Austonia daily newsletter—direct to your inbox 6 a.m.
Join the 250,000+ others who rely on Austonia for local news, info and fun
×
Following the purchase of a converted 34-foot-long van, Addicus' Legacy Dog Rescue's pups headed to their forever homes in style during its maiden voyage last week.
The Austin-based group—which strives to save animals from high-kill shelters and find them forever homes—coordinates dog adoptions, either locally or by transporting them from Texas to waiting homes in New England.
"We call it 'The Rescue Bus,'" Addicus board member and intake coordinator Mariska Berkley said of the new van. "We send about 60 dogs a month to Connecticut, so we needed a bigger vehicle."
The new van will transport about 60 dogs per month to waiting adopters in Connecticut from Austin. (Mariska Berkley)
Although the van can transport about 60 dogs, its passenger list will only include 30 dogs to accommodate bathroom breaks every three to four hours, she said. Any more dogs and the stops wouldn't be a practical length of time, Berkley said. Two drivers and a behaviorist, Jan McDonald, will also be on board, with the behaviorist keeping the dogs as happy and content as possible.
"It's got to be rough on them," McDonald said of the transport process. "They've grown attached to the fosters they had in Texas and we're taking them away from that foster, putting them in a kennel and getting them on the road. That's automatically confusing and stressful for them."
The bi-monthly road trip from Austin to Glastonbury, Connecticut, is about 1,600 miles and takes two-and-a-half days northbound, or about 50 hours including stops. After dropping off the canine cargo, the human crew spends the night in New England before heading home the following morning.
Mariska Berkley, a member of the Addicus Legacy Dog Rescue board, coordinated the group's efforts to land a new transport van that's delivering the much-wanted pets to New England from Austin in style and comfort. (Mariska Berkley)
Addicus was founded a decade ago when school teacher Phillippa Scott decided to transport rescue dogs from Texas to Connecticut, saving the canines from being euthanized at a local shelter. The saved dogs come from facilities' euthanasia lists or have no chance of being adopted; local vets are used to get the dogs healthy before they are put up for adoption, Berkley said.
"We had a lot of dogs ready to go to their adopters but we didn't necessarily have the space on transport to take them," Scott said.
The nonprofit organization is funded mostly through donations, Berkley said.
"The only options we had were either a cargo trailer, an 18-wheeler or one of those Hertz vans or little box vans, and they are not outfitted for comfort by any means," Berkley said, adding that the transport vehicles had to be modified with air conditioning.
The limousine was initially built for people and has two air conditioning systems along with a ventilation system, Berkley said. It was previously used by a dog breeder in Oklahoma, who converted the vehicle to haul dogs so she could take them to show. Berkley said she spied the van for sale on Facebook Marketplace and traveled to Oklahoma to bring it back.
"There is an overflow of dogs in the Texas area—we have a lot of backyard breeders and we have a lot of rural shelters that don't get any help," said Berkley who has worked with the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
The demand for adoption is greater in New England than in Texas, and there's less supply of dogs to adopt, she said. COVID-19 has also caused an "exponential" increase in the number of dog adoptions, she said.
On its first trip northward, Addicus partnered with Lucky Lab Rescue and transported its dogs in the new vehicle as well.
Finding a right-sized vehicle to cart rescue animals across the country has long plagued Addicus, Berkley said. The new vehicle fills this need, she said.
"We are trying to revolutionize the way these dogs are being transported within the rescue groups," Berkley said.
From Your Site Articles
- Dogs found sick after swimming in Hudson Bay - austonia ›
- Austin readying for another dog-killing algae bloom - austonia ›
- Austin company pitches masks for dogs - austonia ›
- Squirrels of UT Instagram account grows as UT's mascot - austonia ›
- Meet the dogs of Austin's celebrities and famous - austonia ›
- "Pandemic pups" are being returned to shelters as owners go back to work - austonia ›
- 7 Austin businesses celebrating International Dog Day - austonia ›
Popular
Radhia Gleis bore the tales of Buddhafield life in her book, "The Followers," and the documentary, "Holy Hell." (Holy Hell)
Although it was Buddhafield, a movement that has been called a cult by a host of ex-followers, that brought Gleis to the Hill Country, the group's Austin presence has diminished to almost nothing. After over two decades in the group, Gleis revealed it all in her first-place PenCraft award-winning book, "The Followers, 'Holy Hell' and the Disciples of Narcissistic Leaders" in which she talks about the dangers of groupthink and the impact that spending years in the Buddhafield cult had on her.
Gleis now works as a clinical nutritionist and is working on healing through her art. (radiagleis.com)
From a "well-to-do" family in California, Gleis was learning how to make cocktails for wealthy dinner guests shortly after she learned how to walk. She grew up emotionally distant from her parents and only brother; Gleis vividly remembered being called "dopey" by her father, consistently forgotten by her mother and held at knifepoint by her brother.
Needless to say, Gleis grew up without secure connections. On top of that, she grew up in the 1960s and '70s during mass cultural upheaval, the free love movement and obsession with Eastern religions.
"There were these desires to expand your thinking, expand your consciousness as opposed to the 'Leave it to Beaver' kind of paradigm," Gleis told Austonia. "There was a rebellion, a schism in the culture."
