I've spent my entire career writing marketing copy for nonprofits. Until we moved to Portland in August, I'd never published anything that wasn't about homeless animals, abused women, environmental ruin, higher education, museum school tours ... Basically, any prose that helped to save the amalgamated gay, black whales for Jesus--that was my job. Of course, I've also written volumes about tax advantageous philanthropy, but it's always been in support of "a cause." Charitable Remainder Unitrusts, anyone? Riveting stuff.
When people read what I've written, it's because they care about the issue I'm writing about. I'm writing so they'll care a little more about the charity that's paying me and give them money. It's called charitable marketing. Here's how I got started.
I'd been a dog groomer after college (oh yes, the parents were endlessly proud). A girlfriend got me a job in an animal shelter. Working for Peninsula Humane Society, I managed the front office, approving adoptions, processing and consoling owner-requested euthanasia clients, worked with families who were giving up their animals for ridiculous or heart-breaking reasons, or coming to claim stray animals that our animal control officers found wandering the streets. It wasn't an easy job, but it t'weren't nothin' compared to the folks who worked in the field. I wince when people who don't know better call animal control officers "dog catchers." It's a "slowly-I-turned" kind of quiet, internal fury.
When rude dog owners came to my desk and demanded their pet who had been running on the freeway, and claimed the county shelter "had no right" to take their animal out of harm's way, the big threat was: "I pay your paycheck!" I loved pointing at the animal control officer in the next office and saying, "You pay his paycheck." When the vet tech who had examined and fed their pet walked through the front office, I could add, "You pay a portion of her paycheck."
The truth was and is, government funding can't underwrite all the health/social/human services our communities need. We trust nonprofit agencies to support the balance of what it takes to do it right. (Insert soapbox here)
I chatted with Mr. pays-my-paycheck with polite, but evangelical froth: "If it weren't for the donors who pay the rest of the tech's paycheck, and all of mine, there wouldn't be enough people to care for your pet or the other 20,000 homeless animals we care for every year. You'd be here at this front desk, talking to yourself. Would you like your well cared for, vaccinated pet, now?"
It was exhausting. I'm a writer because it's much easier to tell that story than it was to live it. But, there were also amazing experiences that led me to this work. Like Robert.
In the late '90s, Robert was dying of cancer. By the time I met him, he was in a wheelchair and had a full time caregiver. Other than his medical support team, he had no family. I was working in adoptions when he came in to adopt a pet.
He started the conversation saying that he was dying. "How long do you have?" I asked.
"A few months," he told me, making me want to cry right there with how immediate and no-way-around-it he was. "I want a pet to be my family." Of course.
Who wouldn't give that man a dog? Me. I'm a jerk. It was awful to tell him, but our organizational mission was to find homes where animals could be cared for, long term. That was our deal. Robert was in and out of hospitals, rarely strong enough for the kind of big, goofball dog he was partial to. I offered a compromise.
"You can come here any time you want. Whether the shelter is open or not, we'll give you a visitation room and fill the room with dogs, cats, bunnies, whatever you want to visit. Stay as long as you want."
We became friends. He had my direct phone number, though he never asked for anything that tested his special status with us. He came in a few days a week at first, and later, came only when he was strong enough or not in the hospital, which was sometimes only once a week. Sometimes less. When he visited, we had kitties climbing on him like he was a carpeted cat tree. He played with great dogs and dogs that drove everyone else nuts. He was St. Francis in a wheelchair. So many animals benefited from his huge heart.
In fact, Robert adopted himself an entire front office staff/family that looked forward to his visits as much as the animals did. An animal shelter's front office staff faces enough I-pay-your-paycheck dorks; they bask in a guy that appreciates the animals. Robert understood that we, too, cared deeply for our animals. And, we certainly appreciated him.
One week, his caretaker didn't wheel him directly to the visitation room. They came to my office with a gift. "Here. You need this." It was a check for $60,000. I'd never seen that many zeros on non-Monopoly money before. What a guy. The shelter sent a formal thank you note, as every charity should. I handwrote him a note from the front office, and everyone signed it. Some included their own, personal sentiments.
That was the last time I saw him. Shortly after that, our ED promoted me to the fundraising office on the other side of the building--where my evangelical froth could be "more productively directed."
Within a few weeks of starting my new job, I was at my desk when a call came from the front office. It was an attorney. Apparently Robert had at least one friend besides us. He was Robert's executor and wanted to visit us in person. With a smile, he handed me $250,000. "This place meant so much to him," he said. I was too choked up to ask when he'd died, but told Robert's attorney/friend how much Robert's visits had meant to our staff and the animals.
Because of Robert, I started volunteering for an organization called "PAWS: Pets are Wonderful Support," which helps terminally ill, low-income folks in San Francisco to keep their pets, by providing them with pet food and pet care services (dog walking, litter box cleaning, pet-sitting, rides to the vet, etc.).
Robert is my touchstone to what's great about raising money for a living. Nonprofit marketing is about real people, real relationships, and making great things happen for the causes my donors and I believe in.
These days, I still want to write about people like Robert and their charities. But, it's been an emotional ride. Sometimes, I just want to write about my naughty, wack-a-doodle dog and how much he cracks me up. It's light and fun, and something I can do without worrying that my words aren't enough to save all of the gay, black whales for Jesus.
That's what Pirate Dog PDX is really all about. It's a campaign to Save the Shawanda! Send your donations of chocolate and kibble, care of Rico Suave to Portland, Oregon.
If you've been reading along, you know I'm a big flag carrier for Uncle Charlie's research and faculty and the saving of the planet we do on a pretty much daily basis. (Go Slugs!) 
