Tui xin một cái topic nhé....

NINE PAINFUL DAYS
by Karen Behun
My week didn''t start off very well.
My father had just passed away and my mother decided to wait a week to
have the memorial service. This left me with extra time on my hands over
the weekend.
Trying to keep my mind off the service, I decided to take my two
Shelties to be groomed. Phoebe-Louise, the 5 year old, is a tiny little
thing, weighing about 11 pounds. Mindy-Lou, who''s 2, is super-sized,
weighing about 40 pounds, but afraid of her own shadow.
I enlisted the help of my son to get the two dogs to the groomer. We
connected leashes to both of their collars. When we pulled into the
parking lot of the groomer, I decided I would take Mindy out of the car
first, since she was the biggest, and my son could easily carry Phoebe in
his arms.
Just as we were about to walk into the building, the groomer came to
the door and opened it. When she did, another dog inside barked, and
scared Mindy. She jumped back, her collar slipped off of her neck, and she
took off.
As she ran through the yards, each with dogs outside barking at her,
she became more frightened. Before I could catch her, she had gone into a
field and then into the woods that surrounded the area.
The day ended quite sadly for all of us. We had no luck finding her.
I couldn''t believe the Good Lord would take my father from me, and my dog
in the same week!
That evening, a nasty storm came through the area and I knew Mindy
would be petrified. Thunder scared her and if she were home, she would
have been in the safety of her bed. After putting ads in all of the
newspapers and leaving over 200 "Lost Dog" notices in mailboxes, we still
hadn''t had any luck. Nobody had seen her, anywhere!
Many friends had been keeping my family and Mindy in their prayers.
After Mindy had been gone for 5 days, I called the breeder we bought her
from. She suggested I take her crate out to the field where I had last
seen her, along with some of her treats, dog food, and clothes from our
house. I did as she said and put everything out in the field.
I checked the following two days after work, but there were no signs
of her being nearby. The following two days were spent on my father''s
memorial service and trying to entertain relatives that were from out of
town. Needless to say, I couldn''t stop worrying about Mindy.
Each day she was gone, I became more and more depressed, as did Phoebe
who was missing her playmate. On the ninth day that Mindy was missing, I
decided that if she hadn''t found her crate, I would bring it back home. I
prayed as I walked to her crate that she would be there.
As I got closer to her crate, I noticed muddy footprints inside it and
her treats and dog food were gone. I was sure the footprints were hers.
As I sat on an old broken plastic chair in the field, I began to talk to
her as if she were right beside me. After about 30 seconds of talking, I
heard a few noises.
I looked to my right and saw a large group of jagger bushes that had
been cleared from the field and left in a pile. I continued to call gently
to Mindy, not sure whether what I had heard was from her or from another
animal hiding in the pile.
Mindy poked her head out from under the pile and just stood there,
shaking, watching me. As I got down on my knees and opened the door to her
crate, I just continued to say, "Mindy, bedtime!" (She loved to go to bed
at night.)
She slowly walked over to me. I grabbed her, gave her many kisses and
hugs, and placed her in the crate. I don''t know where Mindy was during
those nine days, but she came home to a very excited Phoebe-Louise!
And I learned, once again, how powerful prayers can be.
-- Karen Behun <behun @ ppg.com>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

SHOE OBSESSION DISORDER
by Kathy Gibson
Shoes.
Contrary to popular belief, Cinderella''s stepsisters were not
desperate for Prince Charming -- they were desperate for her glass slipper.
Unlike shopping for jeans (which is about as much fun as going to the
gynecologist), shopping for shoes is an exhilarating experience. Feet
don''t have hips, feet don''t have thighs. After all, feet are "our
friends."
And what''s better than shopping for shoes? Shopping for shoes on sale!
Nothing can compare to crossing the threshold of a shoe store or the
shoe section of a department store and seeing signs of 20, 30, 40 or 50
percent off original price.
It''s useless to fight it.
