I’m a great fan of second-hand. I love garage sales and antique shops, vintage stores and salvage companies.
Other people’s castaways often delight me and I’ve been known to garbage pick when I spot something good! I’m also frequently astounded at what I see curbside. Perfectly good furniture. Toys. Bikes.
Things that, though I don’t need or want them, would certainly prove useful to someone else. And with so many great organizations happy to claim our cast-offs and redistribute them, I’m baffled why anyone simply tosses good stuff.
But this story, in particular, makes my heart ache: a tale of an injured dog that was caged, then put out with the trash.
I’m unfailingly astonished at the cruelty humans are capable of – toward each other, but toward benign animals as well.
I’m inevitably spurred to action, too, which accounts for the seven pets with whom my family and I share our home. They come from different circumstances but all share one trait: they’re used. Sometimes not so gently.
Such as Polar, a rescue dog whom I often say rescued me from the grief of losing my dog Gunther. Polar was seized after reports of neglect and possible abuse. He’s enormous (hence his name), but gentle and smart. We still have to work with him. He’s easily stressed and often wary of certain people.

There’s Kira, dropped at a shelter, along with a litter-mate and her mother. She’s sweet, manic and lucky to be alive.

Suki, our newest dog, who, at 75 pounds and six months, shows signs of becoming a Goliath. We refer to her as our “privileged rescue” – she was taken to a Newfoundland breed rescue group where she was fostered with a caring couple and has never known hunger or hardship.

On the feline side, there’s Arnie, whom a friend gave up when her son developed allergies. He’s 21, skeletal, but shows no signs of slowing down.

Romeo is toothless and overweight, though far slimmer than when he was brought to us. He was headed toward a filthy shelter with a bad reputation when I said I’d offer him temporary refuge. Six months later, he’s still with us and adored by all. My nine-year-old son refers to him as “Sexy Chick” (Thank-you, David Guetta!!) in an effort to “make him feel good about himself.”

And there’s Bill, a one-year-old wild boy. A feral cat who found his way into foster care, then into our family.

And finally, there’s the lone rabbit: Wilbur. Adopted from our local shelter by my now-12-year-old daughter.

A house full, to be sure.
And though they contribute enormously to the hustle, bustle and love-bursting energy of our home, each one is the product, not of careful planning and care, but accident and neglect.
If you’re in the market for a pet, please consider someone else’s “mistake”. You might just be saving a life – and injecting new life into your home.