YES 🇬🇧
British farmers feed the nation, protect our countryside, and keep Britain food-secure. Support farmers. Support Britain.
Repost if you agree 👇👇👇
🆘 SKIN & BONES DOG MOM IS BEING KILLED TODAY 1.2 BY #SANANTONIO ACS #TEXAS AFTER 40+ DAYS‼️
SYRUP 💖#A783872 2yo
Released from quarantine due to mild bite🙄I bet for protecting babies or guarding her food
💘Highly food motivated🥺, sweet
#Foster#Adopt#PledgeForRescue 🙏🏼
🚨URGENT: Congress is about to wipe out your right to sue pesticide companies, quietly, tucked in a new spending bill.
Section 453 blocks updated health warnings and gives chemical manufacturers immunity even when people are harmed.
Cancer. Parkinson’s. Infertility.
57,000+ products. Zero accountability.
This must be pulled NOW before it reaches the floor.
🆘URGENT in #NewYork Please FOSTER or PLEDGE to save Beautiful Shy 2 yr old #Lab Puppy 🐶KODA from being Killed Next🚨
🏡North🇺🇸East [Maine to Virginia]
#FosterKODA🐶
#Pledge2FundRescue4KODA🛟
If the government is altering our air or weather in any way, the public has an absolute right to know.
Transparency isn’t radical.
It’s the bare minimum in a free society.
MAHA
Dr. Fauci warns the “normalization of untruths and conspiracy theories” could collapse democracy.
“Do not accept the normalization of untruths as something that’s normal… from things as ridiculous as that COVID vaccines have killed more people than COVID.”
“And when you normalize untruths, then no one knows what really is true. And guess what? When you look at history, when that happens, that’s when democracies fall apart.”
🆘 On the URGENT list Friday, 1/2 🆘
⏰ Nell and her puppies need a RESCUE HOLD by NO LATER THAN 1PM
A young mama and her newborn babies are out of time. Nell did everything right, and now her life and the lives of her puppies depend on a rescue stepping up.
💕🐶 #A2050276 Nell (Mom)
12/21 Stray | Hound Mix | Female | 3 years | 47.2 lbs | HW NAD/NEG
🩵💕🍼🐶 Her puppies (3 weeks old)
#A2050277 Nolan
#A2050279 Nash
#A2050280 Niko
#A2050281 Noelle
#A2050283 Nadine
#A2050289 Naomi
#A2050278 Niklaus
#A2050282 Nicole
Foster • Adopt • Pledge
Please email ALL of the following:
[email protected][email protected][email protected]
📌 Be sure to include the animal’s seven-digit ID number when contacting the shelter.
Please share. Mama Nell and her babies are counting on someone to save them 💔🐾
🆘 NEGLECTED #GERMANSHEPHERD DOG IS BEING KILLED TMW 12.30 BY #SANANTONIO ACS #TX
LUCY 💘#A787637 3yo, 40lb
💕Stressed, coexists w dogs that respect her communications for space & prefers people’s affection
🚨Gen. alopecia w lichen. & hyperpigm; pruritic
#PLEDGE#FOSTER#ADOPT
This preschool in Texas got caught giving kids “sleepy stickers”
Patches with sleep aids meant keep the kids asleep during the day.
Parents had no idea until a 4 year old “snuck” one of the stickers home…
On the URGENT list Monday 12/29 🆘
⏰ Appleton must have a hold no later than 1 PM or he will lose his life 🥺
💙🐶 Appleton
ID A2050331
12/21 Stray | Staffie Mix | Male
1 year old | 33 lbs
HW NEG NAD
💜 Volunteer Notes
Appleton came in with a large group of dogs and the shelter has been terrifying for him. When I first met him on Tuesday he was so scared he would not come out of his kennel. Today Friday he showed progress and came out on leash. We did need to stop and start a few times outside but the fact that he tried shows he is learning and improving.
Because he is frightened a foster should double leash him as he may try to run. Despite his fear he had no issues being around other dogs. This young boy is not aggressive, he is overwhelmed.