Once inside the compound, women wander aimlessly. Loyal husbands and
boyfriends sit like gargoyles and loyally guard coveted pyramids of
shoeboxes piled high in their laps. The call to shop is even more powerful
when you see a shoe department that looks like the aftermath of a war --
mismatched shoes, smashed shoeboxes and crumpled disposable foot stockings
abandoned in empty chairs and strewn over the floor. For an area to look
like this, the sale has to be extraordinary. It wouldn''t be surprising to
learn store employees actually fly through the store knocking down boxes
and hiding the mates of shoes because they know the effect it has on
serious shoe shoppers.
All the shoes look perfect when they''re on sale. Even
psychedelic-patterned, neon-colored, five-inch stack heel misfits look
promising when they''re 50 percent off.
"Hey, I bet I could wear these with black!" Or worse, you decide to
buy an outfit just to go with some bargain you can''t pass up, which cancels
any benefit of the shoes being so cheap. Just open any woman''s closet, and
you''ll find a shoe "Hall of Fame" -- an entire Smithsonian of shoes only
worn once in a while, or only once.
Occasionally, however, you spot it. Perched on a pedestal, high above
the others, is the perfect shoe, illuminating the whole area like the North
Star.
Making your way toward the "shoe promised land" you hear a choir of
angels and euphorically glide to the nearest sales person, shoe in hand.
Snap out of it! The chance of the store having the perfect shoes at the
perfect price in the perfect size is about as likely as Amelda Marcos
donating her shoes to Goodwill. What were you thinking?
In cases like this, women have been known to buy the "perfect" shoes a
complete size smaller than needed. Like Cinderella''s stepsisters when they
tried on the glass slipper, women with distorted looks on their faces
hobble back and forth in front of mirrors, but nine times out of 10 they''ll
compromise comfort for cute. Other than having to tolerate a few cramps,
swelling and the sensation of prickling needles from the lack of blood
flow, having the envy of every woman you know because the shoes are "so
cute!" overshadows any excruciating pain. But women do have limits.
No woman would buy shoes a whole size too large. No matter the shoes,
women are not willing to sacrifice style for everyone thinking she has big
feet -- unless she''s a size 5.
However, there''s good news. Whether you wear a size 5 or a size 10,
it''s guaranteed that at least one supermodel or other famous diva wears the
same shoe size as you. In fact, the odds are overwhelming that many
drop-dead gorgeous, "Women love to hate me," celebrities share your exact
shoe size. You can say that you wear the same size as Cindy Crawford, and
you would actually be telling the truth.
And if the store has the perfect shoe at the perfect price as well as
in the perfect size, women are willing to knock over senior citizens and
defenseless children to get them. Furthermore, senior citizens are just as
likely to knock over defenseless children or anyone else in their path for
the same reason.
Shoe obsession disorder is no respecter of age or infirmity.
Even the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz was probably a loving,
beautiful woman until her obsession with Dorothy''s shoes took its toll.
The glistening ruby red pumps were the envy of Oz and the last pair in
town! No doubt the Witch was simply sick over those shoes and positively
green with envy.
Even little girls are struck by this obsession over shoes in
Kindergarten or before. Just think about their Barbie doll accessories.
She has more shoes than any other article of clothing. And how many
"practical" pairs of shoes does Barbie own? None! She only owns wild
colors and styles because, they too, were probably on sale.
-- Kathy Gibson <kathygibson @ kingwoodcable.com>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

RIPPLES IN THE POND
by Jeannie Paslawsky
Some years ago, while I was in college, several of my friends
benefited directly from a professor who taught them by example.
Sister Mary Consuela, IHM, used to tell her students at Immaculata, "I
throw the pebbles girls, and you have to make the ripples." She instructed
them to take what they had learned and share it, again and again and again.
Little did Sister Mary realize, that she had over time, turned us all
in to pebbles-making-ripples. I can tell you I have not only seen ripples,
but have seen them interconnect and return anew!
This particular "pebble" was thrown two years ago when I read a
beautiful story published in Heartwarmers by Azriela Jaffe. It was called
"Locks of Love."
