Welcome to Don's Page

Howdy Folks !!! -   and  - Welcome to this Page.

We have a Kitty and his name is  " Bear, "
and
I received this email from a friend some time ago,
and I thought it was very funny.

=======================

DAY 1 - My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat,
while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild
satisfaction get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another houseplant.

DAY 2 - Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost
succeeded, must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors,
I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair...must try this on their bed.

DAY 3 - Slept all day so that I could annoy my captors with sleep depriving, incessant pleas for food at
ungodly hours of the night.

 DAY 4 - Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in attempt to make them aware of what
I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a
good little cat I was...Hmmm. Not working according to plan.

DAY  5 - I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was chosen for the water torture.
This time however it included a burning foamy chemical called "shampoo." What sick minds could invent
such a liquid. My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my teeth.

DAY  6 - There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event.
However, I could hear the noise and smell the foul odor of the glass tubes they call "beer." More importantly
I overheard that my confinement was due to MY power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use
it to my advantage.

DAY  7 - I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and
seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The Bird on the other hand has got to be an
informant. He has mastered their frightful tongue. (something akin to mole speak) and speaks with them
regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room his safety
is assured. But I can wait, it is only a matter of time.... 

A Dog's Daily Diary

5:30am: -  Started the day as a hero! When the sound of the newspaper hitting the driveway 
roused me from my deep slumber -- the impact indicating the paper was much heavier 
than normal -- I realized that no one in the house was yet awake! 

I roused my master by licking him in the face. He appeared very angry 
with himself for having overslept, shouting and waving his arms.  His ill temper even 
seemed directed at me a bit, which is silly since it is I who saved him from being fired. 
Funny thing though: 
He didn't go into work, but spent the morning leafing through the large 
newspaper and drinking coffee.

He seems to do this once a week, and I don't know why.

7:30am: -  Invaders! The people who live next door came out into their yard, obviously getting 
ready to lay siege to our house.

Snarling and barking, I let them know in no uncertain terms that I was prepared to tear 
them from limb to limb it they came any closer, and was able to repel the invasion.

This is an almost daily occurrence; you'd think they'd learn. My master added his voice to 
the fray as well, yelling angrily. I am sure the people couldn't hear him, but it was nice of him
to lend his support.

10:00am: -  I was forced to move, as the patch of sun in which I was lying had, for some reason, 
slid over a few feet. It's not easy being a dog.

1:00pm: -  I have the most thoughtful master in the world! While it's true he left me alone 
in the house for several hours, he did set out a treat for me on the kitchen counter. 
It was even gift-wrapped,
a courtesy I wish he'd skipped, since it led to me having a lot of plastic in my teeth. 

The roast was delicious, though frozen in the center. I don't want to seem ungrateful, 
but crunching through two inches of rock-hard beef is hardly my idea of a delicacy.

2:00pm: -  Most unpleasant experience when my master returned home and was furious that 
I had not eaten the plastic wrap which had been covering my present. He kept pointing 
at the small pieces of Styrofoam and other debris and raving in a most irrational fashion. 
I'm sorry, but he should know that I can't eat that stuff; it makes my stomach upset.

When he began rolling up a newspaper I realized he'd lost all reason and bolted for 
the front door, which was fortunately open just a crack.

4:00pm: -  Spent the afternoon with the girls. A most productive day; I was able to mark 
territory for two blocks. "Drip 'til  you drop" is our motto.  We had a small snack at 
an outdoor cafe we like,
with meat scraps and bread served out of circular containers with easily displaced lids. 

Ran into that rogue Sebastian, who lifted his leg with irritating nonchalance -- does he
think I don't know about his obsession with Muffy, that snotty schnauzer
from down the road? Last month there wasn't a male in the neighborhood
who couldn't be found outside her fence, and Sebastian was at the head of the
pack. I let him know I want nothing more to do with him.

5:00pm: -  What a treat! On the way home a flock of ravens drew my attention to a squirrel 
that had been flattened by an automobile. After several days in the sun, the aroma 
was so delicious it made my nose quiver. I rolled in the wondrous fragrance for 
several minutes, and when I stood up I positively radiated eau de roadkill. 

Let Sebastian drool over Muffy -- he doesn't know what he's missing.

6:00pm: -  Of all the times to get a bath! My master, still in a foul mood, made me stand 
outside in the chill air while he shampooed and rinsed me several times. Every time I 
shook the water from my fur he, too, became drenched, and in the end he was shivering. 
Why in the world does he do stuff like this?

9:00pm: -  Time to sleep, though I am not allowed on the bed whenever anyone's home. 

Ah, the life of a dog.

This kitty only wanted to be loved by someone.

Everyone in the apartment complex where I lived,  knew who Ugly was.  Ugly was the resident tomcat.
   Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and, shall we say, love.
The combination of  these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly.

To start with, he had only one eye and where the other should have been was a hole.  He was
also missing his ear on the same side, his left paw appeared to have been badly broken at one
time, and had healed at an  unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner.
Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby, striped type, except for the sores covering 
his head, neck, and even his shoulders.

Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. "That's one  UGLY cat!!!".
All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him
down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door 
when he would not leave.

Ugly always had the same reaction.  If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there,
getting soaked until you gave up and quit.  If you threw things at him, he would curl his 
lanky body around your feet in forgiveness.  Whenever he spied children, he would come
running, meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love.
If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings,
whatever he could find.

One day, Ugly shared his love with the neighbor's dogs.  They did not respond kindly, 
and Ugly was badly mauled.  I tried to rush to his aid.  By the time I got to where he was
laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life was almost at an end.  As I picked him up and tried to
carry him home, I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling.
It must be hurting him terribly, I thought.   

Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear.  Ugly, in so much pain, 
suffering and obviously dying, was trying to suckle my ear.  I pulled him closer to me, 
and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye 
towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring.  Even in the greatest pain, that
ugly battled scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.

At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen.
Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, try to get away from me, or struggle in any 
way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain. 

Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time 
afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my 
opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit,  to love so totally and truly.
Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or 
talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. 

He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for
me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply.  To give my total to those I cared for.
Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked,  beautiful, but for me...
 
I will always try to be Ugly.

Author Unknown.

GIVING THANKS THIS YEAR . . .

She must have been 6 years old, this beautiful brown haired, freckled faced image of
innocence.  Her Mom looked like someone from the Walton's TV show or a moment 
captured by Norman Rockwell.  Not that she was old fashioned.  Her brown hair was ear
length with enough curl to appear natural.

She had on a pair of tan shorts and light blue knit shirt.  Her sneakers were white with a 
blue trim.   She looked like a Mom.  It was pouring outside.  The kind of rain that gushes 
over the tops of rain gutters, so much in a hurry to hit the Earth it has no time to flow 
down the spout. 

Drains in the nearby parking lot were filled to capacity and some were blocked so that
huge puddles everywhere were around parked cars.  We all stood there under the awning
and just inside the door of the Wal-Mart.  We waited, some patiently, others aggravated
because nature messed up their hurried day.

I am always mesmerized by rainfall.  I get lost in the sound and sight of the heavens 
washing away the dirt and dust of the world.  Memories of running, splashing so carefree
as a child come pouring in as welcomed reprieve from the worries of my day.  Her voice
was so sweet as it broke the hypnotic trance we were all caught in.  "Mom, let's run 
through the rain," she said. 

"What?" Mom asked.  "Let's run through the rain!" she repeated.  "No, honey.  We'll wait 
until it slows down a bit," Mom replied.  This young child waited about another minute 
and repeated her statement.  "Mom.  Let's run through the rain."   "We'll get soaked if we
do," Mom said.

"No, we won't, Mom.  That's not what you said this morning," the young girl said as she tugged
at her Mom's arm.  "This morning?  When did I say we could run through the rain 
and not get wet?"  "Don't you remember?  When you were talking to Daddy about his 
cancer, you said,  "If God can get us through this, He can get us through anything!''

The entire crowd stopped dead silent.  I swear you couldn't hear anything but the rain. We
all stood silently.  No one came or left in the next few minutes. Mom paused and thought 
for a moment about what she would say.

Now some would laugh it off and scold her for being silly.  Some might even ignore what
was said.  But this was a moment of affirmation in a young child's life.  A time when 
innocent trust can be nurtured so that it will bloom into faith.

"Honey, you are absolutely right.  Let's run through the rain.  If God let's us get wet, well
maybe we just needed washing," Mom said.  Then off they ran.  We all stood watching, smiling
and laughing as they darted past the cars and yes through the puddles.  They held 
their shopping bags over their heads just in case.  They got soaked, but they were 
followed by a few believers who screamed and laughed like children all the way to their cars.
  Perhaps inspired by their faith and trust.

I want to believe that some where down the road in life, Mom will find herself reflecting 
back on moments they spent together, captured like pictures in the scrapbook of her 
cherished memories.  Maybe when she watches proudly as her daughter graduates, or if 
her Daddy can walk her down the aisle on her wedding day.  She will laugh again.  Her 
heart will beat a little faster.  Her smile will tell the world they love each other.

But only two people will share that precious moment when they ran through the rain 
believing that God would get them through.  
                              And Yes, I did.  I ran.  I got wet.  I needed washing.

AWE, the faith and beauty of a little girl.

Love and Daffodils Forever

They had just celebrated their 39th anniversary in April when Bill went for his annual checkup.
 Always in perfect health, he was unprepared for what the doctor found. Symptoms Bill
had ignored as "old age" led to questions, palpation's, more questions, and finally
instructions for a battery of tests.  "Just to be on the safe side," the doctor said. When Bill 
took the news home to Constance, she refused to consider that it could be something serious.

Fortunately, it was April and the gardens beckoned. There was more than enough work
needed to prepare the beds for the coming season, and they threw themselves into the now-familiar
yearly routine.  They spent their days, as always, surrounded by trays of
flowers and bags of mulch, wielding their favorite trowels.

As the summer progressed, 30 years of gardening rewarded them with a showplace of
color. Benches and swings were placed amid the bounty of flowers, and they spent nearly every
evening during the summer relaxing and basking in the beauty.

As they worked, Constance began to notice a subtle change in Bill. He seemed to tire
more easily, had difficulty rising from his knees, and had little appetite. By the time the
test results were in, she was no longer so sure of a good prognosis.

When the doctor ushered them into his office, she knew. His demeanor was too
professional, too unlike the friend they had known and trusted for so many years. There
was no easy way to say it. Bill was dying, with so little hope of curing his illness that it
would be kinder to not even try. He had perhaps six months left, time enough to put
his house in order, but little time for anything else.

They decided he would stay at home, with help from visiting nurses and hospice when
the time came. Their children were both far away, one in Oregon and the other in
Chicago. They came for extended visits, but with jobs and children, neither could come 
permanently. So Bill and Constance spent the ending time as they had spent the beginning
time, alone together. Only now they had their beloved gardens, a great comfort to them 
both for that entire summer.

By September, Bill was fading fast and they both knew the end was near. For some
reason Constance couldn't understand, he seemed to be pushing her to get out more.
He urged her to call old friends and have lunch, go shopping, see a movie. She resisted
until he became so agitated that she conceded and began making her calls. Everyone
was more than willing to accompany her, and she found she did take some comfort
in talking over lunch or during the long ride to the mall.

Bill
passed away peacefully in October, surrounded by his family. Constance was 
inconsolable. No amount of knowing could have prepared her for the emptiness
she felt. Winter descended upon her with a vengeance. Suddenly it seemed dark all
the time.  Then the holidays came, and she went to Oregon for Thanksgiving and to
Chicago for Christmas.

The house was cold and empty when she returned. She wasn't quite sure how she could
go on, but somehow she did.  At long last, it was April again, and with April came the
return to longer and warmer days. She would go from window to window looking out
at the yard, knowing what needed to be done, but not really caring if she did it or not.

Then, one day, she noticed something different about the gardens. They were coming to
life sooner than they had in the past. She went out and walked all around and through
the beds.  It was daffodils. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of daffodils. She and
Bill had never put many spring plants in their gardens. They so enjoyed the colors of
summer that they had only a few spring daffodils and hyacinths scattered here and there.

'Where did they come from?' she wondered as she walked. Not only did the blooms completely
encircle each bed, they were also scattered inside, among the still-dormant summer plants.
They appeared in groups all over the lawn, and even lined the driveway to the street. They
ringed the trees and they lined the foundation of the house. She couldn't believe it.
Where on earth had they come from?
 
A few days later she received a call from her attorney. He needed to see her, he said.
Could she come to his office that morning? When Constance arrived, he handed her a
package with instructions not to open it until she returned home. He gave no other
explanation.

When she opened the package, there were two smaller packages inside. One was
labeled "Open me first." Inside was a video cassette. Suddenly Bill appeared on the
screen, talking to her from his favorite chair, dressed not in pajamas but in a sweater
and slacks. "My darling Constance," he began, "today is our anniversary, and this is
my gift to you."

He told her of his love for her. Then he explained the daffodils.  "I know these
 daffodils will be blooming on our anniversary, and will continue to do so forever,"
Bill said. "I couldn't plant them alone, though." Their many friends had conspired with
Bill to get the bulbs planted. They had taken turns last fall getting Constance out of the
house for hours at a time so the work could be done.

The second package held the memories of all those friends who so generously gave
of their time and energies so Bill could give her his final gift. Photographs of everyone
came spilling out, images captured forever of them working in the garden, 
laughing, taking turns snapping pictures and visiting with her beloved husband, who sat bundled
in a lawn chair, watching.  In the photo Constance framed and put by her bed,

Bill is smiling at her and waving his trowel.

by Nicolle Woodward Reprinted by permission of Nicolle Woodward (c) 2000, from Chicken Soup for the Gardener's Soul by Jack Canfield,
 Mark Victor Hansen, Marion Owen, Cindy Buck, Cynthia Brian, Pat Stone and Carol Strugulewski.

This Web page was updated on May 8, 2004



To Return back to Main Home Page,
Click on your Browser's Return Button.

or

To leave this Web Site
Please Click on File (top upper left of your screen)
and then
Click on Close