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Hot Dogs and Humble Gratitude

May 22nd 2009 9:03 am
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Wishing everyone a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend. While you're celebrating with your loved ones, please take a moment to give thanks to all the men, women and canines who have bravely served our glorious country and those who are currently serving. It is in their honour that I offer the following lyrics. The song was written by Ross Parker and Hughie Charles in 1939 and made famous by Dame Vera Lynn, "The Forces' Sweetheart."

We'll meet again
Don't know where
Don't know when
But I know we'll meet again
Some sunny day

Keep smiling through
Just like you always do
'Till the blue skies
Drive the dark clouds far away

So, will you please say hello
To the folks that I know
Tell them I won't be long
They'll be happy to know
That as you saw me go
I was singing this song

We'll meet again
Don't know where
Don't know when
But I know we'll meet again
Some sunny day


Happy Victoria Day Weekend

May 15th 2009 9:19 am
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The promise of summer
The perpetual threat of rain
Hot dogs on the bonfire
Cold beer in frosty cans

Trailers opened for the season
Boats uncovered, nets untangled
What of the big one that got away?
This year you'll be ready

The whiz-bang of firecrackers
Tales of yesterday
Old friends and old jokes
Sweet laughter in the night

Long live the long weekend!


Hot Dawg!

April 7th 2009 9:59 am
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Oh my word
I don't know what to say
Here I am
Dog of the Day!

Thank you Dogster HQ. What a tremendous honour. Mom and I joined Dogster to help us deal with my IMHA. We found such an incredible community of warmth, compassion and understanding. Paws reached out in friendship became a lifeline, and our family has grown to include pups, people and angels we love dearly.

Here's to the Power of the Paw!

Hugs and howls,



Lá Fhéile Phádraig Sona Duit!

March 4th 2009 2:43 pm
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In honour of St. Patrick's Day, I would like to offer the following poem. This one is for you grandpa.

Sweet symbol that reflects the
Heritage of Erin and
A fierce pride in the land of
Mirth, jig and reel
Hearing the stories
Of my grandfather, I see through his eyes the
Cliffs of Moher, the ocean and wide fields of clover in the
Kingdom of Green where plays the wild rover


The Parliament of Fowls - Geoffrey Chaucer

February 9th 2009 12:57 pm
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In honour of Valentine's Day, I would like to offer the following from one of my favourite poems.

Original Text:

Qui bien aime a tard oublie

Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
And driven awey the longe nightes blake!

Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte; --
Thus singen smale foules for thy sake --
Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake.

Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make;
Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake;
Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
And driven away the longe nightes blake.

Modern Translation:

He that loves heartily forgets not easily; true love is long

Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,
The winter's tempest you will break,
And drive away the long nights black!

Saint Valentine, throned aloft,
Thus little birds sing for your sake:
Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,
The winter's tempest you will shake!

Good cause have they to glad them oft,
His own true-love each bird will take;
Blithe may they sing when they awake,
Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,
The winter's tempest you will break,
And drive away the long nights black!


Being Pawsitive

January 12th 2009 10:32 am
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Sheer joy unbounded
A black and white blur
Big muddy paws
The smell of wet fur

Splashing through the puddles
No time for complaining
Making my own sunshine
Whenever it’s raining


The Oxen

December 16th 2008 10:13 am
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Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel

“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

-- Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)


Sic Itur Ad Astra

November 28th 2008 9:27 am
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Our dear friend Marion was a remarkable person with an incredibly optimistic outlook and a quick mind. A youthful octogenarian, she found beauty in the world and gave free reign to her inquisitive spirit. She wondered about UFOs and what it would be like if her beloved pets could talk. She wore the latest fashions and drank Starbucks by the case. Some days her diet consisted of peanuts, jelly beans and caramel corn, which she paid for with indigestion. The epitome of classic Hollywood glamour, she was the archetypal grand old dame. She studied history, played classical piano, flew airplanes and drove too fast. She believed in living “a normal life abnormally,” and refused to act the way society thought she should based on ageism and stereotype.

We lost Marion to cancer in November 2006. There are no words to convey how much we miss her. She always said that when her time came, she wanted to go to the part of Heaven where the animals are. She was buried with the ashes of her devoted Pekingese. A week later, her majestic cat followed her to the Rainbow Bridge. Below are some of our favourite “Marionisms.”

There’s a difference between aging and maturing. I’ve never grown up and I don’t tend to get old either.

Age has its own beauty.

There’s a lot of value in interaction, in making your views known and not being afraid of honest self-expression. Too many seniors hold back and bite their tongues. They need to realize they have just as much right to their views as everyone else.

Deal with the details and get on with living.

Stay away from cosmetic surgery. A face lift doesn’t make you look younger. You look like someone who’s had a face lift.

Don’t try to be someone you’re not or convince the world you’re something you’re not. Pride goeth before a fall and you don’t want a broken hip!


Happy Thanksgiving!

November 26th 2008 9:45 am
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May the blessings of Thanksgiving lift your spirit, renew your hopes and fill your heart with joy.

Thanksgiving -- Myra Cohn Livingston

move among us.
Silent, their gray lips mouth
prayers for the bountiful fields of
autumn. Feathered
Indians stand
tall in quiet corners
invoking harvest home in a
strange tongue. This is
our Thanksgiving.
Gathered together, we
are visited by the grace of
old guests.


Ode to Autumn

November 21st 2008 11:35 am
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The following poem by John Keats (1795-1821) gloriously captures the beauty and bounty of the season.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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