It chronicled her son''s third birthday "haircut" and his sisters''
decisions to have haircuts as well, and to donate their hair to Locks of
Love, an organization that makes and provides wigs to financially
disadvantaged kids who have medical hair loss.
At the time, her daughters Sarah and Elana (then 6 & 5 respectively)
had decided on their own to have their haircuts, even after they''d heard
they would end up with short hair to meet the 10 inch minimum donation
length.
Inspired by the little girls'' generosity, I wrote to Azriela to
congratulate her on their selflessness and love for others and to tell her
that she is doing a great job. She and her husband had given their
daughters a valuable gift of generosity, especially considering that most
girls, big and little, covet their hair!
This story really touched me for many reasons. You see, I had been a
sick child, and I think anyone who''s kind to sick children earns a lot of
points in heaven, not to mention that sick children themselves never forget
the kindness shown them.
Moreover, one of my dear friends was getting chemo for her breast
cancer and, like so many other patients, it was very tough on Jean to lose
her hair.
I copied and pasted Azriela''s story (a pebble) into an email for many
of my friends to read (ripples). Several had written and phoned me to
comment about this beautiful gesture and how impressed they were,
especially since the "givers" were 6 and 5 years old! (more ripples).
Meanwhile, Locks of Love author, Azriela Jaffe, contacted me about a
grassroots letter campaign my friend Jean and I had begun -- "Turning the
Whisper into a Roar". This is an ongoing and active letter writing
campaign to the President asking for more funding for breast cancer
research. Azriela''s version of our story put a business spin on it --
former competitors join forces to save lives. It was a pebble that
resulted in great publicity for us in about 7 syndicated newspapers in New
York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania (more ripples).
Tonight, a dear friend told me about my 13 year old Goddaughter,
Iraisa Ann. Her daughter has decided as part of her 8th grade graduation
from St. Nicholas school, to get a haircut and give about 15+ inches of her
hair that she''s been growing since Kindergarten to "Locks of Love." This
seems to be a great ripple and yet a pebble as well.
Sister Mary would be so very proud because this girl''s mother was one
of her students at Immaculata and one of those same girls who so often have
reminded me that we are always "throwing pebbles and making ripples." Here
we are, more than 20 years later, unknowingly throwing pebbles. So, I
suppose what Sister Mary would want us to remember is this: We never know
whom the ripples will touch or how far or long they may go, so make every
pebble we toss meaningful and good!
Thank you Sister Mary Consuela, for your life lessons in "pebble
throwing", and thank you too, little Sarah and Elana Jaffe. Without you,
and your mom who shared your generous spirit with us through her writing,
we would have no story and no ripples of love to share, and to once again
renew the cycle by tossing another pebble into the waiting pond of life.
-- Jeannie Paslawsky <PaslawskyJ @ aol.com>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

PRINCE TO THE RESCUE
by Patricia Cope-Byrne
When I was a young girl, I would daydream about one day meeting my
Prince charming or a handsome knight, just like in the fairytales.
He would come and sweep me off of my feet, making me the happiest girl
in the whole wide world.
In April 2001, I meet my Prince. No, he wasn''t the shining knight on
a white horse -- he was just the white horse. He was a scrawny, ugly
Arabian with an abundance of attitude, and most of all, in need of rescue.
Prince was brought to me after being quarantined at a fellow horse
rescuer''s location. He was removed from his previous owner, after there
were some concerns about his weight and a laceration that had a noticeable
infection. The woman that owned him informed us that he was not ill but
that he was just a hard keeper. But, she could see herself parting with
him for the sum of fifteen hundred dollars.
Therefore, pockets were turned inside and out. Miraculously the money
was found.
I had been seriously injured two years ago. I had broken my neck and
also had amnesia for 4 days, from a fall while riding. Therefore, riding
for me was no longer my preferred past time. However, my love for horses
has never wavered. I had a tremendous, gripping fear of riding. I just
couldn''t get into the saddle again! That is, until I met my Prince.
