It Was A Cat. Not A Baby.

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For those of you who spent your time on Facebook, or outside a dental clinic, or whining in the break area about the dead lion yesterday, I’d like to point out that it was a cat.

A big, beautiful cat. An old cat. A famous cat. A cat that was possibly legally taken by the hunter in question, perhaps not. I wasn’t there. So the technical nature of the kill is beyond my current knowledge base.

I did, however, happen to spend a few minutes of my morning praying outside a Planned Death (they call it parenthood) abortion mill in my home town. There were three of us there at 8:15 this morning. Oh, and one woman in a ‘we-kill-babies’ smock who wouldn’t make eye contact while we prayed on the sidewalk. They rip children out of their mothers under the protection of the law. They use my tax dollars to do this unspeakable act.

Sad that the puddy-tat died. Much more sad that members of our own species are wiped out by the thousands every day in this country in abortions. Even more sad, and grotesque, the parts are sold off to make a nifty profit. The procedure has been modified so that it’s not so “crunchy.” Crunchy. Like the noise made when babies are crushed by forceps.

For those of you spitting at your computer and shreiking about what a misogynist I am, and that it’s the law to allow legal and safe abortions, go ahead. It’s not safe for the children they are killing. It is legal.

So were the Nuremberg laws at one time. So was wife-beating. So was slavery (it’s called by other names, but it’s the same thing in some countries.) So were gas chambers, death camps, and gulags. It is by definition legal if the state does it in most places.

I’d like to think a human being is more important to mourn than a cat. After all, you can teach a human to do calculus, but you can’t teach a cat.

Those of you who get the joke will weep when you think about it.

I’ll be on the sidewalk again next week. I’m done pretending that abortion is a choice of anything but death for a kid.

If you support that foul group of Sangerites that scrape children out of their mothers to turn a profit, I hope you come to your senses before judgement day. I’m a sinner and have a lot to answer for in this life. I’m devoutly glad that is not on the list. Hasn’t been since I hit adulthood. No United Way. No Combined Federal Campaign. Nada. I give my money to life affirming groups. (By the way, the really wonderful part of Christianity is the concept that if you confess your sins and repent (ask forgiveness and acknowledge your wrong) you can be washed clean in the process. Jesus is very good in that way. Well, in every way. Never to late to make up for an abortion if you want.)

Defund the death merchants. Which reminds me: Mitch McConnell, you stink like death if you continue to play games on this issue. Be clear, be forthright, and don’t try the double-dazzle bait-and-switch that you have in progress.

I’ll also spare any of you the pain of writing to me in the comments about why the death of the cat is bad and the death of babies helps medical science. If it’s so hot, how about volunteering your children? Or yourself? I mean, it’s really important research, right? Oh… well, never mind. I won’t be posting your comments anyway.

Now, back to the missing Malaysian airliner, the guy wearing a dress and claiming to be a woman, and the crucially important celebrity divorce in country music.

On The Soggy Side Of The Street. Loyalty Goes Two Ways.

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I wrote the other morning about my beloved/annoying dog Stormy and her demands that I protect her from thunderstorms. This morning was a repeat. There is, however, a twist and a realization that went along with it all.

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I had a migraine yesterday that laid me low. Not only was the headache a pure misery, but the cure was almost as bad. It’s a tough choice: blinding pain or nausea and the jitters from the medication. I suffered through the ordeal at work and slumped home, rather a wreck.

Upon arrival my little friend comforted me on the back steps where we spend some time each day. Much like her following me around the house a week ago when I was doing prep for a procedure, she showed her loyalty once again. If I’m hurting, she’s there with me. Maybe not on my lap, maybe not at my side, but definitely in the room watching over me. She’s biologically programmed to do these things and she does them well.

Early this morning the storms rolled in again and she was upset. Loud noise is her enemy. One she can’t fight. One she wants to flee. But with no thumbs the doorknobs stop her cold. So she wakes me up to warn me and seek comfort.

