In memory of Shadow, July 2, 2007

Whispers from Rainbow Bridge

It is time now.

In your arms,
I close my eyes to rest.

I feel the pain of your longing --
to see me chase squirrels
to touch my soft, velvet coat
to feed me organic carrot sticks

Do not cry - I am still with you.

Close your eyes.
Listen to the silence, and feel my spirit.

I am here with you,
in the wind brushing against your skin,
in the cries of my four-legged friends, abandoned and abused
in the savory taste of a vanilla soy steamer, shared in community

Death is not something to fear.
It is a time of celebration,
a time of transformation,
a time to simply learn a new language.

I will wrap my paws around you,
lick your tears away,
and together we can learn this new language,
and forever, remain connected.



- Marilou (July, 2007)

Douja: Sentenced to Death

Sentenced to Death, because of your Breed

Dedicated to Douja, a one-year old female pit bull I found tied to a tree in the Highland Park area, February 19, 2006, one frigid morning in St. Paul, Minnesota.

It doesn’t matter, that you were abandoned,
tied to a tree at Cleveland and Ford Parkway,
on one of the coldest days in Minnesota.
It doesn’t matter that you are pregnant.
It doesn’t matter you are scared,
craving and longing for one simple thing: to be loved.

All that matters is that you are a pit bull.
All that matters is the label you carry, the Scarlet Letter.
All that matters is society’s illusive fear, the Black Plague that surrounds your breed.

And that cloud of fear,
combined with laws designed to “protect” us
open up only one path for you,
the one that leads to the almighty needle.

No time for understanding.
No time for compassion.
No time for connection.

Wrapped in our own fear,
we sentence you to death,
because of your breed.
It’s easier to eradicate what scares us,
with a needle that penetrates your vein
and keeps our illusion alive.

Goodbye sweet Douja.
I see you.
I see beyond your breed,
and stand helpless by your side.

Sentenced to death, because of your breed.


Marilou Chanrasmi (2/2006)

The Day you Came and Stayed

From the voice of Missy, 2 year old lab/pit mix rescued by Pet Haven (www.pethavenmn.org)

September 23, 2006 –

You picked me up.
Some kind stranger, I thought.
Until today, I had spent six months behind bars,
as kind souls worked tirelessly to save me:
Changing faces, changing places,
Locked behind bars.
I’ve been moved around like cargo.
If I’m lucky, there’s a “handle with care” stamp.
But I’m just one of thousands, and I’m big and black, and part pit –
Nobody wants me.

Who are you?
Are you just another passing face? A shooting star giving light and hope,
only to fizzle out?

Is today different?
Am I just hopeful?
Do I dare hope, again?
Only to come crashing down, again.

I am cautious.
I am skeptical.

It’s November now.
I’m still here.
You’re still here.
I’m still counting – as days turn into night.

Each night you whisper gently
“I’m here to stay.”
Each night I learn to trust, just a little bit more.

I’m still counting,
but the beat of the drum is fading into the distance
as my days and heart fill
with walks, carrot treats, snuggle time, play time with Shadow, and car rides.

September 23, 2006 -
a day I’ll always remember.
Because it’s the day you came, and stayed.