Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu - Twitter Profile

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

6 months ago

SOS 🆘 Check out this post on Nextdoor: https://t.co/yrEa8QJUcP

0

1

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

7 months ago

OMGoodness!! How amazing is this???

Science girl

@sciencegirl

7 months ago

A beautiful melanistic fox, one of the rarest animals on the planet.

239

11K

1K

526

233K

0

2

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

8 months ago

More should be doing this!

Michelle Maxwell ™

@MichelleMaxwell

8 months ago

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.

MichelleMaxwell's tweet photo. 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.

2K

42K

9K

2K

2M

0

2

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

8 months ago

https://t.co/qJHJktHokk

0

1

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

9 months ago

Check out this post on Nextdoor: https://t.co/IxSl8MmRsO

0

1

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

10 months ago

https://t.co/ZoZsU8jhLd

0

2

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

11 months ago

SOS! We need an immediate Foster or Adopter for this Amazing Dog! Please help! https://t.co/tsRj3eoqE0

0

1

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

about 1 year ago

@CHPAlerts @Inglewood_PD Any car info? That would be helpful on what to look for with a car?

0

453

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

about 1 year ago

Meet Fernando! A 1.5 year old Shepherd Mix is the sweetest love bug out there! He is approx 97 lbs so no children except teens and up please He’s such a joy and would make a wonderful companion dog. He is a dominant male dog, so no other male dogs at home please

0

47

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

about 1 year ago

@atrupar If that’s true, why didn’t he fire her right away like the rest of them?????

0

3

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

about 1 year ago

@CNviolations You don’t just shove a Person like that. You don’t put your hands on anyone else. She actually should be arrested for what she did especially the shove and pulling her hair like that.

0

2

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

about 1 year ago

@atrupar Is this a Joke?

0

1

Freedom Rescue @freedomrescu

about 1 year ago

@elonmusk Word has it that you have a “lot�� of Trucks in inventory not selling. Have you ever thought of donating some to Non-Profits like ourselves? We donate our time saving animals, and transporting animals. These trucks would go A LONG way helping us…

0