dignifiedpetservices‬ ‪#‎michaelremsing‬‪#‎pongo‬ ‪#‎thepongofund‬ ‪#‎euthanasia‬ ‪#‎cremation‬

Nearly six years ago Heidi Liedeker and her team at Meat for Cats and Dogs in Portland, Oregon joined with The Pongo Fund, wanting to make a difference for the animals. And they continue to be here with us today. This mountain of food, nearly 2,600 pounds, is all thanks to them and their customers.

Even better, Meat gave up their profit on every bag sold, selling each one at their own cost. Meaning they did not make a penny on any of this food.

To everyone at Meat and each one of your generous customers that are helping keep the hungry animals safe at home and out of the shelters, we thank you.