Every pet owner has a sad dog story. My dogs are elderly and we’re preparing for the end of the journey, as are a couple of our friends lately. Here’s a few tip from our board of directors.
When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.
Allow the experience of fresh air and wind in your face to
Be pure ecstasy.
When it’s in your best interest, practice obedience.
Let others know when they’ve invaded your territory.
Take naps.
Stretch before rising.
Run, romp and play daily.
Thrive on attention and let people touch you.
Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.
On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.
When you’re happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
No matter how often you’re scolded, don’t buy into the guilt thing and pout;
Run right back and make friends.
Delight in the simple joy of taking a walk.
Eat with gusto and enthusiasm.
Stop when you’ve had enough.
Be loyal. Never pretend to be something you’re not.
If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
When someone is having a bad day, be silent.
Sit close by and nuzzle them gently.
Jeff Sass wrote about his experience at a memorial tribute for a friend of the family.
It was a true celebration of a life, and an evening filled with much more laughter than tears. There were probably 400 people in attendance, and a heavy presence of both law enforcement professionals and leather clad bikers, two seemingly disparate communities, yet my friend’s dad was clearly beloved by both.
To say it was inspirational would be a gross understatement.
I think I learned many things last night, but the one thing I want to try harder to focus on is to celebrate life now. I want to celebrate my life and all that I have to be grateful for, and I want to celebrate the lives of my children and my family and all the people that I love. I don’t want to wait for the memorial.
Jeff Sass is the proud dad of ZEO (Zach, 22, Ethan, 20 and Olivia, 18). He is also a seasoned entertainment and technology exec and active social media enthusiast. See more of Jeff’s writing at Dadomatic.
My dad likes the show Deadliest Catch. In a phone conversation the other day, he asked me if I’d ever seen the show. No, but I’d seen news feeds and knew that one of the captains had died suddenly.
He went on to to describe the season finale, Captain Phil’s memorial service. Dad knew that we sold motorcycle tank urns, and went on to describe the customized urn that was designed.
Deadliest Catch, Phil Harris Urn
Well, evidently Phil’s untimely death made for some great t.v., because I found pages and pages on a Deadliest Catch discussion board. I had no idea it had such a following. And the urn design by the Killer Paint Company? A huge hit with the fans.
Our Larkspur have already come and gone. Always precarious in early spring, it takes me awhile to distinguish between weed and bloom. Over the years, I’ve ripped up a few plants before I realized. Larkspur are easy, hardy, and often in the wildflower mixes that you can buy inexpensively and sprinkle out of a can.
Larkspur is the July birth flower and symbolizes laughter, energy, and relaxation.
A nice surprise on Memorial Day 2010, poppies sprang up around the bird bath in the garden.
We love poppies, blood red oriental poppies. Ancient Egyptians placed garlands of poppies on mummies and the Greeks crowned their dead with the flower. Legend has it that in Europe, poppies sprang up on battlefields from the blood of slain soldiers. In the Victorian language of flowers, Poppies symbolize consolation, sleep, and rest, and was commonly used to memorialize the dead.
“And now, my beauties, something with poison in it, I think. Something with poison in it, but attractive to the eye, and soothing to the smell. Poppies… Poppies. Poppies will put them to sleep. Sleep. Now they’ll sleep!”
-The Wicked Witch of the West
We’ll miss seeing you buzzing around the garden. Merle had his chair rigged for trash collection, and was the eyes and ears for our block. A good man and proud American. Our thoughts go out to the family.
His stories shift and change, and he admits he hasn’t always been truthful. But no one knows why. He carries no identification. He swears he’s never smiled for a passport photo. He has no birth certificate, no Social Security card. No family. Just a couple of old friends. And before he dies, even they want to know:Who is Roger George?