Once again I pulled her on the bed in an effort to quiet/calm her for a time. I needed more sleep. It worked for an hour or two, but again she got me up (this time with a rake of her claw) to alert me to the impending danger.

Okay. Within half an hour of my alarm so what the heck. Brush teeth, turn off alarm, open door so she can go out and do her business. Outside that door the storm is raging. Thunder, heavy rain, the whole enchilada.

Three steps out the door and an about face. She’s sweet, but she’s not made of sugar. I know that, but she evidently melts when the thunder and rain are out there. Following my tenth admonition to “go poop” it was quite clear that she wouldn’t leave the top step.

That’s where the two way street comes in: I don’t want her holding her bladder for twenty hours. She doesn’t want to leave the safety of the step. Answer: go down the step, stand under the tree in the thunderstorm (yeah, genius level work) and encourage her to follow and do her business. It works.

I was wet and smiling when we came back inside. Her bladder empty, my heart full. Sometimes you need to do the unpleasant or difficult thing for a friend in need. It’s part of your DNA if you’re worth anything as a human – or a dog.

Consequently my favorite smell in the whole world permeates the living room as I write this: wet dog. Seriously. It means comfort, memories of my first dog, and the joy that a good hug from your dog brings.

Get out there and hug your wet dog (what ever that may be) today. They’re counting on you.

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Doctor Stormy At Your Service: Sleep Deprivation Our Specialty!

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Sometimes animals have names that fit them perfectly. Barky Barkerson might be a good one for my little friend. Stormy? Perhaps the most unlikely name you could pick for this little dog.

She gets to nap...

She gets to nap…

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Thursday night we had thunderstorms in the Twin Cities. I can safely say that they started around 2:40 that morning. That’s because the breathing started about then. Breathing. As in “Wake from a sound sleep with a sheep dog standing two feet away breathing heavily and loudly.” I thought for a minute that the ghost of our Old English was back: he specialized in breathing loudly when he wanted your attention. It’s not possible that a 35 pound dog could make the same level of noise that a 90 pound dog could, is it?

Why, yes, it is! When the exhalation festival didn’t get sufficient attention she moved to plan “B” – paws on the bed, her face six inches from mine.

Stormy doesn’t like to be held or comforted like other dogs I’ve known. Instead of hopping on the bed and being safe, she prefers pacing. So pace she did. Me? I rolled back on my side and went back to sleep. For 11 minutes.

The breathing was back. Given my bad hearing and the ambient noise in the room with the fans, that’s pretty amazing. But I rubbed her face, said soothing words, and turned to face the wall.

This time it was more like 8 minutes. This went on from 2:40 until about 5:40 when I threw in the towel and got up to make breakfast. We hit the back door just in time to catch the last of the rain.

She, being very tired from her activity, took a nap while I made something to eat. I left a little early for work and stopped for two enormous caffeinated sodas, a 24 ounce coffee, and a package of caffeine stimulant pills at my favorite gas station.

For the next 10 hours I consumed all the buzz drink and pills I could stomach, finally hitting a decent level of alertness around hour 7. She, on the other hand, was at home barking and snoozing.

I can’t be mad. She’s terrified of the noise from thunderstorms. But can’t she show this anxiety by passing out? I need the sleep.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

I’ve Got A Primo Never Used Set Of Kidneys For Sale. Whatcha Offerin?

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I’m a history buff. Love to read about historical monsters and evil regimes in particular. The “they almost won” moments make me glad that good triumphed over evil. Because evil is very powerful and seductive, it’s often been a very close thing.

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Planned Parenthood is on the evil side of things. No link for butchers. Well, that’s a little strong. Maybe. But what else do you call people who sell meat from creatures they kill and profit by it?

Ah, exaggerating you say? Well, watch this video and then we’ll continue.

I’m not going to spend a lot of time documenting Planned Parenthood’s history since Margaret Sanger rolled on to the scene. I’ll just quote her and move on: “We should hire three or four colored ministers, preferably with social-service backgrounds, and with engaging personalities. The most successful educational approach to the Negro is through a religious appeal. We don’t want the word to go out that we want to exterminate the Negro population, and the minister is the man who can straighten out that idea if it ever occurs to any of their more rebellious members.”

It’s not pretty, is it? Eugenics, killing babies – I’d continue listing horrors, but that’s quite enough.

Now, for those of you who were duped/deluded/self-hypnotized into thinking that it was all counseling and prenatal checks at those clinics, I hope you have a little different view. It’s a factory for producing dead babies. Sometimes for money. Don’t we all want Lamborghini’s?

Don’t donate money to them. Don’t donate money to anyone who funds them. Don’t allow the government to continue funding them. They are the same as the Nazi’s and their death camp experiments with children. If you can convince yourself otherwise, Lord have mercy on your soul.

On to something else. Just wanted to remind you that abortion is murdering a child. Yes, I know I’ll lose a few Facebook likes and a few readers over this blog. I always do when this topic comes up. I can live with it.
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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Thank God It Was Depression And Not Jihad. What A Load…

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For those of you who missed all the news coverage last week, another Islamic Jihadist took it upon himself to conduct a personal attack on the United States of America. This scumbag (his name isn’t worthy of my blog) wasn’t quite up to the task and wound up getting killed after murdering five of my brothers in the Navy and Marine Corps. It was a terrorist act, done by a Muslim, against the armed forces of the United States. Like most really successful terrorist attacks it was conducted against victims who had no weapons.

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It’s okay, though: his family said he was depressed and confused. That makes it perfectly fine. His reading skills were evidently impaired as well by his overwhelming sadness. He missed the warning notice posted on the door, and a widely known federal law, that prohibits you from carrying a weapon on federal property. Naughty boy. The response, of course, is to say that we need to tighten down on the abundance of weapons available to pathetic losers like this one. I, on the other hand, have a different outlook to present.

Once again, I am calling for weapons to be available to members of the military at all times. Before your liberal head explodes, or you start screaming “Posse Comitatus” at the top of your lungs, get yourself educumateded or something. Seriously, who’s better equipped to carry a weapon than a trained military member? Posse Comitatus doesn’t prohibit military members from being armed, it just means they can’t do law enforcement duties. (Exceptions are made for National Guard and Coast Guard.)

That’s right: all the time. They know how to use them, and I’m not talking about arresting terrorists. I’m talking about killing them when they attack. Simple, no? Pull a weapon, scream Allahu Akbar, Seig Heil, Che Lives, or any other drivel of the sort and die on the spot. No pesky trial or nothin. Brutal? Any more so than shooting up guys in a recruiting office or out on the grounds of an installation? How about when some psychiatrist with a jihadi bent goes deep end? Bang. We get to shoot back.

We are at war. With Islam. I know that doesn’t sit well with some of you. Tough. Reality is reality. Wars only end when one side is defeated. Today is not the day we surrender. Islam, on the other hand, can end the war today by just stopping the attacks against us and we’ll all be cool again. This war has periodically flared since what’s-his-name (the guy you can’t draw cartoons of) cropped up in the desert and started converting people at the end of a sword. Only when pushed back into their box do they go quiet. Always to come back to the battlefield when they feel strong enough, but the death’s at least slow down for a time.

Mr. President: arm our military. Let them defend themselves. It’s overdue.

Just in case you think I’m bashing the current occupant of the White House, I thought it was a dumb idea to make us stand guard duty with no weapon when I served. Strangely, I never had to stand that post because I was out at sea with real weapons. But the powers that be decided that we should go from armed Marines guarding our complex to unarmed sailors with a bomb mirror. I vaguely remember being counselled for having a negative opinion when I pointed out what a stupid idea that was.

If you expect us to protect you, at least let us protect ourselves. Now. Not tomorrow. Now.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.