Horse people have their preferences of breed and color. I for one do
not like flea bitten, gray or gray skinned/white horses. Prince was an
Arabian, not my favorite breed. He was also white and flea bitten with
gray skin. I took one long look at him and said, "Old boy, you sure are
scrawny and ugly! Heck, you would not hurt a fly. Would you, old boy?"
Well, to everyone''s amazement, he snickered and put his muzzle to my
face. At that very second, it was love at first sight. I knew I would be
able to ride him.
A team we became -- not just a horse and rider -- we were one. We
joined a drill team and did parades all over Michigan. He gave me back my
love of riding. He built up my confidence and gave me the courage to do
what I needed to in my personal life. In return, I gave him love,
kindness, my time and endless amounts of feed.
Are time together was to be brief. Four months later, my scrawny,
ugly horse became Ill. In three exceedingly, extended and miserable days,
we endured vets, equine specialists, and IV''S hanging from trees. There
was endless poking, prodding and procedures that left Prince and I
exhausted. I was left with a decision that was just too painful to make.
I went to check on him, around 6 am and he seemed a little off. He
went down and started to roll violently on the ground, roaring! A deep
throated scream of fierce pain! I gave him all of the pain medications
that I had -- enough to knock out an elephant! When his pain was under
control, I ran to the house, called the vet and yelled into their answering
machine, "This is Padie, Scrawny Ugly''s Mom. He is down and in great pain!
Please bring the blue juice (what horse people call euthanasia medication)
-- we might need it!"
Twenty minuets later when the vet pulled into he yard, Prince was back
up on his feet. I slowly walked over and asked, "Well Scrawny, the vet is
here with the blue juice and I have to know, should I stop all of this --
can you help me! Help me one more time, bud? Tell me if this has to be
done?"
Even with so much pain medication in him, he looked at me, snickered
and nuzzled my face, stepped back and groaned, stumbled a few steps, looked
at me again and shook his head, yes.
It took every fiber of my being to take his halter and walk him to the
place where he would be laid to rest. I held his head and repeatedly told
him how much I loved him and how we will meet again on the Rainbow Bridge.
All the while, the vet was giving him the shots, that would take him away
-- forever.
I truly believe that Prince came to me because he deserved love, and a
dignified end to a long and lonely life of abuse and neglect. Even in his
last few months, he still had so much to give.
Prince showed me how to face a challenge and to do what needed to be
done in the face of fear. Most of all he showed me how to do what is best,
even though there could be great pain and sorrow.
In most of life''s difficulties, some good can come out an experience.
At first, I thought I was the one who rescued Prince. In the end, it was
Prince who rescued me.
-- Patricia Cope-Byrne <PADESARK @ aol.com>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FUNNY THINGS KIDS SAY
When Jackie was a teenager, she and her mother babysat Jackie''s
2-year-old niece Cindy, while her mother worked. Cindy spent most of her
time with Jackie and one day, after a day of outdoor play with the dog,
Jackie found a tick on Cindy''s tummy. After the bath, Jackie put
medication on the spot where the tick had been and Jackie explained what
ticks are. Then Cindy fell asleep. When Cindy''s mother arrived, Jackie
said, "Tell your mom what we found on your tummy today." Cindy had a
puzzled look. She thought hard and then said brightly, "A clock!" --
Jackie Wilson (grandmother of four) of Bayou Meto, Arkansa
Breanna, 4, was in the bedroom with her mother as she got ready for
work. Breanna wanted to call her grandmother to see if she could stay with
her instead of going to preschool. It was very early, so Breanna''s mother
told her that they could call in 20 minutes. Breanna looked at her mother
very seriously and said, "You know I can''t count to 20. Let''s make it one
minute and call it even!" -- Alecia (mother of Breanna) of Vandalia, Ohio
Taylor, 3, "wrote" a letter to her grandmother, filling in every
single line carefully. When she handed it over, her grandmother asked
Taylor to read it to her, please. Taylor looked up and said, "Why
Grandmother, you know I can''t read yet!" -- Amy (cousin of Taylor) of
Texas
This story is from a northeast Indiana resident Nancy, who says her 15
great-grandchildren are "the light of my life." In 1941, when Nancy''s
daughter Rebecca was 2, they told their three children that they were going
to Angola to shop. After spending the afternoon in Angola, they headed
home. Little Rebecca started to cry. Nancy asked her what was wrong.