Appleton would truly blossom in a foster home where he can decompress feel safe and finally learn what it means to be part of a family. He is running out of time and needs someone to step up for him now.
📧 To adopt foster or pledge please email all:
[email protected][email protected][email protected]
📌 Please use the animal’s seven digit ID number A2050331 when contacting the shelter
🙏 Please share for Appleton His life depends on it
The neighbors call the cops on my dad every six months. They think he’s running a fighting ring or flipping pets for profit. For years, I wasn't sure they were wrong.
My father, Frank, is a man of few words and even fewer friends. He lives on a fixed income in a small, weathered house just outside of town. He’s 68, walks with a limp he got in ’71, and spends most of his day in his garage.
But his most controversial habit involves the local animal shelter.
Like clockwork, Dad brings home a dog. Not the cute puppies everyone wants. He picks the "unadoptables." The three-legged pit bulls, the senior labs with gray muzzles, the curs that cower in the corner. For six months, that dog lives like royalty. I’d visit and see Dad hand-feeding them steak scraps, walking them for hours, talking to them in a soft voice he never used with me.
Then, six months later? Gone.
The dog vanishes. No photos, no collar left behind. Just an empty bowl and Dad driving his rusted pickup truck to the shelter to get another one.
"Where’s Barnaby?" I asked last Sunday. Barnaby was a one-eyed Golden Retriever mix he’d had since spring. That dog worshipped the ground Dad walked on.
"Moved on," Dad grunted, staring at his coffee.
"Moved on? Did you sell him, Dad? The neighbors are talking. They say you’re sick."
"Let them talk."
I couldn't take it anymore. I loved Barnaby. The thought of my father selling that sweet soul to some stranger for a few hundred bucks made my stomach turn. So, when I saw him load a bag of high-grade kibble and a new leash into his truck the next morning, I followed him.
I expected him to drive to a breeder or a shady parking lot exchange. Instead, he drove two towns over to a drab apartment complex near the VA hospital.
He pulled up to a ground-floor unit. I watched from my car, phone ready to record evidence, as he knocked on the door.
A young man answered. He couldn't have been older than 25, but he looked 50. He was missing his right arm, and the way he stood—tense, scanning the perimeter—screamed PTSD. I recognized that look. I’d seen it in Dad’s old photos.
Dad didn't say a word. He just whistled.
From the passenger seat of Dad’s truck, a dog jumped out. It wasn't Barnaby. It was "Duke," a German Shepherd he’d had last year. Duke looked incredible. Focused. Calm. He trotted right up to the young man and sat by his left leg, leaning his weight against the boy’s thigh.
The young man crumpled. He fell to his knees, burying his face in Duke’s fur, sobbing. Duke didn't flinch. He just held his ground, anchoring the boy to reality.
Dad handed the young man a thick envelope. Not money—paperwork. Vaccination records. Training logs.
I got out of my car. "Dad?"
He jumped, looking more terrified than I’d ever seen him. He walked me away from the boy, lowering his voice.
"You weren't supposed to see this."
"You trained him," I realized. "You didn't get rid of them. You trained them."
Dad sighed, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "A fully trained PTSD service dog costs anywhere from fifteen to thirty thousand dollars. The insurance doesn't cover it. The VA has a waiting list a mile long. These boys... they come home, and they can't sleep, they can't go to the grocery store, they can't breathe."
He looked back at the young man, who was now smiling through tears, throwing a ball for Duke with his left hand.
"I can't give them money," Dad said, his voice cracking. "I don't have any. But I know dogs. And I have time."
"But why the secrecy? Why every six months?"
"Because that’s how long it takes to turn a scared shelter dog into a soldier’s lifeline," he said. "Basic obedience, task training, desensitization. I take the broken dogs nobody wants, and I turn them into the partners these kids need."
"And Barnaby?" I asked, my throat tight.
"Delivered him yesterday to a female marine in Ohio. She hadn't left her house in two years. She went to the park this morning."
🐾 on my ❤️ Please share if this moved you.