Starving, weak, sickly, thrown-away cats. Mangy, emaciated, frightened dogs. It's a pretty good barometer for our society's degree of compassion and loving-kindness.

Yeah, I know, it's always been that way.

I just hope we can change it before we devolve into a people who can't be saved.

I've been involved, to one degree or another, in rescue since I was a child. From the first little white stray kitten, ("Mom, can I keep her?") to learning about organized rescue with my mother as she helped establish one of the first incorporated, private rescues in the nation, to running my own rescue and working with up to 32 homeless animals at a time, to never being able to "look the other way" when passing an animal in distress, I've been involved. I was raised that way, (thank you, Mother,) and never knew any different.

Little "Johnny," as we'll call him, my son's little playmate down the street, has been raised much differently. Dad spends evenings out in the orchards hunting hogs with his hog dogs. Here in Florida they breed pitbulls with catahoula leopard dogs or currs to produce dogs with strength and speed enough to make the chase, and the jaw (so they claim,) to hold the hapless hog until the hunters come to shoot it. When the dogs aren't running prey, they're at best given shelter under the mobile home's skirting and occasionally fed. Their bones stick out in ways an animal's shouldn't, fleas feast in masses on their anemic hides, their muzzles sport scars and often mange--and don't even THINK of mentioning the words spay or neuter to the owner! The unlucky dog who doesn't have heart enough to run the hogs and catch them, are shot and/or left to fend for themselves when the owner goes home. Dogs that are badly injured by the wicked tusks of the boar hogs often lay abandoned to fester and die of the injuries incurred in the service of the masters to whom they are so devoted. Oh…and did I mention the cat that lives with this family? She's on her 9th litter of kittens, but not to worry. They just take the kittens, swaddle them into a burlap sack with a brick and send them sailing into the lake.

Little Johnny asked me one day why our dogs live indoors. I answered it's because they prefer to be indoors with the family. Later he asked me why I petted and talked to my cats. I responded they enjoy it and so do I. Little Johnny shook his seven-year-old head as if he were dealing with a lunatic and retorted, "Everybody knows animals don't have feelings!"

He's never known any different.

In the last month, I've had to "help the neighbor get rid of" his gaunt, ringworm riddled pitbull "he'd just realized was pregnant." (She was ready to whelp, but who'd notice since she's been tied at the edge of the property since she was a new puppy and rarely fed?) Then my husband picked up another old, mangy pitbull mix (hogdog, no doubt,) he spied eating roadkill on the side of the road. THEN I helped find a home for another neighbor's dog--also very thin and neglected. And in the meantime, it started raining cats. Right now I've got a nearly-feral but previously owned tabby in the bathroom acclimating to living indoors and just today, I lured an emaciated young tomcat to within scruffing distance with a can of 9 Lives so that I could catch him, quarantine him and figure out what the hell to do with him. Oh….and then there's the little kitten my son found huddled in the rain under the go-cart in the yard a few weeks ago. (Yep….third generation rescuer, up and coming.)

And maybe that's the point of this rant. My son, now 7, "did his first rescue" at the age of 3. A very sick, feral kitten showed up in our yard but I was unable to catch the misbegotten thing because she was so terrified by the sight of a nearly 6 foot tall human. Ricky (at just over 3 foot and a little less intimidating,) sat for two hours (showing previously unwitnessed patience,) with a stack of bologna. He finally lured the frightened kitten to him and then into the house where we could begin caring for her, take her to the vet, socialize her and teach her that humans can be trusted. "Oobie" is now a part of our family and currently lazing on the other desk in my office. She's fat. She's loving. She farts a lot. But she's family.

Ricky's never known any different. He came home from the hospital as a newborn and laid on his blankie surrounded by cats and dogs fascinated by this new addition to the household. He learned at one year old how to properly hold a cat to make it feel secure, how to handle a snake and catch mice and spiders to put outdoors. He's helped me nurse any number of animals back to health and can read a dog's intentions and moods through it's body language as well as any professional trainer I know. One of his favorite games for years was, "I'm a dog!" (I didn't worry much when he crawled on all fours to the door and barked at the postman with the other dogs--thought it was kind of cute. I will admit to some concern when I caught him lifting his leg on the toilet in the bathroom during potty training.) Anyway, Rick has been raised to value all life…animal, plant and black, white, short, fat, sick, happy or sad humans. I have every reason to hope that the compassion I see demonstrated in his behavior now will be a part of him when he's an adult.

I wonder what kind of adult Little Johnny will grow up to be.

I also wonder what will become of the Iraqi children who've witnessed war and death and destruction almost since they were born. (They're the same age as Ricky. They've never known what peace is.) I wonder about the American children of "good, conservative, fundamental Christians" who now believe that might is right and that God instructed their parents' hero to kill a bunch of people who don't believe in the same god they do. And… I wonder just how much of a chance humankind has to turn itself around if such a huge number of people are raising their children to have no respect for any life except their own. Why? Because that's how they--the parents-- were raised. They don't know any different.

What are you teaching your kids?