Rebecca said, between sobs, "We didn''t get to see Aunt Gola!" -- Nancy M.
Stuller of Waterloo, Indiana
Six-year-old twins Chas and Chase went to lunch with their father at a
seafood restaurant. Dad ordered their favorite, a shrimp platter. The
boys eagerly ate all their shrimp and fries but were reluctant to even
taste the hushpuppies. After a few minutes of coaxing, Chas finally said,
"OK... OK, Dad, I''ll eat the hushpuppies, but what kind of animal is a
''hushpuppy'' anyway?" -- S. Welch (mother of the twins) of Atlanta, Georgia



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

SPANNING GENERATIONS
by Betty King
"What color hair does an angel have?"
I think I saw one the other day right in the middle of Costco. I know
that is an unlikely place to see anything of an angelic nature. I''m not
really sure I''ve ever seen an angel before -- maybe she wasn''t but she sure
acted like one.
My husband and I found a handicapped parking place and made our way
into the monster warehouse discount store -- a place where you can find
anything in this world that you want. You can buy gigantic cans, boxes,
and packages of food that go stale before two people can possible consume
them and household items that come 3-4-6 wrapped in hard to remove plastic.
You need a van to haul the stuff and a three car garage to store them in
when you get home.
It was a weekend, and of course everyone and their brother was there
eating lunch. You think people really believe those cute little old ladies
handing out samples don''t recognize them the sixth time they come around
snatching up freebies? They are the ones that never buy anything, they
just rave about how good the product is as they sneak from lady to lady
filling their bellies. Anyway we had our share and moved on.
Of course, I was on my three wheel motorized scooter. I''m a little
old lady myself (well, maybe not so little) and wheels are a necessity for
me because I have MS. I must admit there are times it''s not so bad being
handicapped. I get envious looks and comments all the time especially in a
place as large as Costco.
Well, we spent more time looking around that day than we did buying or
eating. We made our way toward the front where we headed for the cattle
shoots or as some people call them, checkout lanes. We fell in line and a
minute hadn''t passed when I saw my husband eyeballing another line. I
said, "Don''t even think about it!" Bill used to spend more time lane
hopping than sampling, until I caught on to his habit.
About that time, a baby started crying as if it had been refused
something it thought extremely necessary. You know, one of those screams
that climbs up and down your spine. Well, it didn''t stop. It just kept on
and on, getting closer and closer. When I realized it was right behind me
I turned, swiveling my seat around. There she was -- a little dark headed
girl in her mother''s arms. She was very unhappy, and neither her mother
nor grandmother could satisfy what ailed her. Nothing they could say or do
seemed to faze her in the least as she continued her shrill serenading.
In the mist of all the commotion, I sat there wishing there was
something I could do to help appease the little dark headed doll when along
came an angel.
She was a little old lady plainly dressed, walking with a cane. She
walked right up to the mother and little brown headed girl and the crying
immediately ceased. She began to talk soft and sweet in a low voice and
touched her ever so gently. The baby smiled and reached out to finger the
white headed halo that crowned the old lady''s face. The encounter lasted
for about 5 minutes and the child was in awe, as was I, watching God bring
together love that spanned generations and celestial realms.
No, I didn''t see any wings or hear any music. There were no trumpets
or harps playing. There were no bright lights or cosmic rays.
But I did hear a soft voice, saw a shining smile as it lit up the face
of a sweet little child, and witnessed a white headed angel using a cane as
she delivered a message from God.
Maybe what they say is true. You can find anything, in or out of this
world, at Costco.
-- Betty King <baking2@charter.net>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THE HAPPY SAW GARDENER
by BETTY KING
Well, we''ve been back to the good old Midwest a little over a year
now. Bill hasn''t forgotten how to use his favorite yard tool -- the saw!
