Treating Dogs with Maggot infestations


On-site First Aid Treatment for Prevention and Cure of Maggot wounds in Street Animals:

It is the onset of warm weather and humid conditions that trigger an onset of maggot wound related queries on our helpline and the below treatment protocol has been shared aplenty by us through our website, e-mail queries and blog based queries.

A horrifying number of street animals die tragic and slow painful deaths owing to maggot infestations. But, maggot wounds can be prevented and treated on site very easily (if noticed before it is too late) and these unfortunate deaths can be prevented if animal welfare volunteers read through this article below and back the knowledge so acquired with animal handling skills and some amount of patience, determination and dedication; all of which are essential qualities that are required to help heal a voiceless animal.

What are Maggots and how do they…

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I was  lost. A  fumbler, but I’m doing what I need to do. In this Neverland I am gaining the mound, pitcher and the batter too. In this fumbling , I found  myself. A map of true colors  led me to the oldest building where  I feel at  home,  giving me  gratitude  while rising above it’s  sinking floor. Stretching out as I look around, arms once heavy,  lithe to paint a better black and whIte.  A blanket of warmth, threadless feels like a map of home. This thing that’s upon me, asks nothing but honesty and all I feel is my true identity. I will always be fumbling  but the map is clear. My home  is where I feel changing and brave.My home is where the unknown is always near . My home is me …..  confronting fear.

Yellow Sweater

Heart beating.

I can feel it in my eyes. Yellow sweater

a little tight .

Beatles  thrown out

in  the sunset light

shaking it out alone


it lands

it pulls

it puddles

sweaty palms reaching

wanting better

we feel ourselves growing out of us.

Beatles chewing at the smallness.

we held dear in our old sweater

we have out grown

knowing  tomorrow

lies and fortifies

this loose dream we are beginning

to realize.

But that Yellow Sweater

it fits tight and snug

beatles  still chewing

yesterday’s nubs.

Eye’s pulsing

knowing you have outgrown

the place

the beatles call their home.

That Yellow Sweater

no longer a nest

but an idea of warmth

comfort ,

no regret.

Warmth is an idea

a place to belong

that makes the warmth of sweaters


cold and threadless

but nonetheless warm

with its idea

of selflessness.




My favorite.

In the spring

I catch your fruit

In the winter

you dissolve

against your self

highlighting your weakness

The beauty we capture

against the idea of spring

knowing all along your strength

belongs to the fruit

that is being nurtured

by the cold winds that

rip your bark off

leaving you exposed

to the photographers

that love the idea

of black and white .

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My favorite.

In the spring

I catch your fruit

In the winter

you dissolve

against your self

highlighting your weakness

The beauty I caught

holds the idea of spring

knowing all along your strength

belongs to the fruit

that is being nurtured

by the cold winds that

rip your bark off

leaving you exposed

to the photographers

that love the idea

of black and white .


I broke myself in January. Chocolate vodka and wedge heels. I remember the feeling of a sickening break. The twirl that in the midst of a celebratory night, threw me on the ground. I knew I had broken something. All eyes on us, I jumped up and finished the dance. I limped over to my dear friend, gave her a hug, and left for the hospital. My husband laughed the entire night. I may have thrown a punch. Wouldn’t you? I don’t think I have ever felt such excruciating pain in my whole life. My childhood friend just happened to be the ER nurse for the night. She told me later she had known I had broken my leg or ankle. Three months later, I am actually wearing shoes on both feet. I know I need to call about physical therapy, but to me , getting out of that boot is physical therapy enough. Trauma.

My friend called tonight. My friend that has an autistic little boy. The same friend that has identical twin toddlers. Her hands are so full they are overflowing. They are overflowing with love, kindness, selflessness, and pure life. As I was talking to her, her babies were in the background climbing on her, crying over an innocuous injury, and she was trying to tell me a story that meant something to her, but not as much as calming her babies small injury. I really didn’t listen to what she was saying as much as I was listening to her life in the background. This chaotic life that she sustains is an anomaly to me. I literally can not imagine. The strength that comes with being this woman is such a head shaking thing. I feel ridiculous in my self.

