Tui xin một cái topic nhé....

KING
by Barbara Hergenroder
My elderly grandmother had a beautiful, huge German Shepherd that
wouldn't let anyone other than her, and one of my uncles, near him.
He was very calm until someone encroached on his comfort zone. Then
he warned them with a low, rumbling growl to move back.
I was about eleven years old the first time I saw King. I thought he
was gorgeous and wanted to pet him. My uncle had warned everyone to steer
clear of the dog, but I just knew that couldn't possibly include me. After
all, I made friends with every animal I saw -- even wild mice. I figured
if I sat near him and talked to him in a soothing voice, he would come to
see me as his new friend.
I tried it. He got up and moved away.
Over the next few hours, I tried to gain his trust a couple more
times. He just walked away. Finally, he lay down behind the heating stove
in the living room. There was a woodbox on one side of it. I could see
the only way out from behind the stove was right past a chair, which I
eased into.
I tried again to make friends with him. After a few moments, he
started to look a bit nervous and I heard the low rumble start deep in his
throat. I continued to talk to him gently. He quieted and watched me with
his piercing eyes. After a while, I slowly lifted my hand towards him to
pet the top of his head. He sat stone still, muscles tensed, and suddenly
he turned into a blur as he lunged at me with a deafening growl! His
expression was truly demonic and I knew without doubt that this was no
ordinary dog to be swayed by sweet talk. I was a goner.
Then I heard Uncle Ed yell as he yanked me backwards away from King.
That was the only thing that saved me.
As I crumpled into a terrified heap, Uncle Ed took King outside. His
face was ashen when he came back. He said King had been going for my
throat!
"Why do you keep such a dangerous dog?" I shakily asked him.
"He isn't dangerous to us. He just doesn't like strangers," he
gruffly answered.
No one had to tell me to keep my distance from King after that, and I
decided he was pretty useless as a pet.
A couple of years later, while she was home alone, Grandma went down
to the garden to pick some vegetables for supper. The doctor said later
that her hip probably broke BEFORE she fell. So, there she was --
helpless, badly injured and alone. Even if someone drove into the yard,
they wouldn't be able to hear her feeble cries for help. But King did.
He ran to her at once. Grandma wrapped her arms around the big dog's
neck and said, "King, take me to the house."
That "useless" animal gently dragged her out of the garden, through
the farmyard, up several steps to the back porch, and on into the kitchen.
Grandma was in a lot of pain, so it must have taken a long time. Then he
lay down close to keep her warm.
Grandma didn't have a phone to call for help, but she said she knew
she would be ok until Uncle Ed came home, because King would take care of
her.
That changed my opinion of King.
He and Grandma had a special bond that no one else, not even Uncle Ed,
shared.
A few years later, when Grandma died, King found her grave in the
cemetery and lay on it until Uncle Ed dragged him off and took him home.
He stopped eating and returned again and again to the gravesite. He
finally just kind of faded away.
After his amazing display of devotion, I knew that King never had been
a bad dog. All he wanted was to be left alone so he could take care of his
mistress.
-- Barbara Hergenroder <barb.tipton @ verizon.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THEY'D GIVE ANYTHING
by Joseph Walker
Joe was sick.
There was no question about that. His eyes were red-rimmed and
watery, and his forehead felt cold and clammy when I bent to kiss it.
"How are you feeling, son?" I asked as I gently stroked his
sweat-soaked hair. He forced a feeble smile.
"I'm OK," he said. "Better than I look, I'll bet."
"Well, that wouldn't be hard," I said, "because you look awful."
Not exactly good bedside manner, I know. But I'm not a doctor. I'm a
father. And fathers can get away with saying stupid stuff because it's
more or less expected of us.
"He's been really sick, Dad," Joe's wife Jennifer volunteered. "I
don't think I've ever seen him this sick."
I could think of a time or two. But then, my history with Joe is 16
years longer than Jen's. There was the time he threw up in the Volkswagen.
And the time he tasted the canned squid his Uncle Tony brought home from
Portugal. And the time he threw rocks at the shiny new red Corvette that
was driving down the road near our house. No, wait. I was the one who was
sick THAT time -- especially after we found out how much we were going to
have to pay to redo that shiny red paint job.