No, the Wisteria didn''t bloom this spring. Bill trimmed it back so
far last fall it had to begin its growth all over again! The two years we
were gone, minus Bill''s gardening expertise, were the only times the
Wisteria was left alone long enough to produce their beautiful purple
clusters!
He has been dubbed the happy saw gardener, among other pet names! He
doesn''t prune, he destroys! He doesn''t trim, he digs up. He doesn''t
spray, he fumigates. He doesn''t water, he floods.
Hey, wait a minute -- I just heard a crack! No kidding! I''ve got to
go check it out -- be right back ...
Well, his ladder fell -- he wasn''t on it. Thank goodness! Miracles
never cease to happen.
While outside on the deck, I noticed the Rose of Sharon bushes where
blooming profusely. He didn''t touch them last fall or this spring -- just
about the only thing he didn''t!
"Don''t you touch those Rose of Sharon bushes!" I threatened him with
his life.
"I didn''t!" he assured me.
"You''re not going to, either!" I reminded him.
It was nice out there on the deck, even in the heat of this humid
Midwest. The back yard looks much as I had planned it, despite, the happy
saw gardener. I missed the green of the Midwest while living in Arizona
those two years. It is nice to be back home.
I couldn''t help remembering the back yard before our renovation --
there is a significant difference now. The piled up debris that cluttered
our back lot has turned into a picture perfect wonderland.
The deck we added to the back of our new ad***ion, boasts an arbor
separating its length. It is there that two of the fast growing Wisteria
vines flourish, reaching the roof, gazebo and beyond.
Even the vines continue to defy Bill''s over enthusiastic gardening
expertise. They grow up and over the roof line, like Jack''s bean stalks.
But, the trouble is, they bloom on last year''s new growth and Bill refuses
to allow last year''s branches to escape the buzz of the saw!
The arbor further out in the yard brags, yet again, two more of the
vines I adore and they were not escaping Bill''s saw this morning. He
claims they grow too fast and become entangled with the tall hedge that
lines our property, along the back fencerow.
The vines reach, also, to the crabapple tree, and grab at the utility
shed. I suppose he is right -- they do need trimming -- but I long for
those beautiful purple blooms.
The honeysuckle covers a portion of the fence, and a vast array of
bushes and shrubs, in God''s shades of green, grow and add to the beauty.
The perennial garden with its faithful flowering bulbs and blooms, its
tall maiden grass and birdbath, remind me that Bill''s saw hasn''t totally
destroyed the landscape.
Annuals bloom in shades of yellow and red -- the hummingbirds and bees
are thankful Bill hasn''t included trimming their blooms with his saw
assignment today!
The Clematis bloomed in the spring, but will again as the weather
cools down towards the end of summer. Their vines, though, continue to
cling to the trellis at the end of the deck, adding their greenery.
I love green. It is the color of life and there is so much of life
that entertains me, as I gaze out over our backyard.
The gazebo attached to the deck has a brick pathway around it, leading
out to the arbor. It is a path surrounded by shrubs, Crepe Myrtle bushes,
grass, flowers and bird feeders. Bill placed every brick of the storybook
lane. His know-how is not all destructive, I must admit.
It''s extremely hot today. I suggested he stay in out of the sun,
reminding him he is not a young man anymore. He came in for a bite of
lunch and has gone outside again.
I am the one who envisions. Bill follows through and maintains, now
that Multiple Sclerosis has curtailed my abilities. But, it seems much of
our married life has followed that pattern.
A few years ago I envisioned what love, and our backyard, would look
like in our senior years. God, nature and Bill have followed through and
maintained. I have grown to appreciate all three of them.
Yes, love, God and nature always follow though. There are some things
in life that are hard to destroy -- even with a saw.
-- Betty King <baking2 @ charter.net>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THE CRICKETS WILL
by Debra Gray Walter
The sky is filled with singing
Every moment of the day.
Birds of every kind are busy
For God has planned it this way.
He calls the birds to praise Him.
