Animal Welfare Success Reliant on Inter-Agency Cooperation

Being a kid in the 1970s, Sesame Street was a childhood fixture. One of the themes they were forever emphasizing on the Street was one that continues to play a crucial role in the success of our endeavors as adults: cooperation. In the world of pet pantries, where I have been immersed over the past several days, this concept is particularly crucial.

When Alyce Pincoske of the Pet Food Pantry of Maine first said "Pick us! Pick us!" in response to my query searching for animal rescue and animal welfare organizations to spotlight here in Maine, I posted a quick Facebook blurb and shot out a few e-mails to folks saying that the Fairfield-based, non-profit pet pantry was having some tough times. By the end of that first day, I'd received e-mail responses from the Humane Society of Knox County and the Penobscot Pet Pantry, my brother had agreed to let me put a container in his business to gather food donations, and the fine folks of The Postcard Dude (my little bro's business) had all put their heads together in an effort to help out. Within five days, I was able to fill my car with the food and sundries provided by those at the Postcard Dude and the Humane Society of Knox County, in addition to a tremendously generous donation from the Penobscot Pet Pantry.



With people feeling the financial pinch around the globe, and more and more causes vying for our attention - and our dollars - it becomes critical for animal welfare organizations to reach out to one another to achieve the common goal: saving more animals. Keeping pets together with the people who love them. Educating the masses about critical issues like proper nutrition, the importance of spaying and neutering, putting an end to animal cruelty. We all love animals; God knows, none of us are in this business for the money. And so when organizations come together to achieve that common goal, it makes sense that our rates of success will multiply. And so, how can we best foster the collaborative spirit celebrated in our childhoods, in a climate where numerous animal welfare organizations are vying for a relatively small amount of funds from a limited donor base?

By sharing resources in those rare times of plenty. Helping one another in education efforts. Spearheading community efforts that encourage collaboration between agencies, rather than fostering competition and small-mindedness.

Andrew East of the Penobscot Pet Pantry is currently working toward establishing a state-wide Pet Food Bank from which pet food pantries around the state could draw whenever there is a need. Food stores would be kept in a central location, and individual pet food pantries - like the one in Fairfield - could then provide food for their communities and focus their fundraising efforts on education, spaying and neutering, and providing outreach so that, ideally, there are fewer people and pets in need in the future.

It's an idea the fine folks at Sesame Street would no doubt be happy to sing about.

Fairfield Pet Food Pantry - Behind the Scenes

So, this is life in the Big Leagues. I have a story on pet food pantries in Maine this week for Downeast Dog, which means I'm actually traveling to a pet food pantry in Maine, to add some color to the article. It's an overcast Friday; I rush through work at the Postcard Shanty, then leave to pee the hounds before heading to Enterprise. It's just after twelve. I'm supposed to be in Fairfield at two, but I'm still not entirely clear where Fairfield is.

At twelve-o-five, I drop the Volvo at the rental place. Because so far I haven't hit the big time, and my credit is too shot from my misspent youth to get a car loan, I have a car that isn't quite up to crossing the county line.

Hence the rental.

I come out with a cute little silver number, and it's a relief immediately because the license plate is on straight and none of the tires need air and the door isn't falling off the hinges. It's not a Jaguar, but it will definitely do. I pop in my driving mix and crank it up high - Dierks Bentley and Gary Allan are the obsessions of late - and point the car north.

Once I reach Fairfield, I go the wrong way and end up at a convenience store in the next town getting directions. I get back in the car, and drive.

And drive.

Get lost twice more, before eventually coming to the Fairfield Grange Hall. Cars are lined up all the way down the street. I have to park in a church driveway across the highway, which of course makes me immediately certain that my cute little rental will be towed or stolen or vandalized (because vandals are known for hanging around rural church parking lots at three in the afternoon - I know, I'm insane). Nevertheless, I grab notebook and fast pen, camera and camera bag, lock my little silver number, and head for the Grange.

The moment I arrive, I experience that thing I always experience when I'm getting reading for an interview - sweaty palms and roiling intestines, and that flush of shyness that kept me reading on the swings during recess in grade school instead of playing with the other kids.

Little secret?

I hate talking to strangers.

So, good thing I chose a line of work where I would, of necessity, constantly be calling or visiting people I don't know to ask questions they frequently don't want to answer. Nevertheless, I persevere. In line is a man in an army jacket with an orange cat tucked in his arms; a rail-thin woman with a rail-thin Chihuahua straining to get out from under her jacket; couples and singles, families and friends. Everybody here for one reason: Times are hard, but they still have mouths to feed.

Once inside, I introduce myself to Alyce Pincoske, the secretary for the Pet Food Pantry. She's short and blonde, and funny as hell. Tables are set up with pet food as far as the eye can see, and there's an air of ordered chaos about the place. I get the impression that there's tension among the ranks, but I'm not clear on the source or the reasons. And since that's not the story, I don't try to find out.

For the most part, though, everyone is great. They know what they're doing, and they do it with speed and precision and a practiced hand: take information on the next person in line, fill their order, send them on their way. My camera dies before I can snap a shot, and I realize I forgot to get a new battery. Which is typical.

Robyn Dunbar is the one in charge of the organizational flow. She exudes efficiency - smiles brightly, knows where everyone is supposed to be and what is supposed to happen next. When people stand at the front of the room looking over the dog toys and clothing that have been donated, she's quick to offer advice in a kind, casual tone.

The volunteers - a dozen or so - are from around here. Married, mid-thirties at the earliest and most past fifty. One younger man stands out because, well, because he's younger. And, frankly, pretty cute. I catch his eye and realize it's been roughly two hundred years since I've had occasion to flirt with a cute boy.

I'm so rusty, I creak like the Tin Man.

Still, we strike up a conversation after a while. He's Robyn's son Dan, and I quickly realize that I'm probably a good ten years older than him. He tells me animatedly of his bike treks around the world; I forget I'm supposed to be a journalist working on a story, and we settle in and talk about the best spots to live and whether he should pack up and move to Boulder or stay where he is, in Chicago. I casually drop in that I lived in Oregon and loved it, he should check it out - not because I think Portland's any better than Boulder, necessarily, but because I want to make sure he doesn't think I'm just some Maine girl who writes for a dog newspaper and has never been outside New England.

Our little interlude is interrupted when we realize that we're both, um, holding everything up and there are people around us who are actually trying to do something here. It's one of those quick moments that's not really a flirtation (except to me, since I haven't actually had a conversation with a good looking guy younger than fifty in three years), but is close enough to be nice, and he's the sort of guy I would have dated back in the day, so I fall easily into the rhythm of pseudo-intellectual babbling.

Except, I'm supposed to be working on a story.

So, I pull myself back together and finish talking notes. Bid everyone a fond farewell once the food's been distributed and the crowd has waned, and truck across the road, back to my foxy silver rental car.

Which has not been vandalized, btw.