A friend of mine lost her child three weeks ago.  Went to swing on one of the first warm days, and was gone. Just gone. This beautiful mother, the kind of mother we strive to be , lost her baby girl. It shook us as a community. Brought forth feelings we had never felt. Brought sleepless nights and confusion and just plain ugliness into our everyday sadness, taking it to a new level of emptiness and darkness we had not felt in years. As I write this, I am beyond any type of conveying what I can imagine how dark their hearts are now, yet how grateful they are when they shut their eyes at night, clenching their hands together as a family, holding on to that sweet baby’s laugh and holding on to each other as tight as they know how..without breaking. Without breaking.

We are all lost things, faced with this type of inexplicable life loss and broken reality forced on us. We are lost in trying to be the best person we literally know how to be in the face of overwhelming doubt. We are swallowed up in our broken selves, in our empty handed responses, in the most heavy hearted condolences, we question everything we think. We all experience life on our different planes. We experience breaks on levels we can’t begin to comprehend. We experience strengths, that without trauma, we would never knew we had. We sustain. We regroup. We hold tight. We give when we are needed. We shroud ourselves when hiding is necessary. This is what we do. We survive. Through these falls we hold tight to each other. As a community, as a family we begin again. These weights we think we cannot bear, become slightly more bearable when hands seen, or unseen pick us up. In our search for reasoning and understanding we tend to find no answer. Trauma shakes all of our security, all of our comfortable places and any ground we may have had, right out from under us. But as the surviving species we are, we heal each other and we heal ourselves. Healing happens slowly, like the seasons changing, like a baby growing or us aging. It happens weather we are watching or not. Inexplicably we find our way. Broken we still find a way to be graceful, to dance until the music plays.


Perception. When I look in the mirror sometimes it occurs to me that what I am seeing is exactly opposite from what is seen by family and friends. My eye that is slightly larger on my left side, is really my right. My crooked smile is crooked for sure, but reflection is backwards. Opposite. Perception. That is a hard one to grasp. It is literally everything . It determines who you are, how you are treated and how you treat others.

The beta is an extraordinary fish. Majestic even .Kept in a tiny bowl, never allowed to swim freely for fear it will attack and kill anything close to it. What few people know is it has an aqua lung. It can survive in rice patties for weeks, with just enough water for it move. It only attacks when threatened. When you hold a mirror up to a beta, they puff out, in defense, waiting to be attacked. Natures way of ensuring its survival. Much like people, it reacts to what it sees, what is reflected. The perception that defines their existence, is nothing but a reflection of their selves in captivity. They are captured and sold, with no history attached to them. No label as to why they are alone and so defensive. Just a beautiful quandary. A tiny reactive bit of nature,doing what is has done for thousands of years. Exactly like us, it swims wanting nothing more than an honest answer to its existence.

Insecurity is the worst type of disease. It’s a plaque. It turns our hearts black and the grass greener. Love is lost through questioning, self doubt and loneliness. Survival takes over. It binds us to our selves;locking us up in a small space, seen for show. We flaunt and expand, put on our finest clothes. Our own aqua lung breathes it in while we swim in the shallow waters of ourselves and what we know. The mirror is held up to our faces in captivity reflecting our crooked smiles in all their opposition. We put up our only defense, an altruistic way of fighting off our own glass bowls. Reaction without thought, glass houses with no reverberation, this seems to be where we all come from. This is becoming all we know.

My aqua lung is drowning. I am swimming in shallow water and trying to perceive my reflection without years, without time, without death or regret. My hands are wanting to be their own, reaching towards the air, leaving my fins in a glass bowl, cold and majestic; silent and sold. No label attached, no history known, swimming freely,  my perception is becoming my own.

24 Hours

My big boys left today. Just for 24 hours. But the freedom that comes with this 24 hours is baffling. I am so No judgment. No fighting. No wet towels. No breaking up fights. No .. No …no nothing.I can listen to my music. I can be utterly guilt free selfish. I can crank up Pearl Jam. I can eat frozen pizza in front of the tv without teenager or preteen hands asking me if I’m gonna eat the last piece. The faces changing in front of me are absent from my day. No keeping tabs. No noticing the only things a mother can notice. I still have my little buddy. We spent the better half of the day making play doh snakes. When I put him down for a nap, I went into the big boys rooms and cleaned up water bottles, half empty salsa containers, hot sauce bottles and dirty clothes. No Reason to be mad. I have only asked them to clean for two weeks.My sweet little baby I can see turning into this.