They are compelled to obey.
They hold back not a single note,
But freely give away
Oh! That we were like the birds
To sing no matter the weather;
To respond so sweetly the Savior''s call,
Our praises daily unfettered
As the setting sun begins to fade
A sadness draws nearer still.
Now who will fill the air with praise?
Ah! The crickets will!
-- Debra Gray Walter <debiwalter @ bellsouth.net>
​

Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

HANG ON!
by Jaye Lewis
He "dogs" my every footstep.
With each step I take, he''s right there with me, guarding me and ready
to die to defend me. I have seen him take on the most aggressive vacuum
cleaner salesmen. God help the one who sticks his foot in the door,
without invitation, for my little powerhouse of faithfulness and aggression
will give that foot a fight for it''s life -- shoes, socks, and laces!
Make no mistake, a Dachshund may be small, but they are quick and
relentless, in an attack. They are not called "badger dogs" for no reason.
In their natural habitat, they have been known to track a badger, one of
the fiercest animals known, relentlessly hurrying down into its tunnel, and
locking onto its snout, never letting go, even in death.
When I leave the house without him, whether it''s just a walk around
the yard or a day trip to the next town, Happy will keep watch at the top
of the stairs. With every sound, he will launch himself onto the back of
the couch, to get a good look out of the window, to see if I''m almost home.
I can hear him, immediately, announcing my arrival before I even get out
of the car.
"She''s home!" he cries. "She''s home! She''s home! All is well!"
As I open the door, he immediately gives me a tongue lashing, yelping
with joy!
I try to always have a "present" for him, and I delight at his
enthusiasm, as he roots through the bag until he finds it.
Happy has a perfect ban*** face -- a black mask surrounded by rich,
golden tan. His ice-cube nose is ever questing for a treat or just a warm
place to cuddle. He has shoe button eyes that never miss an opportunity.
And when he locks those intelligent eyes onto mine, I lose all power to
resist.
Happy, like all Dachshunds, loves to tease and play. Every clever
thing he does is simple evidence that even a woman my age can be taught
"new tricks." He brings me the ball. I throw it. He steals my slippers.
I chase him. The worst thing you can do, in the face of improper behavior,
is laugh! I, joyfully, failed that test long ago. I am Happy''s willing
slave. No matter how dark my mood, Happy can always make me laugh.
Happy doesn''t know that there are not "badgers" laying in wait. He''s
always prepared, just in case, and I have learned much from this little
dog. I have learned that a faithful life is one of constant vigilance. I
have learned that some things are worth fighting for, and if necessary,
dying for.
However, the greatest lesson that Happy has taught me, is to live my
life in the moment, just as he does, ever joyful for each blessing, ever
vigilant for those "badgers" that are certain to cross my path.
And when life takes a nasty turn, I have learned from Happy, to grab a
hold and just hang on!
-- Jaye Lewis <jlewis @ smyth.net>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

MAIL CALL
by Roger Dean Kiser
"OK men, listen up! I want each of you to sit down this evening and
write a letter home. I know that each of you will be telling your family
how much you love the United States Army. Is that fully understood?" said
Sergeant O''Rouke, the leader of our squad.
"YES SIR!" screamed the entire platoon of men.
"DISMISSED!" he screamed out loud.
There were soldiers running in every direction heading back to their
individual barracks.
I was fifteen years old and this was my third week of basic training
at Fort Gordon, Georgia. I generally stayed in the barracks when "mail
call" was announced. Why would I go running like a maniac when the mail
arrived? I mean, I didn''t have a family and I was very sure that the
orphanage in Jacksonville, Florida, was not going to be sending me any good
will wishes.
I would sit on my bunk and shine my boots trying not to notice the
commotion when the other men would receive handfuls of mail and packages
from home. I do have to admit that it bothered me a little bit when I
would see them eating cookies which their parents had sent them. But,
there was nothing that I could do, so I just tried not to think about it
much.
After showering I dressed and headed over to the PX Store. I
purchased a coke and a package of cheese crackers and I sat down at one of
the small tables. As I finished my Coca-Cola, I started to get up from the
table when Sergeant O''Rouke came walking into the PX.
