From the Editor

PEOPLE OFTEN ASK how I came to start a newspaper about animals, especially once they suspect that my own dogs might be pampered purebreds who lack proper rescue pedigrees. It’s a Paula Deen moment, confessing that I didn’t even know the term when we moved here in 2007. I had been in Hawaii so long, I thought a “rescue” dog sniffed for corpses.
    But when the desire arose to start a newspaper, I needed a gripping topic. My passions then were art and food—and New Mexico did not need another publication about art or food. Daily I pondered the remaining possibilities during the morning dog walk. What topic could sustain my interest for many years to come? Trotting alongside me, Brisket the Scottie would bump me with his snout.
    Ah, Brisket! A newspaper about dogs? Splendid idea! Not just about dogs? Even cats??
So Brisket’s Beast was born. Quickly I discovered that the world of pet ownership had changed radically since the 1970s, when I last had a dog, and the 1990s, when I last had a cat. It had now become routine for animal-lovers to have six or ten dogs snatched from the jaws of death, baby birds and alpacas and goats delivered from firecrackers and fighting pits. And here I was, just a suburban lady with her designer dogs.
    My husband had already made it clear that, even in Corrales, we would not be acquiring donkeys, chickens, miniature goats, a pig, or a horse. Yet surely we had room in our hearts to help an occasional dog in need! Yes, the foster dog would have to be small. And housebroken. Good with our dogs. No special needs. After years of walking rescue dogs at Corrales Kennel, the perfect candidate finally appeared.  

  A small, silky Dachshund mix picked up in Rio Rancho (and thus not protected by Corrales’ no-kill policy), he had been taken in by the sweet folks at the kennel. I took to calling him Peanut. His big brown eyes melted my heart. He trotted along beside me with total confidence, like he had always been my dog. Here was our foster!
    Peanut came home with me after his neuter surgery, so my dogs were not allowed to do more than sniff him before he got put in a pen to rest. Brisket and Wooby were not entirely happy with this arrangement.
    The next day, Peanut was perky. He woke up and went outside, came in and marked every chair and table leg. I yelled at him. My husband yelled at me. Instantly we were back to being bickering puppy parents.
    Greg thought Peanut should stay in his pen. Peanut did not agree. While I was out, Greg nailed a large piece of plywood over the pen, turning it into a cave. As soon as Greg left, I opened the door.
    Peanut LOVED being near me. Those big, adoring eyes followed mine every second. He stole Wooby’s customary perch beside me at the computer, and growled at my dogs.
    Come night time, when the dogs go in their crates, we put Peanut in his pen. Peanut did not like this. We lay awake listening to him whine and howl, banging the pen over and over. After 20 minutes, the banging grew quiet. “He’s here,” Greg sighed as Peanut nosed into the bedroom beside me. Getting up to inspect the damage, we found the pen knocked over, its hard plastic bars gnawed bloody. Peanut had a mouth full of blood.
    The next morning I called Dawn Janz, who rescues little dogs for CARMA. She had offered to take Peanut from the start.
    I showed her the damaged pen. “Dachshund,” she said, nodding. “They don’t like crates.” Unmoved by the calamity that had gripped my family with terror, she whisked Peanut off to join her little foster zoo. Next I heard, he had been adopted.
    Barbara Bayer of CARMA gave me a sympathetic look when I asked. “We all do what we can,” she said with a verbal shoulder pat.
    So here I am back at my computer, a pedigreed Westie snoozing by my side. Those who can't rescue animals write about it, so I focus my energies on chronicling the dedication, heroism, and resilience of people who can. In his corner, Brisket the Scottie yawns and luxuriously licks his pampered purebred paws, muttering, “Told you so.”