"Gradually, it was hardly a year after the miracle of Pouilly-Le-Fort, it began to be evident that Pasteur, though a most original microbe hunter, was not an infallible god. Disturbing letters began to pile up on his desk; complaints from Montpothier and a dozen towns of France, and from Packisch and Kapuvar in Hungary. Sheep were dying from anthrax -- not anthrax they had picked up in dangerous fields, but anthrax they had got from those vaccines that were meant to save them! From other places came sinister stories of how the vaccine had failed to work -- the vaccine had been paid for, whole flocks of sheep had been injected, the farmers had gone to bed breathing Thank-God-For-Our-Great-Man-Pasteur, only to wake up in the morning to find their fields littered with the carcasses of dead sheep, and these sheep -- which ought to have been immune -- had died from the lurking anthrax spores that lay in their fields. . . .Pasteur began to hate to open his letters; he wanted to stop his ears against snickers that sounded from around corners, and then -- the worst thing that could possibly happen -- came a cold terribly exact scientific report from the laboratory of that nasty little German Koch in Berlin, and this report ripped the practical ness of the anthrax vaccine to tatters. Pasteur knew that Koch was the most accurate microbe hunter in the world.
There is no doubt that Pasteur lost some sheep from this aftermath of his glorious discovery, but, God rest him, he was a gallant man. It was not in him to admit, either to the public or to himself, that his sweeping claims were wrong (The Microbe Hunters, p. 165 -166)

Having failed to save the sheep, Pasteur next tried his hand at finding a cure for rabies. Instead of realizing that it was the OWNERS of the dogs that were driving them crazy; this ghoulish experimenter began to play with the deadly hydrophobia virus:

And at last they found a way of weakening the savage hydrophobia virus -- by taking out a little section of the spinal cord of a rabbit dead of rabies, and hanging this bit of deadly stuff up to dry in a germ-proof bottle for fourteen days. This shriveled bit of nervous tissue that had once been so deadly they shot into the brains of healthy dogs -- and those dogs did not die. . . (Microbe Hunters, p. 176).

Finally, Pasteur was ready with his cure for rabies:

At first Pasteur thought of shooting his weakened rabies into all the dogs of France in one stupendous Napoleonic series of injections: "We must remember that no human being is attacked with rabies except after being bitten by a rabid dog. . . . Now if we wipe it out of dogs with our vaccine . . ." he suggested to the famous veterinarian, Nocard, who laughed and shook his head. There are more than a hundred thousand dogs and hounds and puppies in the city of Paris alone," Nocard told him, "and than two million, five hundred thousand dogs in all of France -- and if each of these brutes had to get fourteen shots of your vaccine fourteen days in a row . . . where would you get the men? Where would you get the time? where the devil would you get the rabbits? Where would you get sick spinal cord enough to make one-thousandth enough vaccine?" Then finally there dawned on Pasteur a simple way out of his trouble: "It's not the dogs we must give our fourteen doses of vaccine," he pondered, "it's the human beings that have been bitten by mad dogs. . . ."(Microbe Hunters, p.177).

There you have it: Pasteur saw no difference between men and woman made in the image of God and . . . DOGS!! He wanted to inject foul deadly matter from diseased rabbits and dogs directly into the bloodstream of men and woman!!

This Roman Catholic experimenter died clutching the crucifix -- and instrument of DEATH!!

"He died in 1895 in a little house near the kennels where they now kept his rabid dogs, at Villeneuve L'Etang, just outside of Paris. His end was that of the devout Catholic, the mystic he had always been. In one hand he held a crucifix and in the other lay the hand of the most patient, obscure and important of his collaborators -- Madame Pasteur (Microbe Hunters, p. 182).