She had become interested in the idea of nirvana when she was in high school, so when a friend told her about spirituality sessions with a beautiful woman named Malila who claimed to have experienced God directly, her interest was piqued.
Her experiences with Malila threw her into the spiritual realm. Gleis met Jaime Gomez, the would-be leader of the Buddhafield cult who went by many names, in the early 1980s through a friend of Malila's in California. Gomez, a native of Venezuela, was known to often wear only eyeliner and a speedo in his prime and when Gleis met him, he was clad only in a golden tan, skin-tight jeans and a small vest.
The Shakti scam
Gomez originally began guiding members through an independent spiritual journey but flags were raised when he began to see himself as a godlike figure. (WRA Productions LLC)
Her initiation was subtle—it started as just a group of friends who followed Gomez, a young yogi with a small but growing following, to learn techniques of "The Knowing" that he possessed. Members were initiated via "shakti," a godly transfer of power that opened your third eye. Members would "pranam," or deeply bow to show respect, to God during the first four years of Gleis' time with Gomez.
The initiation started as a relationship between the individual and their "divine birthright" through God.
"Generations were trying to get Shakti from him, they were trying to get his energy," Gleis said. "He was like, 'Whatever you experience in your initiation is between you and God, it has nothing to do with me.'"
Things started to change at the next initiation when Gomez had new members pranam to him and connect to his love, not the divine love they had come seeking.
"He would say, 'Well, Radhia, some people, not you, need a living person they can touch and see and talk to, I am just being that for them,'" Gleis said. "So he considered himself now a living deity like Jesus or Krishna or Buddha."
Although she did not support the pranam to Gomez, the shift was harrowing. While Gomez was a "skilled sociopath," Gleis said, he was also her friend and she was his close adviser; he knew all of her' hopes, dreams, fears and how to keep her around.
"If you go to Disneyland, it's a fantasy, but you're willing to forgo your disbelief for the fun, for the ride," Gleis said. "But what if you don't know it's fake? What if all your friends and all your family are in on it? And the one person that you revere the most is creating the illusion?"
It would take years for Gleis to learn Gomez was secretly taking advantage of members in the group.
The domino effect
The Buddhafield waltzed into Austin from West Hollywood in the late '90s after accusations against Gomez came out, Gleis would later learn. She found out that later that multiple members alleged that Gomez sexually abused them, and it was a pattern of his to jump ship and change his name once people started speaking out.
There were a few reasons the group chose Austin: their new home had to be in a warm climate, near a body of water, full of rich culture and jobs.
Having been in the cult for over a decade, the Austin move had triggered a need to build a life outside Buddhafield for Gleis. The connections she made outside the "family" she had made for herself led her to visit the home of an injured member of Buddhafield, where she says she was greeted by two men who told her tales of Gomez's transgressions.
Tales of Gomez attempting to hypnotize male members of the group into removing their clothes, which Gomez would deny, and his penchant for using the AIDS crisis to scare members into silence came to light. It was a feat in and of itself to tell a single soul about the things the victims had experienced, let alone make formal charges.
Among the victims was Will Allen, who released the documentary "Holy Hell," made from hours of his own original footage, in 2016 to detail his experiences.
The women in the group were untouched to Gleis' knowledge and some of the victims took years to gain the courage to speak out.
"Now it was like dominoes, it was like this was our #MeToo movement. When this guy came out, now all of a sudden, I'm getting phone calls because the rumors spread," Gleis said. "It was very heartbreaking—I started hearing all these stories of what (Gomez) had done and all the secrets that all of these men had been holding, these traumas that they had been holding in for years."
That was her line in the sand—so, at 55 years old, Gleis left Buddhafield, "alone and forsaken." And she has learned a good deal about herself since then—she works as a clinical nutritionist but left all of her friends behind, with no one to fall on but herself.
It has been 15 years since her departure—15 years to ponder how she was manipulated into that place. Gleis often compares those two decades of her life to Trumpism, where Gomez had tapped into her preconceived notions and led her to believe what she wanted to believe.
As someone who grew up not knowing love, it made sense to jump headfirst into the sense of community and protection that Buddhafield offered.
"We have to be careful when we use words like 'brainwashed.' We went willingly. Jaime didn't torture us. He didn't brainwash us," Gleis said. "All he did as a narcissist—he figured out what we were all thinking about and he became that for us. When you pranam to him, which we did, then he becomes bolder. That's what a sociopath does."
Gleis details her story of what led her in and out of Buddhafield in her book, "The Followers." Gomez and certain members who are still connected to Buddhafield have moved on to Hawai'i, but Gleis remains in Austin and is currently working on a children's novella.
Enjoying Austonia? Signup for our newsletter to get daily Austin news, straight to your morning inbox!
From Your Site Articles
- Buc-ee's avoids national workers shortage with benefits - austonia ›
- Austin companies that cracked the Fortune 500, 1000 list - austonia ›
- Alex Jones goes viral yelling at lifeguards at greenbelt entrance ... ›
- How Buc-ee's became a cult favorite around the world - austonia ›
Related Articles Around the Web
