December 8th 2007 5:55 am
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I've been tagged by my pal Sunshine!
It's a Christmas tag!!! This is what you have to do.
Write a letter to Santa Paws with 5 requests in your diary.
Then give whoever tagged you 5 bones or treats.
Then tag 5 more cats or dogs.
Dear Santa Paws,
I've been a very very good girl this year (despite what my beagle says...ignore him). I have kept all the yard invading squirrels that eat the bird seed at bay....I have been nice to my brudder Snoopy (no matter what he says...I have) and I haven't tried to eat ANYTHING off the Christmas Tree.
This year I would like:
1. A stuffed toy with a squeaky inside..don't be offended if I shread it!!
2. A flossie would be nice
3. Homes for all the furbabies livin in shelters
4. My Mama to stop workin so she can stay home and play with me
5. A nice new cuddle bed
November 17th 2007 7:31 am
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Here are the rules:
Because it’s Thanksgiving time, there is a change to the rules. Each player needs to tell seven special things they are thankful for. Tagged dogs must post the rules in their diary and their 7 things. Then choose 7 pups to tag and list their names. Let them know by pawmail or rosette that they have been tagged and to read your diary for the instructions on how to play.
Seven Things I’m Thankful For:
1. I am thankful for my Mama and Daddy
2. I am thankful that Mama rescued me from a shelter
3. I am thankful for my brudder Snoopy
4. I am thankful for all my NTB pals
5. I am thankful to get to sleep anywhere I want in the house
6. I am thankful that I have a backyard to play in with squirrels to chase
7. I am thankful that I am surrounded by people who love and care for me
September 24th 2007 6:46 am
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Brown eyes of wisdom
By Brian McGrory, Globe Columnist | August 31, 2004
They should come with a warning label, these creatures. They should come
with a label that says you're going to fall hopelessly in love, only to
have your heart shattered before you could ever possibly prepare. And
then you face one of life's truly wrenching decisions.
Which is where I am now. Specifically, as I type these words I am on the
back deck of a rented house in Maine surrounded by fields and forest,
watching a sleeping golden retriever named Harry drift another day
closer to death.
He is gorgeous, this dog, with a gray face that shows the wisdom gained
from his 10 years on Earth and brown eyes that are the most thoughtful
I've ever seen. He is sprawled out on the wood, his blond fur damp from
his morning swim and his breathing labored from his disease.
And I ponder the question that has dominated my thought s for weeks: How
will I know when the time is right?
He arrived in my life nearly a decade ago on one of those storybook
Christmas season nights that is too good to ever forget. He was a gift
to my wife, and when she opened the box the tears that spilled down her
face were those of joy.
Women, of course, come and go, but dogs are forever, so when the
ended, Harry stayed with me. Since then, we've moved from Boston to
Washington, D.C., and back again, fetched maybe a quarter of a million
throws, walked, I would wager, over 10,000 miles together. He carried a
tennis ball in his mouth for most of them, convinced that anyone who saw
him would be duly impressed. And, judging by their reactions, he's
Throughout, he has shown me sunrises and sunsets that I wouldn't
otherwise have seen. He has taught me that snow is a gift, that the
is there for swimming, that the coldest winter mornings a nd the hottest
summer days are never as bad as people say.
He has introduced me to people, kind people, whom I otherwise wouldn't
have met. He has forced me to take time every morning to contemplate the
day ahead. With his tail-swishing swagger, he has taught me to slow
down, to pause in an Esplanade field or on a Public Garden bench, the journey
being as good as the destination. The big ruse, which I think he figured
out years ago, was that all these walks were meant for him.
He has been an anchor in bad times, a ballast amid occasional
uncertainty, a dose of humility when things might be going a little too
well. He has been a sanctuary, a confidant, and an occasional excuse. He
regards it as his personal mission to make me laugh, whether by a
ritualistic dance over a pig's ear or a gushing lick to my face. He's
never once said the wrong thing, and it's impossible to be in a bad mood
All along, he lives by one simple mantra: Count me in. Anything I'm
doing, he wants to do as well, no leash or nagging required. At home, he
prefers to lie on the stoop of our condominium building, presiding over
the world around him.
His time, though, is fleeting, a fact that he's starting to understand.
In April, his lifelong veterinarian, Pam Bendock, blinked back tears as
she informed me that his stomach pains were caused by lymphoma. Several
rounds of chemotherapy failed to do what was hoped. Two weeks ago, I
stopped his treatments.
These days, he has lost 10 pounds or more and can't keep food inside. He
often wakes in the dark before dawn moaning softly in pain. But by
daybreak, he is urging me toward the beach or guiding me on another
ball in mouth, ready to fetch, albeit slowly.
Maybe I should be embarrassed to admit that a dog can change a man, but
I'm not. So as the clock winds out on a life well lived, I loo k back at
the lessons learned from this calm and dignified creature, lessons of
temperance, patience, and compassion that will guide us to the end.
And I look into those handsome brown eyes for the sign that the time has
come. He'll give it to me, when he's ready. And hard as it will be,
we'll both know the journey was better than we could have ever possibly hoped.
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