Quattro’s Poultry Farm
"Sure, you can have the bird," said Carmen, evidently the owner of Quattro's, over the phone. "You'll have to buy it."
For many reasons, Catskill Animal Sanctuary does not advocate purchasing animals in order to retrieve them from desperate situations. While we’re contacted routinely to save animals on their way to auction, for instance, we generally decline to intervene. Many sanctuaries draw an even harder line than we do: absolutely no purchasing of animals, ever. Why put money into the hands of someone who will simply purchase more animals to abuse? That’s how the thinking goes: through one’s purchase, one continues the cycle of mistreatment.
But just like the auction of the Catskill Game Farm animals described in my first book, this was an exceptional situation. "Norman" had some degree of notoriety, as the radio station had been hyping their "turkey bowl"' for weeks. If she could bring guests to Catskill Animal Sanctuary to discover that turkeys, cows, pigs, chickens and other animals that most humans eat are remarkable in their own right, then we needed to make an exception to our "no purchase” policy.
Julie and I pointed the car in the direction of Pleasant Valley.
FRESH KILLED CHICKENS read a huge sign on the porch of Quattro's old clapboard general store. I stepped inside. A line of people waited at the single cash register. Each person held a newly-slaughtered turkey. Some had geese, ducks, pheasants as well. At the back of the store, guns, ammunition, and camouflage gear lined the shelves.
"Hi," I said to the cashier. "I'm looking for Carmen."
"She's at the counter," she said, pointing behind her.
Another long line. It was, after all, the day before Thanksgiving, and this was THE place, apparently, if you wanted "fresh-killed birds."
A man weighing easily 500 pounds hoisted each package to its eager recipient, who then proceeded to the cash register.
I approached the human Hum=V. "Is Carmen here?"
An elderly woman walked toward me. "Kathy?"
"Yes. Hi, Carmen."
She was a small, bent woman easily in her eighties. Though her hands were gnarled with arthritis, they were strong hands. Carmen was a worker.
She came toward me and took my hand, pulling me to a screen door. We walked into a pantry, away from the eyes and ears of her employees. She looked up at me. "I love animals," she whispered. "I love all animals. I love these birds. I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to."
I could have said so much in that moment, but instead said only, "Why don't you come visit Catskill Animal Sanctuary?"
"Yes. I'd like to do that."
I went to the car to retrieve a brochure, and on it wrote my name and phone number.
Carmen returned to her place behind the counter. I walked out, hurting not just for the millions of birds senselessly slaughtered for this one holiday, but also, somehow, for the person responsible for many of those deaths.
____________________
At the bottom of the drive, a stressed-out Norman still paced in her cage. "We're here to pick her up," I explained to a toothless gentleman who approached our car.
"I'll get her for ya," he offered, and before I could span the few steps between the car and the turkey, reached in to drag her out by the feet.
"Please, let me do it," I insisted as I pushed myself between him and Norman, her terror rising again.
We settled Norman into the back seat in a large crate thick with straw, and began the slow drive back to her new home at Catskill Animal Sanctuary. There, on the day for which millions are slaughtered while those responsible give thanks, one single turkey will discover what it’s like to have room to explore, a spacious barn in which to settle down each night, the freedom to determine how she spends her days. She will be the one to decide how much interaction she wants with other animals—turkeys, pigs, sheep—the various members of our free-range family, while one after the other, her friends face the death squad.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Negotiations
So there we stood in the parking lot--twelve people if you included Julie, me, and the radio staff--and a frightened, hyperventilating turkey locked in a crate.
"I'd like to take this bird to Catskill Animal Sanctuary," I said to Jason, the station manager, who had apparently been called outside because two strange women were much more interested in the LIVE turkey than they were in the "turkey bowl" competition.
"He’s not ours," Jason explained. "He's the property of Quattro’s Poultry Farm. And what's Catskill Animal Sanctuary?"
I explained that Catskill Animal Sanctuary was a haven for abused farm animals, and that this was clearly an abusive situation. "And the turkey is a she, by the way."
"Look," he said, his eyes dropping. "I just wanted people to have fun. It’s a holiday. It’s supposed to be festive."
I softened a little. "Does it look like they're having fun? You've got only seven people here, and three of them look like unless they WIN the competition, they won't be having Thanksgiving dinner." I motioned to a chain-smoking mother and her two gaunt young daughters, all noticeably underdressed on this frigid day.