It's amazing how weak and needy a 6-3, 220-pound 23-year-old can seem
to be when he is sick. And Joe looked so weak and needy. Now that I think
about it, the time was perfect to challenge him to another wrestling
rematch. We haven't wrestled since he was 15 -- and he beat me. I'm
pretty sure I could have taken him now.
But this wasn't the time for wrestling. Instead, I sat down on the
floor by him and put my arm around him and patted and rubbed him. We
talked. We watched TV. We laughed a little. I tried to engage him in a
little political discussion, but he wasn't up to it -- which tells me he
REALLY wasn't feeling well. And before I left, we prayed together for his
health and well-being.
I rejoiced at the opportunity of being able to do so. As I drove from
Joe's house to mine, I couldn't help but think about all the fathers around
the world who would give anything right now to have similar experiences
with their adult sons and daughters.
These young people are fighting in a hotly contested war. Some of
them have been injured, captured, or worse. And I can imagine how much
their fathers and mothers would like to be able to stroke their hair, pat
their arms and pray together.
All of which reminds us of one of those inescapable realities of
parenthood. You don't stop loving your child just because they have the
audacity to become an adult. Sometimes you love them all the more because
of all that history you have together -- from the Volkswagen to the squid
to the Corvette. And when your child is sick or injured, or worse, you
yearn to reach out to them, to hold them, to love them and to take away the
hurt.
Even when your child isn't a child. Clammy forehead notwithstanding.
-- Joseph Walker <valuespeak @ earthlink.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

A MICKEY MOUSE LIFE
by Jacqueline Freeman
While buying cat food at the pet store, my never-a-dull-moment husband
showed up next to me in the checkout line with a small squeaky cardboard
box.
When I asked about the box, he told me he "rescued" two feeder mice,
the kind raised for snake food. Peering into the box he whispered more to
the mice than me, "No snakes will ever eat THESE mice."
Once home, Joseph decided the mice would homestead in an old aquarium.
We mounded paper pellets in the tank and watched their "mouse nature"
unfold.
Mice are unbelievably industrious and curious. About EVERYTHING.
Nervous, too. I stuck a hunk of wool in their home thinking they'd
nest in it. They skirted it for an hour, never touching it, studying and
staring. No, it hadn't been there earlier. Yes, it appeared to be here
now. They were sure it'd dropped from outer space.
Engrossed studying it, standing stock still, their tiny brains would
hit overload and they'd suddenly pop straight into the air,
boink-boink-boink.
Hours later, assured the wool wasn't alive, they dragged it under a
tiny upside-down basket, snuggled in and fell asleep.
Joseph decided the aquarium was too boring for these brainy little
guys, so he built a bigger, better cage the following week.
How could a mouse cage take a week to build? I mean, it's four
plexiglas walls with a screen on top, right? Not overly complex to me.
I must have forgotten that the man I married doesn't think small, he
thinks really, really big. When the mouse-house was finished, it took both
Joseph and the neighbor to carry it across the yard and into our living
room.
It's Disneyland for mice.
It's the size of our kitchen table and nearly three feet tall.
These mice, you'll remember, came home in an animal cracker box and
they seemed quite happy in the ten gallon aquarium, so I wasn't expecting a
mouse-house the size of a crate you'd ship a German Shepherd in.
But size alone doesn't make a cool mouse-house. Joseph built toys for
the mice. A two-tiered plexiglas shelf with a food dish on top and no
direct entry. Rather he made challenging ways to get to the food -- tiny
string tightropes taughtly stretched end-to-end, a hanging knotted rope
bolted from the cage roof.
The mice studied the ropes for 20 minutes. They stood on hind legs
sniffing corn and grain up top. Then, by trial and error, they climbed the
knot and leaped onto the second floor to eat, or took a running start and
raced across the swinging tightropes to get there. They loved it.
There are also stairways made from egg cartons with the scoopy little
egg-hollows as lumpy stairs. Intertwined plastic tube tunnels. Even a
viewing platform up top so they can haughtily survey the living room.
I cannot begin to tell you how incredibly fascinating this is for our cats.
The mice ARE safe!