My daily fears are coming to fruition. The tiny hands turning into an offense. The sweet belly laughs turning into a deep guttural moan, an eye roll, at the least request. The quick ticking making their legs grow longer .The ability to understand words turning me ,their mother,into a questioning adult. I am the idiot. I am the bad guy, I am the silly person wringing hands and hoping they get me. The babies I grew in my belly. The babies I am happy to get away from. They see me at my worst. My exact excitement they are gone for the night. But yet I dread them leaving for any reason permanently. Don’t we all? So insecure in their leaving..yet so happy when we get a moment alone? Who are we? Who are they when they leave? Do we center back into our original self? Do they remember the things we remember the most?

I am Andie. I am a woman. A writer. A play date. I am a wife and friend. I wring my hands when I think. I write about my boys when their absence is felt. I try to be better than I was yesterday. I pay attention to detail. I pay attention to my fears, my desire, my grossness. I admit, I think ,I question. I can only hope they do the same. When they are absent, a part of me is as well. Yet when they are absent,  part of me lives. That part that puts her head down. The part that spends her time under water waiting to breathe. Love is a drowning force, that gasping, forces us to look up and pray, while we grasp for our original self.

24 hours. I can take that breath and know I love. I am capable of that. I am still a student, and a teacher in this unforgiving thing called parenting.


Hormones. The son of a bitch of life. I woke up today, smashed my face into the white sheets and prayed. Heard my two year old yelling, no.. spitting and then yelling. My 12 year old was kind, frustrated and forgiving. I took a deep breath and walked out of my solace into reality. Before  I crawled out of my sheets, I said a mindful prayer.” Dear God I don’t want to yell today. I want to have that same kind of peace that overwhelmed me when I was “me “last week. Before these sons of bitching hormones destroyed my sanity. When I was definitive in who I was. Before I became this blood curling bitch that echoes spite in the house on a peaceful Sunday morning because the dishes weren’t done to my specifications or the pillows were thrown in the floor, or I was thrown into the wall without a choice, turning my family into victims of this inexplicable bitch called estrogen”. Amen.

Living in a house full of men or men child or boys and boy babies,  Its hard to explain these little moments. These moments of absurdity. Moments that make no sense to you, much less the boys you married or gave life to. They see you in a million different ways, filters constantly changing , kaleidoscope like. Much like ordinary everyday life, you would hope to be a kaleidoscope to your children, except… perception is everything. These tiny moments tend to skew perception. The colorful becomes the black and white in a child’s mind.  The estrogen becomes reality, when my Soul knows better. The question that has been personally driving me nuts for years, especially since I began taking antidepressants is, “What distinquishes the soul from the chemical brain”? Pish Tosh. That is way too deep. For now I will ask”why can’t I just be nice”? Why can I not rise above my base brain, eat some walnuts(or increase my zoloft) do some deep breathing technique and be the loving soulful mom and wife I know I can be in the throws of these hormonal attacks? Because because because..I’m weak. No. I’m behind on my lemon water intake. Because it’s winter. Because I’m in general, overwhelmed. Because it’s muddy. I’m not speaking to my sister. My son is going through the “kill me now if I have to wake to this crap one more time” terrible two’s.Maybe it’s just me… Maybe “me” is lashing out. Maybe “me” is over thinking and unable to catch the time train as it zooms through my living room, taking my youth and babies with it. Maybe my ” me” is the tiniest voice in this ridiculous jumble of hormones, antidepressants, muddiness and weakness. Maybe that ” me” is the small catch on the latch on my heavy metal door..screaming through it. Maybe my children hear that. Why else would they keep loving me? They have the tiny hands that are able to make my heavy hands seem lithe and small again. My bad Sunday that looms,the weakness that consumes becomes my strength when I reach into that enormous bag of perspective.

I hope I”ll smash my face a million times into my white sheets that are suppossed to make my life more clean and pristine. I’ll say a prayer every time, while my brain is still fuzzy and reeling in those vivid dreams. I’ll stare into my sweet dogs eyes, throw the covers back and start my Sunday. I may be a ridiculous sort of person, the dishes may never be up to be par, but that damn train is fast. A hormonal bitch is more likely to pay attention. Perspective is literally everything. So maybe that train is more of slow carriage ride. Maybe the terrible twos are just a bad day. Maybe my tiny voice is really a scream and I am just too deaf to hear it. Regardless,  I say Amen.