"What are you doing in here soldier?" screamed the Sergeant.
"I was drinking a Coke," I told him.
"Hit the deck and give me twenty-five!" he ordered.
I hit the floor and started counting out the push-ups, as I performed them.
"Why aren''t you in the barracks writing to your family as I
instructed?" he yelled at me.
"I don''t have a family, Sir," I said as I continued to do my push-ups.
"I don''t give a rats tail if you have a family or not. I told you to
write home," he said.
"But I don''t have a home, Sir," I told him again.
"Then where the hell did you come here from, soldier?" he questioned.
"I came from the orphanage, Sir," I said.
"You get your butt back over to the barracks, right now. You write me
a letter and you bring it to me!" he screamed out at me.
"But who do I write it too?" I asked.
"I don''t give a darn if you write to Santa Claus. You write a letter
and you have it to me by 1800 hours."
"Yes Sir!" I said, as I got up off the floor.
I walked back to my barracks and I borrowed a tablet and a pencil from
one of the men in my squad. I sat down on my bunk and I wrote the
following letter:
Dear Santa Claus,
I am now living at Fort Gordon. I am in the Army now.
The Army is my new home. I am learning a lot about
how to win a war. I can shoot and I can run real fast.
I am making my very own money and I am going to be
a real soldier someday.
Roger Dean Kiser
I took the letter and I placed it in an envelope and I sealed it. I
walked over to the Orderly Room and I asked to see the Sergeant. I was
told that he was not in the office and that I should place the letter on
his desk. I placed the sealed envelope on the corner of his desk and I
returned to my barracks.
At nine o''clock, the lights were turned out and everyone went to bed.
I thought about how hard life was in the Army. I said a prayer asking God
to help me keep up with all the other men as we trained.
Just as I was about to fall asleep the lights came on.
"Where is that little piece of crap?" asked Sergeant O''Rouke, as he
came walking between the bunks.
I sat up in my bed and I watched the Sergeant as he stomped down the
aisle and stopped at the foot of my bunk. The other men also sat up but
remained perfectly quiet.
"What is this crap?" asked the Sergeant, as he shook the letter that I
had written.
"It''s the letter that you told me to write."
"Read this letter out loud," he instructed, as he threw the letter on
my bed.
Slowly, I picked up the letter and I began to read it.
The entire barracks began to laugh and whistle as loud as they could.
"SHUT UP!" yelled Sergeant O''Rouke. The barracks became perfectly
quiet. "You think I''m an idiot?" asked the Sergeant.
"No Sir, Sergeant O''Rouke, Sir," I told him. The large man reached
down and he grabbed my foot-locker and he turned it upside down. The
contents spilled all over the floor.
"But I only wrote what you told me to write," I said to him.
"I told you to write home," he said.
"No Sir, Sergeant. I told you that I didn''t have no family and you
told me to write to Santa Claus. That''s why I don''t get no mail here
''cause I don''t got no home," I said.
All the men in the barracks began to look at one another. One of the
men sitting on the side of his bed began to laugh. "Santa Clause?" he said
as he laughed out loud. Everyone began to stare at him and he stopped
laughing.
"Clean up this mess and report to me in the morning!" the Sergeant
yelled. As the Sergeant left the barracks he turned out the light leaving
me to pack my foot-locker in the dark.
About a week later I was shocked to hear my name called out for mail call.
"KISER! KISER! KISER!" yelled out the man, as he sat three packages
aside.
Over the next three weeks, I received seven more packages of cookies,
and hard candy in the mail.
I never knew who they came from. There was no return address on the
packages. I could only guess that they came from some of the families of
the men in my platoon. Maybe even from Sergeant O''Rouke himself.
That night, after sharing the cookies and candy with all the other
men, I laid in my bunk bed and smiled. At that moment in time, all I knew
for sure was that the world was a wonderful place.
-- Roger Dean Kiser <trampolineone @ webtv.net>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .