Things seem to come around in cycles… the last few days I’ve received several good dog stories and poems. I thought you might enjoy them also.
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I Rescued a Human Today…
Her eyes met mine as she walked down the corridor peering apprehensively into the kennels. I felt her need instantly and knew I had to help her. I wagged my tail, not too exuberantly, so she wouldn't be afraid.
As she stopped at my kennel I blocked her view from a little accident I had in the back of my cage. I didn't want her to know that I hadn't been walked today. Sometimes the shelter keepers get too busy and I didn't want her to think poorly of them.
As she read my kennel card I hoped that she wouldn't feel sad about my past. I only have the future to look forward to and want to make a difference in someone's life.
She got down on her knees and made little kissy sounds at me. I shoved my shoulder and side of my head up against the bars to comfort her. Gentle fingertips caressed my neck; she was desperate for companionship.
A tear fell down her cheek and I raised my paw to assure her that all would be well. Soon my kennel door opened and her smile was so bright that I instantly jumped into her arms. I would promise to keep her safe. I would promise to always be by her side. I would promise to do everything I could to see that radiant smile and sparkle in her eyes. I was so fortunate that she came down my corridor. So many more are out there who haven't walked the corridors. So many more to be saved. At least I could save one.
I rescued a human today.
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CROSS RIVER NOCTURNE
by John Dalmas
experienced by the poet in Koochiching County, Minnesota
November 1947
In the night the powder snow
lay deep on woods and fields.
I jogged for warmth.
Through autumn pants and drawers,
my thighs ached from the cold
that gripped the land like iron.
I should have stayed in town.
I slowed for rest,
walking backward watching
the towering northern lights,
great ranked fluorescent spears
advancing and retreating .
The cold roweled me, and I ran again.
Ahead a farmhouse hunched,
low, snow-laden, lightless in the night,
the last house on my way
and nine miles more to go,
nine miles of bog and forest,
and twenty-nine below.
Did I dare?
The place was still, but by the house,
a battered pickup said they were at home.
Nine miles to jog on legs already tired.
My boots creaked on the tire-packed snow,
as senses honed by stillness and the act,
I walked toward the house,
a weathered cabin of squared logs,
with curtained windows, and the smell of smoke
faintly pungent in the snow-lit night.
A half-hour’s rest, that’s all.
It was unlocked. The hinges made no sound.
Inside was darker far than out of doors.
A banked fire leaked thin glowing lines,
edging the door of a stove that once
had been a drum of oil.
A chair stood dimly near it, and I sat.
What was that? Claws on linoleum!
A shaggy farm dog walked into the room.
Large in the darkness,
came and sniffed, then lay down by my feet,
silently accepting, as if he understood.
by John Dalmas
experienced by the poet in Koochiching County, Minnesota
November 1947
In the night the powder snow
lay deep on woods and fields.
I jogged for warmth.
Through autumn pants and drawers,
my thighs ached from the cold
that gripped the land like iron.
I should have stayed in town.
I slowed for rest,
walking backward watching
the towering northern lights,
great ranked fluorescent spears
advancing and retreating .
The cold roweled me, and I ran again.
Ahead a farmhouse hunched,
low, snow-laden, lightless in the night,
the last house on my way
and nine miles more to go,
nine miles of bog and forest,
and twenty-nine below.
Did I dare?
The place was still, but by the house,
a battered pickup said they were at home.
Nine miles to jog on legs already tired.
My boots creaked on the tire-packed snow,
as senses honed by stillness and the act,
I walked toward the house,
a weathered cabin of squared logs,
with curtained windows, and the smell of smoke
faintly pungent in the snow-lit night.
A half-hour’s rest, that’s all.
It was unlocked. The hinges made no sound.
Inside was darker far than out of doors.
A banked fire leaked thin glowing lines,
edging the door of a stove that once
had been a drum of oil.
A chair stood dimly near it, and I sat.
What was that? Claws on linoleum!
A shaggy farm dog walked into the room.
Large in the darkness,
came and sniffed, then lay down by my feet,
silently accepting, as if he understood.
__________________________________________
And finally there is this great video of Jimmy Stewart on Johnny Carson’s TV show, reading his poem “Beau.” Classic!
Blessings,
Shakura Cathryn
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. And inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." ~Groucho Marx
"Animals give me more pleasure through the viewfinder of a camera than they ever did in the crosshairs of a gunsight. And after I've finished "shooting," my unharmed victims are still around for others to enjoy. I have developed a deep respect for animals. I consider them fellow living creatures with certain rights that should not be violated any more than those of humans." ~Jimmy Stewart
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