Jason hesitated but a second before giving me Quattro's phone number. "What they want to do with the turkey is their business."
"Thanks," I smiled. "You know, you might rethink this event for next year. You're welcome to come celebrate at Catskill Animal Sanctuary--people WILL have fun...and so will the animals."
"Sounds good," he said.
A thought occurred to me. "Wait one more second," I offered. "I have something for you."
A moment later, I returned from the car with a copy of my first book. "Here," I said, placing the signed copy in his hand. "This may help you understand why you really need to stop holding this event." I touched his arm and walked away.
"I'd like to take this bird to Catskill Animal Sanctuary," I said to Jason, the station manager, who had apparently been called outside because two strange women were much more interested in the LIVE turkey than they were in the "turkey bowl" competition.
"He’s not ours," Jason explained. "He's the property of Quattro’s Poultry Farm. And what's Catskill Animal Sanctuary?"
I explained that Catskill Animal Sanctuary was a haven for abused farm animals, and that this was clearly an abusive situation. "And the turkey is a she, by the way."
"Look," he said, his eyes dropping. "I just wanted people to have fun. It’s a holiday. It’s supposed to be festive."
I softened a little. "Does it look like they're having fun? You've got only seven people here, and three of them look like unless they WIN the competition, they won't be having Thanksgiving dinner." I motioned to a chain-smoking mother and her two gaunt young daughters, all noticeably underdressed on this frigid day.
Jason hesitated but a second before giving me Quattro's phone number. "What they want to do with the turkey is their business."
"Thanks," I smiled. "You know, you might rethink this event for next year. You're welcome to come celebrate at Catskill Animal Sanctuary--people WILL have fun...and so will the animals."
"Sounds good," he said.
A thought occurred to me. "Wait one more second," I offered. "I have something for you."
A moment later, I returned from the car with a copy of my first book. "Here," I said, placing the signed copy in his hand. "This may help you understand why you really need to stop holding this event." I touched his arm and walked away.
Friday, November 13, 2009
A Girl Named Norman
Like millions of turkeys every year, Norman was destined for the Thanksgiving table.
But thanks to an interesting twist of fate, some well-timed phone calls, and a few soft hearts, Norman celebrated last Thanksgiving with the rest of the crew at Catskill Animal Sanctuary.
When WSPK, a Beacon-based radio station, advertised “turkey bowling” in their parking lot, the calls and e-mails, all of the "you've GOT to save the turkeys!!" variety, poured in.
SURELY the event was a prank. Curious and concerned, though, my assistant Julie and I drove down to Beacon, videocamera tucked beneath Julie's arm. There, though the on-air dj bragged about "the crowd," a mere seven spectators stood in the cold, waiting to bowl frozen turkeys at ten pins borrowed from a nearby alley.
A blue SUV pulled up with "Norman," the frightened turkey borrowed from a nearby turkey grower, in the back. Evidently, the radio station needed a prop.
"Who's gonna get him out?" a heavy woman with heavier makeup asked.
"It's a she, not a he, and you need to be careful. She's already terrified," I said. Julie stood just behind us, recording the spectacle.
A guy reached in, grabbing Norman by the wing.
"That is NOT how to hold a bird," I stated flatly. Wrap your arms around her so you can pin her wings and support her weight. Otherwise, you'll both get hurt."
Norman and her cage were set up between two loudspeakers. The dj continued to spin the story, describing how the turkey was having fun, the crowd was having fun...golly gee weren't we all having FUN? Meanwhile, all Julie and I saw were a terrified bird, seven cold people, and three Butterball carcasses in plastic bags waiting to be slid down a "bowling alley" comprised of plastic garbage bags.
To be continued!
But thanks to an interesting twist of fate, some well-timed phone calls, and a few soft hearts, Norman celebrated last Thanksgiving with the rest of the crew at Catskill Animal Sanctuary.
When WSPK, a Beacon-based radio station, advertised “turkey bowling” in their parking lot, the calls and e-mails, all of the "you've GOT to save the turkeys!!" variety, poured in.
SURELY the event was a prank. Curious and concerned, though, my assistant Julie and I drove down to Beacon, videocamera tucked beneath Julie's arm. There, though the on-air dj bragged about "the crowd," a mere seven spectators stood in the cold, waiting to bowl frozen turkeys at ten pins borrowed from a nearby alley.
