“With eye upraised his master’s look to scan, The joy, the solace, and the aid of man: The rich man’s guardian and the poor man’s friend, The only creature faithful to the end.”
Who's in charge here? I have heard that question in so many voices, situations.
Sometimes I am in charge, good or bad. I gladly ceded that responsibility now that I am retired. For twenty years and six-hundred students, I was in charge.
Parents, we were/are in charge. For feeding, clothing, and all sorts responsibilities for our children, we were/are in charge.
Paying bills, having the oil changed, finding lost items, etc.--we adults: we're in charge.
Given all that, some of the most amazing I'm in charge here people are children. They have no power, no reason to believe that they are in charge. Even though you and I know that a child should not be in charge in critical areas, they are in the sweetest and most amazing ways.
(The longest video is the last one. The others are less than a minute )
A three-year old taking charge here, maybe
Expressing himself to one he loves
Helping mommy
Who in charge here? Both.
There are many elements in all lives when exasperation leads to a real question: Who is in charge of me?
Countries all over the world have iconic structures, plants, and even animals. India has the Taj Mahal and sacred cows. Ireland has Hill of Tara (and lots of other places), along with shamrocks (sham-rogue). Bern, Switzerland, also has its own icons that stand out. This past summer was exceptional in representing: St. Bernards. These are truly immense dogs made famous for rescuing people trapped in snow. The brandy cask is wishful thinking, not accurate.
During our visit to our daughter, we discovered an astounding number of St. Bernard artistic statues all over the city. We bounded around trying to find new statues, photos in all of 20 massive dogs.
Skully
Bernadette
Timmy
Each monument was given a name. My favorite was "Timmy", the cheetah above. Not so much for the cheetah paint, but for the name. Every Timmy I have known has been a boy, like in the show "Lassie".
We thought we had done so well with our twenty sightings, but we soon found out that there were one-hundred and twenty all over the city. They were even on roofs.
This live St. Bernard was with his owner who was showing and explaining more about this magnificent creature along old town streets.
Dashing
through the downpour, Jackson could see no other shelter than a shadowy
doorway. Within the doorway lay a trembling
dog, soaked to the skin. Even with its
matted fur, Jackson appreciated that this dog had some breeding.
Attached to Jackson’s key chain
was a tiny LED flashlight. “Here, boy…”
Jackson rubbed the wet fur with his woolen scarf, while searching for a chain
or some ID.
The flashlightcaught the glint of a tag in the shape
of a four-leaf-clover,
with the name “Lucky” and a phone number.
Jackson dialed it, hearing the ring, and finally an answer. “This is the Blankresidence. How may I help you?”
After telling about finding “Lucky”,
Jackson heard a boy in the background shouting with joy. “Lucky!
Lucky has been found!...” Moments
later a car pulled up and the boy jumped out into the rain, wrapping his arms
around his dog.
“You need a ride, mister?” The boy turned to ask. But no one remained, the doorway was
empty. Jackson had disappeared into a
sheet of rain.
Many thanks to all who read Delores @thefeatherednest and find her Wednesday Words a challenge! Take a chance and see what you can create!
When I saw commercials promoting the upcoming Westminster Dog Show, I got excited. I pointed them out to my husband, and explained how I enjoyed watching the different breeds and the judging.
My husband snorted in disgust. “You really wanta watch that stuff?” he said derisively. “That’s just plain boring.” Then he turned his attention back to a DVR recording of a repeat showing of a 2006 World of Poker competition. “See that? Just watch, now, ‘cause Mike the Mouth has a pocket queen, and the river card is another queen. See?” He smiled triumphantly, vicariously enjoying the excitement of the win. “Next, Brunson will…”
Best of Show 2011: Scottish Deer Hound
By then I had ceased to listen; a switch in my brain had gone to the Off position.
Why can’t he see what I see? The best of each breed in their category will be paraded around the arena and a judge who is a world-class expert in a particular category will examine each dog. An announcer will tell the TV audience about the peculiarities and history of that breed. Then the dog handler will trot the dog around the arena while the camera follows each move, each expression the dog makes. All that is seen of the handler are the legs and shoes—the focus is on the dog and how utterly beautiful he/she is.
If I was on a desert island with electricity, a TV, and a few DVDS (Olympic Figure Skating 2010, 2004 World of Poker Las Vegas, Highlights of Super Bowls 2004- 2010, and Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show 2011), and could chose only one to watch, Westminster would win, hands down. No competition.
Thank you, Arlee Bird and Team, for hosting this A-Z Blogfest. Please check the link below to see the other blog entries. Woof! http://tossingitout.blogspot.com
Having pets is part of family life. We had a dog named ‘Midnight’, another dog ‘Buddy’. Then we had a cat, also ‘Midnight’, and then another one ‘Scuba’. My daughter had a hamster called ‘Romeo’. Wanting another pet and being an entomologist, my son decided upon the perfect pet for anyone: Mr. Bustamante.
The spider is molting. Really cool!
Mr. Bustamante was a rose tarantula, quite pricey as spiders go. It was huge, bigger than my splayed out hand. It had long spider legs, which moved slowly and gracefully over its web covered tank. It was blind, as all of its species are, so it operated totally on the feeling of vibrations. When a cricket was dropped into its enclosure, Mr. B. was on that thing with lightening speed. The cricket never had a chance, since every place it moved was laced with webbing, and that webbing lead Mr. B. to its unfortunate dinner.
He is not poisonous.
In the initial weeks of Mr. Bustamante’s moving in with us, fascination reined. We learned that it could crawl up our arm, and move onto another surface without pause or fear, since it couldn’t see. It wasn’t much fun when it came to the rolling around on the ground, but it was entertaining anyway. After doing much research and consulting with the pet store, my son decided to give Mr. Bustamante a real treat.
The pet store guy said that a fetal mouse would be a ‘treat’ for the spider, and something different from the crickets that we regularly tossed into the tank. So my son came home with a wriggling hairless blind pink baby mouse. He held it in the palm of his hand and we both stared down at this helpless and slightly disgusting mouse. It stretched and wiggled; it turned its blind eyes and mouth in search of food; and, it reminded me of a newborn baby, so much so that I had to leave the room.
With me out of the room, my son placed the mouse near Mr. Bustamante. Then my son waited for the joyous spider to discover his present. The thing never moved, even though the mouse was wiggling and turning over. My son nudged the mouse closer, using a ruler. Nothing happened. I came in the check on the mouse’s demise, and found my son staring quizzically at the two life forms in the tank. We both decided to let the two work things out overnight, and see the result in the morning.
No! They are not cute!
In the morning, Mr. Bustamante was clinging to the screening that covered the top of its tank, while the mouse lay in its original spot, still wriggling and squirming helplessly. My son decided that perhaps the tank was too large for them to meet up. So he took Mr. Bustamante and ‘Fred-the-mouse’ out and put them into a deep bowl with steeply sloping sides. Surely this new positioning would force Mr. B. to dive right in with his fangs. Nothing happened.
Hours passed and Mr. Bustamante was motionless on top of ‘Fred’. This became too much for both of us. My son called the pet store guy, who expressed regret about this treat not working out, but he couldn’t take the mouse back. He told my son to kill the mouse and throw it away. My son turned ashen, as he has a sensitive soul, and asked how to do that painlessly. “Put it in a baggie, and then in the freezer. The thing will go to sleep, and then freeze to death.” My son reluctantly followed these directions, and after many hours, buried ‘Fred’ in the backyard next to the late hamster Romeo.
Neither of us ever really recovered from this experience, and we don’t talk of it much. Some things are just too painful.
Many thanks to Arlee Bird, Jeffrey Beesler, Alex J. Cavanaugh, Jen Daiker, Candace Ganger, Karen J. Gowen, Talli Roland, and Stephen Tremp. You are all brave people. Link to the following link to check out other entries!