February Springs

I will make my way out of this dark place. I will start again tomorrow. I will feel triumphant and fresh and new. I will make the bed, make a breakfast. I will play with my 2 year old and feel total peace and happiness and wonderment at the life we have created. The miracle that grew in my belly. The gift I was given. I ill exercise and write and clean and organize. I will do all of this. And I will do it with the calm peace that I have learned through 40 years of life on this amazing planet. All the lessons I have learned will be incorporated into each day of life I am allowed to wake up healthy and full of gratitude. I am thrilled with this idea. This seemingly simple and correct idea. But I don’t. I wake up ok. I enjoy my coffee. I snuggle with my baby. I watch SpongeBob and then get dressed, kind of. I give him a cold poptart and settle into the couch. I watch the clock calculating how many minutes I have till my older boys get off the bus. I think about writing . About that damn dinner I’ve been wanting to cook for a month since I broke my leg. I sigh and search through the dvr for shows I can watch when I get  minute of my own. My own second to exhale. I realize my life is literally more than half over. My childhood is still fresh..yet I am seeing my face sag in to an older woman. The reflection I see is a reflection of someone I never thought I would be. I research facelifts and and botox. I watch my sweet boy play. I think “what is wrong with you”??? You have life and friends and health and family and a mind that can think all of these thoughts. Where is the excitement? Or where is the motivation? Where are the actions that follow these great ,perfect and correct thoughts? They are hidden in a gross complicated(or maybe not) disgusting place called selfishness.

When I was little I imagined I would live in New York. I also imagined I would have a pet unicorn. In my 40th year, I am still in our tiny starter home. I am married to my high school sweetheart. I live five minutes from my childhood home . I don’t even speak to my sister. My identical twin died at birth for no reason other than the fault of the doctor. That is always going to be a hard one to make peace with. I am still dreaming of writing in new York, and all the dreams I had are still present, just tilt shifted to a new focus. Survival of my own family. A purpose after the kids leave. A marriage that I can be proud of, and kids that will be proud of me in all of my selfishness and inadequacies. A comfortable spot to curl up in when my parents are gone.

I forgive myself everyday. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should force myself out of my anxiety ridden comfort zone. Isn’t that what grownups do? Keep pushing past the misery of depression ,inadequacy, and past hurts? See the amazing blessings laid at my feet, take comfort in my self knowledge that no one is perfect? But February..ohh February with your tease of spring, the freezing rain, the broken ankle, the solitude and  the meanness of virus and grey nothingness; you have wrapped me in your blanket of 40th birthday introspection, selfishness and cold. I am lingering in a purgatory of before and after.

But this morning, I made a playdough snake with Sam. He kept saying” I make one for you, mommy! For you.” And he did. I got out of my head just long enough to see what I have. Who he is. What I am shaping.

Yes, this winter is especially hard. Breaking a bone is no small thing. Its very limiting, It limits your movements, your freedom and your ability to grow physically. It is so daunting to not be able to do all the things you were capable of just yesterday  ,and to see how your handicap affects your family. but let me tell you this. Our mind is the largest handicap  we will ever confront .(Cliché) The over expectations that cripple us. The binding weakness of not seeing past our own weaknesses. The viruses that invade our mind when we are not paying attention. The blanket of doubt we cover ourselves up in..that is the thing that keeps us from being. Just being. I catch myself forgetting who I am a million times a day ,broken bones or not.

But looking around this tiny starter house I share with with my highschool sweetheart and our three beautiful kids, five minutes from my mom and dad..I see limitless movement. I see everything a person could ever want. I see peace and happiness. I see the absence of grey,and the colors of a two year olds imagination. I see a future of learning, understanding,growth and honesty. I see a brilliant burst of spring intermingled with shades of awareness that only a seasoned mind could know. I see a way out of this dark place called February, called the” aging woman in the mirror”. I feel the warmth of the hands I grew in my belly, holding my hand as I held theirs in their infancy, blanketing my self doubt I fight everyday in this thing called” growing up”. We are a reckoning everyday. We begin again , everyday. We are loved everyday. We may forget in the middle of it. We may forgive where we think forgiveness should not be allowed. I’ll be damned if that forgiveness ,tiny, or enormous, doesn’t bring us closer to the end of that dark hallway. A little bit closer to that freshly made bed, that dinner on the table and the face in the mirror looking more beautiful, than sagging, more wise, than aging, and content as the spring draws near.