A blue SUV pulled up with "Norman," the frightened turkey borrowed from a nearby turkey grower, in the back. Evidently, the radio station needed a prop.
"Who's gonna get him out?" a heavy woman with heavier makeup asked.
"It's a she, not a he, and you need to be careful. She's already terrified," I said. Julie stood just behind us, recording the spectacle.
A guy reached in, grabbing Norman by the wing.
"That is NOT how to hold a bird," I stated flatly. Wrap your arms around her so you can pin her wings and support her weight. Otherwise, you'll both get hurt."
Norman and her cage were set up between two loudspeakers. The dj continued to spin the story, describing how the turkey was having fun, the crowd was having fun...golly gee weren't we all having FUN? Meanwhile, all Julie and I saw were a terrified bird, seven cold people, and three Butterball carcasses in plastic bags waiting to be slid down a "bowling alley" comprised of plastic garbage bags.
To be continued!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Petunia is back. Petunia the pig.
When an animal is adopted from Catskill Animal Sanctuary, her adopter understands that the adoption is for the life of the animal. This is to ensure that ALL our animal friends remain loved and cared for throughout their lives. If an adopter’s circumstances change—loss of job, loss of house, illness, etc.—and the adopter can no longer care for her animals, those animals must come back to Catskill Animal Sanctuary. This part of our contract is carefully pointed out and reviewed with each adopter before we send our animals off to their new lives.
Petunia, our very first pig, came back today. Tiny Rubenstein, the human who loved and cared for her and so many others, died of cancer. We wish Tiny’s family our deepest sympathy and the love and support of their community of friends.
As our first introduction to the porcine world, Petunia taught us well and quickly the lessons one must learn if she is to survive spending time with a pig. There were many, trust me. Here are the first three:
Pigs want what they want when they want it, and they want it with every fiber of their being.
We learned this lesson when Petunia broke into the kitchen, climbed with her front legs on a chair, grabbed a volunteer’s lunch, and hightailed it out of the barn, gobbling the lunch before we knew what happened.
Pigs are drama queens.
Prior to Petunia’s arrival, we knew only anecdotally of this proclivity. So it was baptism by fire when she arrived one summer day in 2003 and refused to leave her trailer.
“She’s gonna scream,” her surrenderers offered in the way of help. But they didn’t offer to driver her closer to the barn or to take her in themselves. They had no harness, so I looped a lead rope under her neck, thinking I could simply encourage her with words and gentle tugs.
Apparently it was time for the lesson: it takes very little to make a pig hysterical. On a single exhale, Petunia’s deep growls became a deafening, high-pitched, “I know you’re trying to kill me!” scream, and in an instant, I was flat on the ground, being dragged down the driveway by a pig whom I could neither control nor comfort. I let go.
Pigs can barrel past, through, or over a human as if that human were, oh, a blade of grass
See story above.
We welcomed our friend back with open arms, open hearts, and a good long chuckle….
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Malcolm Meets Franklin
Some days, like tour days, are all about fun and connections especially during the 1 pm Kids Tour.
"So sorry about the delay," I said as I approached the twenty or so guests waiting patiently under the willow tree. I tilted my head back for a good long drink of the water and juice mix I carry with me on tour days. Another day without lunch.
I took a seat on one of the benches, but just as I was about to begin my introduction, Franklin the pig looked up from his spot in the far corner of the pasture that borders our waiting area, and I had an opportunity that couldn't be ignored.
"Kids!!" I summoned the group. "I need your help!"
I pointed to my friend with the pink skin and fuzzy ears. "See that pig over there? I said. His name is Franklin, and he loves children. If you help me, I bet he’ll come over.
Do we have to go get him? asked an outgoing little girl of six or seven.
Nope. We just have to call him over. I'm going to count to three, then I want everyone to shout as loudly as you can, "FRANKLIN!"
As his name left our collective lips, Franklin leapt the creek that divides his field in half, and trotted in our direction, grunting in anticipation.
"Whath he doing?" a wide-eyed child of five or six lisped through the hole in his top teeth, uncertain whether to laugh or to flee in terror from the 700-pound body barreling right at him.
I squatted so that we were eye to eye. "What's your name, sweetie?" I asked of the little boy, by now nothing but breath and bulging brown eyes.