Joseph put sixteen one-by-two inch bars under the steel mesh
reinforcing the top of the cage, fully expecting multiple cats to sit atop
it. It's strong enough to hold a fifty pound child.
Our cats hover on the sides of the cage like cat-vulture bookends,
bapping the glass as the mice totally ignore them.
Our cats even sleep near the cage. I hear them delightedly
whispering, "Mice in our home! We''ll never leave this paradise!"
Our cats have ALWAYS slept in bed with us, but the first mouse night
found no cats on our bed. Finally at 2am, we, too, got up from bed and sat
with the cats in the living room under the glow of moonlight, watching
little mousies zipping and zapping beneath the purring, bapping cats atop
their cage.
And how does this affect the mice? Standing on their hind paws, they
analytically sniff-sniff-sniff all cat hair that appears through the mesh
roof holes. Never having known cats, the mice seem completely unfazed by
them.
On the other hand, one curious mouse did manage to goose a cat asleep
on his roof, his teeny pointed nose sharply poking her furred belly as she
slept.
I'm sure you've seen cats, even from a dead sleep, fall and land on
their feet. I'm happy to report that sleeping cats, when startled straight
up, also land on their feet. Our girl cat landed wide-eyed, then stared
straight down into the mouse's eyes.
I swear the mouse had a smile on his face. Could there be any
mouse-task more Olympian than goosing a cat?
Happy mice, guarded by cats, not eaten by snakes.
-- Jacqueline Freeman <TheFreemans @ myexcel.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

DANCE WITH ME?
by Bob Perks
The music fills the air and he's the only one who hears it.
Sitting by the tree this sunny afternoon, he is lifted by the spirit
of the composer's intent and taken, if only for a moment, back to that
time.
It is a place you might remember, perhaps you were right there with
him. The innocence, the "might-have-beens," the one that got away.
The boys all gathered shyly, nervously to one side. The girls,
giggling, chatting, pointing to "that one over there." He's the one they
all want to dance with and he knows it.
But this one stands ignoring the immature rantings of the rest of the
boys. He feels himself ready and yet, in order to declare himself so, he
must step across that line. You know, the invisible divider which has kept
him this side of the gym.
The night has gone by all too quickly. The pressure's on and he must
make the move.
The Deejay spins the record to a halt and before the next one begins
announces, "This is the last slow dance of the evening."
"Oh, no!" the young man says beneath his breath. With that startling
news he dashes across the floor, his eye remains on her as he plows past
the crowd of onlookers. They, still dreaming of the moment, stop suddenly
to watch the master do his work.
He screeches to a halt and the world stands still with him. The blue
lights dancing in the middle of the floor, reflections in a dream, cause
everything to move in slow motion now.
This Romeo reaches for his Juliet and for the first time in his young
life he utters these words nervously, "Dance with me?"
Slowly she reaches out to him, awestruck and spinning with the moment,
for she never thought he'd noticed her this night.
The music, the last slow dance of the evening, begins its magic spell.
The two of them move nervously unaware of anyone else.
"My hands. Where do I put my hands?" his inner voice screams.
Quickened thoughts of Mom's instructions, unappreciated at the time, come
to save the day.
The music plays on and on forever and still, not long enough.
In the light of reality, this old man who leans against the tree this
day, is longing for her one more time.
In the remembering years of his life, eyes closed, he is swaying now
without concern for others watching. Perhaps with the memory of it all he
is dancing, still. But sadly, they danced their last dance just a month
ago and now he sits longing, waiting for her once more this side of the
gym.
He knows that one day soon, God will interrupt his dream and call to
him, "This is the last slow dance of the evening."
There, just across the way, he will see her standing, waiting for him
still. With his last breath he will ask once more, "Dance with me?"
And the stars in heaven's ballroom will illuminate the night and the
two of them will dance this dance forever.
"Dance with me..."
-- Bob Perks <Bob @ BobPerks.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

BE BOLD
by Nancy Eckerson
What would you do if there were NO limits on your hope, energy, time,
or money?
What if someone told you that your dreams were attainable goals,
waiting to be caught and tethered?
On Thursday, I opened an e-newsletter called, Create Your Own Luck.