"Malcolm," he whispered, glancing furtively at his mom. Franklin was
now a mere foot from us, pushing a soft snout into the wire mesh fence, his requests for company growing louder by the second.
"He's talking to us," I explained. "He's saying, ˜Malcolm, come right here so I can meet you: I bet you'd be a great friend.
"Thath really what he's thaying?" Malcolm asked.
"AbsoLUTEly!"
Malcolm smiled.
"Hi, everbody," I say to the group. "I'm Kathy Stevens, founder of Catskill Animal Sanctuary. "In just a moment you'll learn about the mission of CAS--who we rescue, how we make our choices, why we encourage all our guests not to eat animals like my friend here. But right now, we've got some pig kissing to do." A few chuckles emanated from the group, and one woman says, "I've been looking forward to kissing a pig all summer."
I edged over until I was right in front of Franklin, and offered my hand to Malcolm. He took it.
"Pigs are very loud, Malcolm, and that's a scary thing if you're not used to it. But look: Franklin can't come any closer because he's behind this fence," I explained, touching the top rail of Franklin's pasture.
"Sit right here," I encouraged him, and little Malcolm folds his legs and sits so that our knees are touching. "Hi, best pig in the world, hi, you good, good pig," I said to my friend as I flattened my hand against the metal mesh so that he can push into it with his muddy snout. "I love you, Franklin."
I took Malcolm's hand and held it beneath mine, and watched the child's smile grow as Franklin greeted him.
"He's all muddy," Malcolm giggles.
The group had gathered around us, and I sensed another opportunity.
"Well, everyone," I turned around to address the group, focusing on the children. "I haven't given 'Franklin a kiss yet today, so I'll be right back."
I hoisted myself up and over the fence, and stepped down beside my porcine pal. Franklin rubbed his cheek against my thigh and oinked his most emotional hello. I knelt, and was smothered in pig kisses: wet muddy snout against nose, cheek, mouth, head. I kissed him back then smile to the group. Most were laughing with delight; one woman looked like she wanted to grab her child and flee from what was surely a demonic cult.
"Anybody else want to kiss a pig?"
Two young girls squealed with glee, entreating their parents.
One at a time, Dad passed each of the girls over the fence. Franklin, of course, was beside himself, and the girls were instantly both filthy and in love. "I love you, Franklin," the older one said. "I love you, Franklin," the younger one mimicked through delighted giggles as a cool snout greeted her.
I passed the human packages back over the fence.
Malcolm, frozen in place on the other side, looked up at me, his eyes saying everything.
"Ok, trooper," I smiled as I held out my hands to help him over. "Ready to have some fun?"
"So sorry about the delay," I said as I approached the twenty or so guests waiting patiently under the willow tree. I tilted my head back for a good long drink of the water and juice mix I carry with me on tour days. Another day without lunch.
I took a seat on one of the benches, but just as I was about to begin my introduction, Franklin the pig looked up from his spot in the far corner of the pasture that borders our waiting area, and I had an opportunity that couldn't be ignored.
"Kids!!" I summoned the group. "I need your help!"
I pointed to my friend with the pink skin and fuzzy ears. "See that pig over there? I said. His name is Franklin, and he loves children. If you help me, I bet he’ll come over.
Do we have to go get him? asked an outgoing little girl of six or seven.
Nope. We just have to call him over. I'm going to count to three, then I want everyone to shout as loudly as you can, "FRANKLIN!"
As his name left our collective lips, Franklin leapt the creek that divides his field in half, and trotted in our direction, grunting in anticipation.
"Whath he doing?" a wide-eyed child of five or six lisped through the hole in his top teeth, uncertain whether to laugh or to flee in terror from the 700-pound body barreling right at him.
I squatted so that we were eye to eye. "What's your name, sweetie?" I asked of the little boy, by now nothing but breath and bulging brown eyes.
"Malcolm," he whispered, glancing furtively at his mom. Franklin was
now a mere foot from us, pushing a soft snout into the wire mesh fence, his requests for company growing louder by the second."He's talking to us," I explained. "He's saying, ˜Malcolm, come right here so I can meet you: I bet you'd be a great friend.
"Thath really what he's thaying?" Malcolm asked.
"AbsoLUTEly!"
Malcolm smiled.
"Hi, everbody," I say to the group. "I'm Kathy Stevens, founder of Catskill Animal Sanctuary. "In just a moment you'll learn about the mission of CAS--who we rescue, how we make our choices, why we encourage all our guests not to eat animals like my friend here. But right now, we've got some pig kissing to do." A few chuckles emanated from the group, and one woman says, "I've been looking forward to kissing a pig all summer."
I edged over until I was right in front of Franklin, and offered my hand to Malcolm. He took it.
"Pigs are very loud, Malcolm, and that's a scary thing if you're not used to it. But look: Franklin can't come any closer because he's behind this fence," I explained, touching the top rail of Franklin's pasture.
"Sit right here," I encouraged him, and little Malcolm folds his legs and sits so that our knees are touching. "Hi, best pig in the world, hi, you good, good pig," I said to my friend as I flattened my hand against the metal mesh so that he can push into it with his muddy snout. "I love you, Franklin."
I took Malcolm's hand and held it beneath mine, and watched the child's smile grow as Franklin greeted him.
"He's all muddy," Malcolm giggles.
The group had gathered around us, and I sensed another opportunity.
"Well, everyone," I turned around to address the group, focusing on the children. "I haven't given 'Franklin a kiss yet today, so I'll be right back."
I hoisted myself up and over the fence, and stepped down beside my porcine pal. Franklin rubbed his cheek against my thigh and oinked his most emotional hello. I knelt, and was smothered in pig kisses: wet muddy snout against nose, cheek, mouth, head. I kissed him back then smile to the group. Most were laughing with delight; one woman looked like she wanted to grab her child and flee from what was surely a demonic cult.
"Anybody else want to kiss a pig?"
Two young girls squealed with glee, entreating their parents.
One at a time, Dad passed each of the girls over the fence. Franklin, of course, was beside himself, and the girls were instantly both filthy and in love. "I love you, Franklin," the older one said. "I love you, Franklin," the younger one mimicked through delighted giggles as a cool snout greeted her.
I passed the human packages back over the fence.
Malcolm, frozen in place on the other side, looked up at me, his eyes saying everything.
"Ok, trooper," I smiled as I held out my hands to help him over. "Ready to have some fun?"
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Any Old Day at Catskill Animal Sanctuary
Welcome to my world.
As the founder and director of Catskill Animal Sanctuary, an upstate New York haven for farmed animals, I’m asked oh, about a bazillion times a day, what my life is like.
It’s anything but predictable, anything but routine. My life is filled with laughter and joy, good people and animals whom I can’t wait to see each day.
Animals like Franklin the pig, for instance, who’s a little out of sorts after returning to CAS from “summer camp” at my boyfriend’s house. He’s getting lots of attention—brushing, extra treats, and a nighttime visit to make sure he’s comfortably tucked into his cushy new barn.
Animals like Stanley, the juvenile dwarf rabbit dumped here last weekend by a guy who was “moving to the city“. At least he didn’t dump little Stanley in the woods. We have no room for tiny Stanley in either rabbit house, so he occupies a large hutch in the barn kitchen from which he presides over breakfast preparations and entertains us at lunch as he tosses his food bowl in the air, then rushes to the front of his hutch and stares, demanding to be brought out to play. “Okay, little man!!” I say, then lift him out and take him out back into the tall grass.
Animals like the beautiful Noah, an old thoroughbred gelding designated “too far gone” by two vets who suggested we euthanize him on his arrival. Two years later, Noah heads up his mixed herd of special needs horses in the large pasture that surrounds my house. As I type this blog entry on my deck, Noah stretches his neck until he can reach no further, intent upon grabbing my laptop. “Another hour before breakfast, old man,” I say to the gentle giant, whose extraordinary recovery is depicted in my second book, Animal Camp, scheduled for release next spring.
But my life is also filled with people and their heartbreaks, police and humane officers and lawyers and courtrooms. Two hundred e-mails crowd my Inbox each day, and even though my private phone number is supposed to be given out only in emergency, it seems everyone looking to adopt or visit or change her diet or start a sanctuary has it, because it begins ringing at 6 am and doesn’t stop…ever. It’s filled with speaking engagements and interviews and crazy book deadlines and visitors weeping over the stories they hear, or often at the profound peace and happiness they feel on these sacred grounds, the grounds of my beloved Catskill Animal Sanctuary.
Yes. In this blog, I promise a peek into my world. That’s what you asked for.
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