The author's mission statement is very clear -- dedicated to helping you to
attract more good fortune and blessings, with God's help, into your life,
love, and work.
This particular issue's favorite luck-building quote was from Jean de
La Fontaine, "Help yourself and heaven will help you." Her story
emphasized that our dreams and desires are very possible. You are not to
give up, but to pursue with great faith that which you truly desire. Once
the plan is in action, if it is in accordance with His will, you will be
surprised how miraculously the pieces come together.
Within two days another message came to me. This time, from the pages
of the Daily Guideposts 2003 Devotional. In a memorial tribute, Fred Bauer
quoted from a piece Arthur Gordon, the former e***orial director, had once
published. Gordon's article entitled, Be Bold and Mighty Forces Will Come
to Your Aid, urged readers to step out in faith and take chances.
I sat up and took notice because I believe that when I am confronted
by an outpouring of messages of a similar nature, I am being nudged to
move. I try to follow those leadings as best I can -- right after I dig my
heels OUT of the dirt.
This time I can clearly sort out the personal application of these
messages. You see, I am afraid to attempt the national market with my
writing. I have been encouraged *****bmit my articles and poems to major
publications by my fellow writers, spiritual leaders and my mentor. But, I
assumed seeing my work in print on the national level is an impossible
goal.
What are the odds? How many writers -- fair, good or brilliant,
actually make it to the top?
As these thoughts take form in my mind, I recall another nudge that
perhaps was the precursor of all these messages. Hindsight -- the perfect
vision -- clearly shows the path was being paved even before I realized.
The cover of the January 2003 issue of Writer's Magazine arrived in
December stating, "2003 -- This is YOUR year."
The bold title jumped out at me, like it was speaking to me alone.
The words were hammered home by the cover artwork -- an artistic outline of
a human displayed with his body filled with blue skies and puffy clouds.
Its arms are stretched high toward heaven and its face turned upward toward
the sun. Blue skies and puffy clouds have always appeared as a sign of
blessings in my me***ations. Like a light at the end of a long, dark
tunnel, they have signaled the approaching of abundance and joy.
I cannot ignore the signs and messages. So, with equal parts of
excitement and fear, I will forge ahead. I will be bold and push past my
anxiety and I will stop the negative, undermining assumptions.
Watch out New York Times, heads up O Magazine -- you are in for a treat!
You may be saying, "Nice for her, but what does this mean for me?"
My messages came one at a time, in perfectly timed intervals. The
Creator knew what I needed to move forward -- a barrage of hints.
Take heart, friends, here is your first spark. Or perhaps you only
need this one -- a neatly packaged message to rev you up.
Still, the message is the same -- Be bold, and mighty forces will come
to your aid.
Think about it. What is YOUR dream?
-- Nancy Eckerson <nancyq2 @ net.bluemoon.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

Thanks for the article, gio_mua_dong. It's true that "Chance favors prepared mind"

F.R.O.G.
by Kay Seefeldt
My fascination with frogs began the day a huge warty looking creature
hopped across my path.
He was hunkered down and stared at me like he was looking for someone.
(Actually, it was a big ol' hop toad, but the species didn't matter one
iota to me.)
I picked it up. Everything about him intrigued me -- the bulging
eyes, the bowed legs, the toed-in front feet, and the warty textured
exterior. But most of all, the perpetual smile on its enormous mouth.
After adorning his lips with a blush of lipstick from my mother's
seldom used make up cache (maybe she knew it had been used on frog lips) I
proudly showed off my new pet to all the kids in the neighborhood. No one
had such an exotic pet as mine.
The frog stayed under my watchful care all day until my grandmother
caught me cradling it in my hands and totally freaked out.
"You'll be covered in warts if that thing wets on you!" she admonished.
Too late. The creature had already contaminated my right hand. From
there, I had spread the insidious fluid even further by wiping the frog pee
on my jeans. Not wanting any more of the noxious moisture to seal my bumpy
fate, I banished the frog like a leper back to his native habitat --
lipstick and all. Quite possibly, he is still waiting for a kiss from a
lovely princess.
The next day, after a detailed inspection like an FBI agent searching
for hidden clues, relief flooded over me like waves on a distant shore. I
discovered my hands were wart free. Thus, the seeds of doubt were planted.
Frog pee didn't hold the omnipotent power to blemish the outward
appearance of man, woman, or childkind.
During spring vacation, a gang of us kids, not having much to do and
eons of time on our hands, hiked to our school yard as we did every school
day. We caught a bucketful of tadpoles from the mucky pond on the far side
of our playground. After our unusual bucket brigade arrived back at my
house, the only aquarium we could find was my mother's galvanized wash tub
that she used on Mondays to rinse the laundry.
Pulling it behind the house, out of harm's way, and from the sight of
our parents, we dumped in our precious cargo of wiggling polliwogs.
We planned to raise them to adulthood and we'd all have as many frogs
as we wanted. Back to school we went to get more swamp water. Each day
after, we trudged the half mile or so to get fresh swamp water to replenish
their supply -- that is, until one brilliant mastermind convinced the rest
of us that it would be a lot less hassle and work if we just substituted
water from the Atlantic Ocean -- a stone's throw beyond our house.
When we next checked on our tadpoles, we nearly croaked to discover
every last polliwog was in various stages of rigor mortis.
Overcome with intense guilt, we immediately began funeral services for
each one. After singing, praying, and mourning over 25 or 30 tadpoles with
scads left to go, our attention spans waned and much of the guilt abated,
and we concluded that one megafuneral would suffice. Dumping the remaining
lifeless black bodies, seawater and all, into the shallow grave, we
shoveled in the excavated earth and rolled the biggest rock we could muster
to stand guard over the grave site.
The rock stood behind our house for many years as a monument to our
sin against frogkind.
Years passed, but my passion for frogs did not.
Frog figurines, small, medium and large, from lowly garden Poo Pets to
a "toadily" awesome and ornate limited e***ion firing of Camelot Frogs
(bought month by month by my middle son on a tight budget) began hopping to
my pad to peer from shelves, bookcases, and from every nook and cranny.
The frogs multiplied. I began to wear them on my fingers, around my
neck, and dangling from my ears. Over the years, they came to have great
symbolic significance for me.
Love everyone -- warts and all!
Lately, in response to the question WWJD (What Would Jesus Do?), the
answer is F.R.O.G. -- Fully Rely On God.
Now, people are beginning to see my frogs in a new light. They are
not just warty, cold-blooded amphibians anymore.
However, if frogs freak you out, try a DOG -- Depend on God.
You'll be glad you did.
-- Kay Seefeldt <birdnest @ megalink.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

IN A WHOLE NEW LIGHT
by T. Suzanne Eller
It was rare for the squirming children to miss children's church where
they could jump and shout.
But here, they had to be well-mannered and quiet. After all, they
were in big church.
Three little boys sat in front of me. To their cre***, they were
trying to be good, but soon, the boys got warmed up and I had to stifle my
laughter as I watched their antics.
They reminded me of a Three Stooges comedy.
The first would stretch his face and roll his eyes to delight his
co-conspirators as well as any Jerry Lewis impression.
The second had the face of an angel but enough energy to boost the
next NASA shuttle into space. During worship, he had his own style of
clapping, sort of a hee-haw hoe-down slap your leg, clap out of rhythm
version. This delighted his buddies to no end.
The third boy was a master of timing, watching the adults around him
and keeping an eagle eye on his mother in the choir. At the appropriate
moment, he would poke his friends. The first boy feigned outrage, his eyes
bulging and his hands curled into claws.
It was the best show I had seen in a long time.
Moments later, the boys were mesmerized as a man dressed in full Army
attire marched to the podium. His shoulders were thrown back. He walked
with purpose and dignity. Each movement was sharp and when he snapped to
attention -- the boys followed his every movement.
The first boy was especially attentive for this man was his Grandpa.
He stared, obviously intrigued and proud at seeing Grandpa in a whole new
light.
"Colors, hep," Grandpa commanded.
Men and women in full military attire marched down the aisle. Grandpa
gave marching orders and each was instantly obeyed.
The choir rang out songs from various branches of the armed forces,
honoring those who had fought for the freedom of our country. You couldn't
help but see the pride and training as men and women who had served their
country stood across the congregation, shoulders squared, eyes straight
ahead.
The boys gawked at what were ordinary men and women only moments before.
The crowning moment came when Grandpa Stiles walked down and sat by
the boys. His grandson puffed up his chest and grinned. The third boy
glanced nervously. This was a different man than the warm, grandpa-type
person from last week. Grandpa turned and smiled at the boys and the third
boy nervously smiled back.
Yes, Grandpa Stiles was still in there, but today he was definitely
different.
In an amazing transformation, all three boys remained still for the
rest of the service.
Our nation once had a simple need -- what the founders perceived to be
the right of every human being -- freedom. The call for independence was
costly, for freedom is never free. There is always a price to pay.
Today, we benefit for we are truly a free nation. We have to
recognize we have gained much from the sacrifices of those who have gone
before us. Whether they languish in small crude crafts in the ocean, or
crawl through barbed wire, there are thousands around the world who strive
to find the one hope we take for granted.
Three little boys gave me a glimpse into the wonder of seeing our
brave men and women through the eyes of a child.
Now that our nation is at war, we once again have the opportunity to
support our military heroes.
It is never too late to thank God for our freedom and to honor our
nation's forbearers by saluting the men and women who bravely maintain that
freedom today.
-- T. Suzanne Eller <eller @ intellex.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FUN GOALS
by Jaime Mintun
Setting goals is risky business.
Depending on how you set your goals, they can elevate you or they can
devastate you. And you want to know a secret? Not everyone who succeeds
in life sets goals.
Like any tool, however, your goals can be powerful victory-builders.
But be careful. If you set your goals too high, you'll quickly become
frustrated and experience feelings of failure and the desire to give up.
If you set your goals too low, you won't be motivated to strive.
Though few people talk about it, there are certain tactics you can use
to ensure that your goals significantly aid you in achieving success.
Rather than simply be the measuring stick for your achievement, each goal
will serve as a vehicle that gets you there.
I call these tactics the Ten Commandments of Goal Setting. Here they are:
1. Thou Shall Be Passionate: More powerful than any goal you ever set is
the passion you have for what you want, what you do, and who you are. Find
your passion first, then set your goals around that.
2. Thou Shall Be Realistic: If your goal is to make a million dollars in
one year, and you only make $500,000, according to your goal, you've
failed. Yet, you've made $500,000! Isn't that a huge success? So why not
set your goal at $100,000 dollars in one year, and beat the heck out of it
five times that year?
3. Thou Shall Be Value-Driven: In the pursuit of wealth and satisfaction,
many of us lose sight of our values and beliefs. Make a list of your
goals, then a list of your values. If you can't directly associate each
goal with one of your values, maybe you shouldn't invest your time in that
particular goal.
4. Thou Shall Be Detailed: The goal itself is almost never enough. The
most effective goals are designed so that you know the goal, the date by
which you will achieve it, the quantity by which you will measure it (is
"rich" $100,000 or $500,000?), and how it will change your life.
5. Thou Shall Plan: Start with the end result in mind, then work
backwards. For example, if your goal is that your teenager confides all
her secrets to you, the step before that has to be that she trusts you. To
earn her trust, you have to listen, and allow her to tell you her mistakes.
6. Thou Shall Remain Accountable: Find someone to hold you accountable to
your goal, or create a system whereby you hold yourself accountable. An
effective way to do this is to set a realistic "due date" for each step in
your plan, and then report to yourself or a friend how far you've come in
that step. These little goals are easier to measure and give the sense of
accomplishment.
7. Thou Shall Have Fun: Goals won't do you much good if they just
frustrate you and make you feel guilt or a sense of failure. Have fun with
them, reward yourself, and when things get tough, take a break and do
something novel and entertaining.
8. Thou Shall Believe: Many of us set goals we don't truly believe we can
reach. Just think of the resolutions you made during New Years. Have you
ever followed through on one of those? If your goal is to be healthy and
fit, and you can't imagine being able to exercise every other day and stay
away from chocolates, then you have to rework your goal into something
believable for you. Otherwise, you'll only frustrate yourself.
9. Thou Shall Seek Support: Most of us hate to admit it, but we often
won't achieve our goals solely on our own. Depending on the goal, you may
need a professional mentor, a coach, a close friend, or an inspiring book.
Don't always try to achieve your goals alone.
10. Thou Shalt Not Give Up: What if you still don't achieve your goal?
Don't give up. Maybe you're concentrating too hard on reaching the goal
and losing sight of why you set it in the first place. Not everyone
succeeds by setting goals. If you try the above, and they don't work for
you, then try something else. The most important thing is to be passionate
and have fun. You'll get there.
-- Jaime Mintun <jmintun @ phoenixfirenet.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THE SEEDS WERE PLANTED
by Arlene Millman
The birth of Boomerang changed my life and shifted my outlook in a
permanent and most unexpected way.
It all started in the summer of 1996. As I look back, it seems like a
lifetime ago.
My Boston Terrier, Crystal, was four years old, and very pregnant by
her suitor, Burt. It was early Friday morning, and the July day already
promised to be hot and steamy. Crystal was restlessly pacing and panting,
apparently going into premature labor. Premature, because the normal
gestation period for canines is 60 to 63 days, and she was only at day 58,
assuming I had calculated correctly. Her prior pregnancy, three years
earlier, also sired by Burt, had gone smoothly, and Crystal produced an
adorable little female Boston Terrier named Penelope. Was it too much to
ask that her second time be just as uneventful?
By eight o'clock that morning, I made the decision to stay home from
work, so I could keep Crystal under close supervision. By late morning,
after her panting and restlessness had escalated, and after several phone
calls to my local vet for advice and moral support, it was decided I should
bring her to the animal hospital for evaluation.
By then, I was quite frantic. If Crystal was destined to give birth
that day, the prognosis for her offspring was not promising.
I "flew" to the hospital in record time, and the receptionist rushed
us into the exam room. Crystal's water had broken during the car ride, and
my fear level was rising. The vet informed me there was a puppy stuck in
the birth canal. If we didn't perform an immediate C-section, the pup
would most likely suffocate from lack of oxygen. And, if it did survive,
probably suffer from brain damage. Crystal's life was also in danger. The
placenta had separated from the uterine wall, and she was bleeding
profusely.
They ushered me into the waiting room, and time seemed to stand still.
After what seemed like an eternity, the vet came out and informed me that
Crystal was in recovery, and still very groggy from the anesthesia.
As for the single surviving pup from the litter, he was on oxygen, in
an incubator, fighting for his life. They were trying to save him, but his
body temperature was sub-normal, and they suspected insufficient lung
development. He was very tiny, and didn't have the sucking reflex, so they
had to tube feed him every two hours. I was warned he may not make it
through the first 24 hours. Even if he did, his prognosis was
questionable.
Exhaustion had taken its toll, and I couldn't think clearly. I tried
to hope for the best, but dreaded what tomorrow would bring.
By some miracle, Crystal's frail little pup had survived through the night.
When I visited him the next day, he was wrapped in a blue blanket, and
lying on a heating pad. As a premature neo-natal Boston Terrier, he was
only slightly larger than a quarter pound stick of butter. His eyes were
sealed shut, but his little black and white head looked so beautiful to me.
I reach out my hand to gently pet him, and he seemed to respond to my
touch by snuggling against the pressure of my hand. Was it wishful
thinking?
When I bent over to kiss him, the first thing I noticed was an unusual
marking on the top of his pure white blaze. It was a black outline in the
shape of a boomerang.
"Boomerang," I whispered softly to myself, "that will be your name, if
you pull through for me." Right then and there, he stole my heart.
I promised to give him the best life I possibly could, if only he
would live. It may sound strange, but I felt so much love radiating from
that precious little bundle of fur, it seemed to fill the entire room. I
didn't know it then, but my life was about to change, never to be the same
again.
Boomerang's presence in my life was bittersweet. There was joy
alternating with sadness. He touched my soul and altered my perception of
the world. The seeds were planted on that fateful July day when he was
born.
The lovely blossoms would bloom years later when he inspired me to
write a book about his remarkable life and his reason for being.
-- Arlene Millman <chyron24 @ hotmail.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .