Here's another sweet video that I thought I would pass on. –Kim

And God Made a Dog...

Source: http://www.youtube.com/embed/lJ7AfSO2fKs

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Also, see:
GoD and DoG
 

Tornado Survivor Finds Dog

Here's a sweet miraculous story of hope during an Oklahoma tornado... –Kim

Tornado Survivor Finds Dog During TV Interview

Miraculous stories of survival emerge after one of the strongest tornadoes in history tore through an Oklahoma suburb.

May 21, 2013
An elderly woman whose home was destroyed by the Oklahoma tornado found her pet dog among the rubble during a live TV interview.

The footage of Barbara Garcia came as fellow survivors began reliving the terror they felt while winds of up to 200mph obliterated their neighbourhoods.

Mrs. Garcia was standing among the twisted wreckage of her home as she was interviewed about her experiences by a reporter from CBS.

"I was sitting on the stool holding my dog," she said.

"This was the game plan all through the years, to go in that little bathroom (together in an emergency). I rolled around a little bit and when it stopped – I was right there (and) that stove cooker is what I saw.

"I never lost consciousness, and I hollered for my little dog and he didn't answer, he didn't come. So, I know he's in here somewhere."

But as she spoke, a member of the camera crew spotted a dog's head poking out of the twisted remains of her home.

Mrs. Garcia is seen crouching down before exclaiming with joy as she spots her pet.

"Well, I thought God just answered one prayer to let me be OK, but He answered both of them, because this was my second prayer," she said, before being led away from the ruins with her dog.

Meanwhile, one mother who survived the storm described how she and her children took refuge in their bath as the tornado tore their house apart.

"My husband told us to get in the bathtub immediately and put on a mattress," she said.

She said she had to hold her daughter's hair to stop her slipping away when the tornado struck.

Another family locked themselves inside their cellar – only to have its door ripped open by the twister.

Ricky Stover said: "We thought we'd die. We saw the latch coming undone and we couldn't reach for it ... glass and debris started slamming on us."

Source: http://news.sky.com/story/1093711/tornado-survivor-finds-dog-during-tv-interview
Copyright ©2013 BSkyB

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Also, see: Woman Risks Life to Save Her Dog from Tornado

Mother Dog & Baby Boy

Here's a sweet video that I thought I would pass on... –Kim

Sweet Mama Dog with a Beautiful Down Syndrome Child

Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JA8VJh0UJtg

A very sweet video... –Kim

Just a Dog?

Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRgbO5Db9Ns

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Just a dog?...

A wise man once said to me: "Love is never wasted."

To those who don't understand, I only ask that you leave room for others like me to follow their hearts and love God's creatures while we're here on earth.

Maybe it is "just a dog," but they can love and they can feel pain. And in God's mercy, I can't just sit by and do nothing. I can be there for them and love them. It's the least I can do.

– Kim

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Also, see:
"Just a Dog?" poem

A Dog's Prayer

Here's a sweet video that I thought I would pass on. –Kim

A Dog's Prayer

Unfortunately, the creator's Web site (MyDogClub) is down, but the video was worth posting anyway.

Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cE-d576ujzg

Nativity Scene & a Dog

What an amazing picture! –Kim

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

A Nativity Scene was erected in a church yard. During the night, the folks came across this scene.

An abandoned dog was looking for a comfortable, protected place to sleep. He chose baby Jesus as his comfort. No one had the heart to send him away, so he was there all night.

Maybe we should all have the good sense of this dog and curl up in Jesus' lap from time to time.... Not to mention the dog's breed was a "shepherd!"

Merry Christmas!

Source: http://puppycam.yuku.com/reply/193005/t/Re-Holiday-Photos.html

Marine's Shelter Dog Brings Comfort to Family

Shelter Dog Eases Pain Over Dead Marine

by Michael Daly
December 14, 2010

Sgt. Nicholas Aleman holds an unidentified girl and his 'shelter dog' Blackjack. Aleman was killed by a suicide bomb in Afghanistan on December 5th.

War is when 24-year-old Brooklyn Marine Sgt. Nicholas Aleman is killed in Afghanistan the same day his fiancée gets the flowers he sent for her 23rd birthday.

War is also when the Marine's 28-year-old sister in Kentucky has to tell her kids that money is tight and they must choose between Christmas presents and flying to New York for their uncle's funeral.

War is also when the Marine's 26-year-old sister is eight months pregnant and Skypes with him about the baby's middle name two days before joy is eclipsed by loss.

War is also when that sister's 2-year-old daughter pats her grieving grandmother with a reassuring little hand, saying "It's okay, it's okay."

War is also when that same little girl picks up a phone and begins punching numbers, saying she is calling her uncle the Marine, "my Tio."

And war is when the fiancée and the family take what comfort they can from the little black dog the Marine rescued from a Brooklyn shelter and named Blackjack before volunteering for his third deployment.

"He loved Blackjack," fiancée Elizabeth Rosenthal, whom he called Lizette, said yesterday. "He would go, 'Oh my God, he's so cute. He's my Blackjack.'"

"That was his baby," said the younger of the sisters, Stephanie Lugo.

"It's like a little piece of him," said the older sister, Jennifer Luciano.

The fiancée looked into the elegant little pooch's sad eyes.

"Shelter dog," she said tenderly.

The fiancée wore a necklace her Marine had also sent for her birthday, a gold chain with three hearts symbolizing his love, "yesterday, tomorrow and forever." She had never imagined Dec. 5 would mark not just when she came into the world, but also when he was torn from it.

Rosenthal learned the terrible news the next day from Luciano. The fiancée had at first thought the sister was calling to continue a conversation about the iPods she wanted to get her kids for Christmas.

"She said, 'Oh, sweetie, you didn't finish telling me about the iPods,'" Luciano recalled.

Both sisters are soldiers, as are their husbands. Military pay is such that Luciano's 10-year-old daughter, Bethany, and 8-year-old son, Matthew, had to make a choice.

"I said, 'Okay, guys, you know what happened. I'm going to leave it up to you. Do you want to buy Christmas presents or do you want to be able to go to New York?" Luciano recalled.

The kids chose New York so they could help the heart-torn grown-ups.

"They're going to need it," Bethany said.

Bethany made one request.

"Can I just have $5 so I can buy Tio some flowers?"

Instead of getting iPods, the kids will be at St. Anthony of Padua Church in Greenpoint tomorrow morning for the funeral. Aleman and Lugo were altar servers there.

"We are always raised to know God has a plan," Lugo said.

Aleman always got top grades in school and had astonishingly good penmanship and loved to read on the subway so much he would board with a book and no particular destination. He went into the Marines at 17 and went on two deployments before leaving active service to attend Fordham University. He remained in the reserves and went to Afghanistan two months ago. He was a devoted son, brother and uncle. He and his fiancée were speaking of marriage and kids.

And, in the way of war, he was killed by a suicide bomber. Lugo likes what one friend posted on Facebook: "He's still on duty. Now he's guarding Heaven's gate."

In the way of Nicholas Aleman, he leaves his loved ones with the little black shelter dog he named Blackjack.

"Blackjack marches when he walks," the sister said.

Source: http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/2010/12142010-12-14_love_for_a_shelter_dog_eases_familys_fiances_pain_over_dead_marine_sgt_nicholas_.html
© Copyright 2010 NYDailyNews.com

GoD and DoG

Check out this really cool video! –Kim

GoD & DoG
by Wendy Francisco

Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H17edn_RZoY

Related Links

• Official "GoD and DoG" Web Site

• Thoughts about the Video

• Author's Own Web Site

• Gift Idea: Get the Book!

Findings: Max and the Lost Keys

Here's a wonderful story that I thought I would pass on...hope you find it encouraging! –Kim

Sometimes Prayers are Answered in Strange and Wonderful Ways

By Kathryn Slattery
April, 2009

Let me begin by introducing you to Mighty Maximus Slattery — better known as Max. Max is not like most dogs. Pointers, for example, point. Retrievers retrieve. Hounds hunt. These highly talented and useful breeds behave this way because they are all, as my husband Tom likes to say, real dogs.

Max is a pug. A roly-poly, fawn-colored pug that excels at sleeping, eating and making us laugh. When we first brought Max home as a 10-week-old ball of fluff, we knew from the dog book that pugs were classified as having "fair intelligence" and being only "moderately trainable."

But over time we were delighted to discover that Max would do practically anything for a treat. He quickly acquired a repertoire of tricks, including "Roll Over," "Spin Around," "Bow" and "Dancey-Dancey."

Max has other talents, too. We call them his "special abilities," like the characters have on the TV show Heroes. For some inexplicable (and delicious) reason, Max smells like Fritos corn chips. He also possesses the uncanny power, at will, to utterly undo us — like Antonio Banderas's "Puss in Boots" character in the Shrek cartoons — when he cocks his head and makes his bottomless black eyes go all big and sad.

Apparently Max was born with an over-abundance of something zoologists actually call the "cute factor." With his large round head, flat face, floppy ears, and big front-facing eyes, Max ranks right up there in animal kingdom cuteness with pandas, koala bears and baby seals. But other than being irresistibly cute, what good is a pug?

Keep that thought in mind as I tell you my story....

It hadn't been a good week. A freakish tropical storm in Connecticut where we live had caused the gutters on our old house to overflow, which in turn caused a flood in our basement, including the carpeted rec room.

I was also anxiously awaiting — okay, worrying obsessively about — test results for a recent CT Scan of Tom's lungs. A month earlier, he had briefly been hospitalized with what was originally diagnosed as pneumonia. Now the doctor said he wasn't sure. Maybe it was something else...something serious.

Then I lost my keys. Well I didn't actually "lose" my keys. They vanished. One minute they were on the kitchen table next to my grocery list, securely attached to a brown braided-leather key chain. And when I looked again, after a veritable swarm of gutter and carpet cleaners arrived all at the same time, POOF! the keys were gone.

For the next two hours, I turned the house upside down and inside out looking for my keys. First, I got down on my hands and knees and scanned the kitchen floor. Nothing.

Then, I dumped and scrutinized the contents of my purse. Twice. Yes, I checked my pockets. And yes, I checked the car. And although I knew it made no sense, I also checked the refrigerator, freezer, pantry and oven.

I called my friend Sara, and told her what had happened and asked her if she would please say a little prayer — for the missing keys, and for Tom's test results. Which she did, right there over the phone. Praying helped me feel a bit less anxious about Tom — but did nothing for my state of mind about the keys.

As I hung up the phone, I was seized by an unpleasant thought: What if one of the workers took the keys?

Frantic, I phoned Tom at work, and in a rush of words told him what had happened.

"You'd better call a locksmith," he said calmly.

So I did. At least, now, we didn't have to worry about being robbed.

Days passed. But I couldn't stop wondering about the missing keys. In my mind's eye, I could picture the brown braided-leather key chain so clearly — feel its supple softness, worn smooth as a pebble after years of being tumbled around my purse. The keys were the first thing I thought of in the morning, and the last thing I thought of before going to sleep. Where could they have gone?

A week later on Saturday afternoon, Tom was standing in the kitchen doorway with dog leash in hand.

"Can you believe the way those keys never turned up?" I asked him.

"Good thing we had the locks changed," he said. "Max and I are going for a walk. Wanna come?"

"Sure."

On this particular walk, Max assumed his usual pokey pace, meandering along the sidewalk, stopping to sniff (endlessly) every tree trunk, utility pole and fire hydrant along the way. We strolled past our neighbors' homes, and then crossed the street, where an empty house was undergoing a renovation. The yard was overgrown and unkempt, littered with lumber and bricks.

Abruptly, Max veered off the sidewalk, and onto the overgrown lot, tugging fiercely on his leash.

"No, no, Max," I said. "Stay on the sidewalk."

He regarded me imploringly with his Antonio Banderas eyes, and pulled harder, suddenly lurching forward onto the lawn, and flopping down on his belly, with his legs splayed out. Panting, he closed his eyes and luxuriated in the cool softness of the tall grass and weeds.

C'mon, Max," I pleaded, pulling his leash.

Stubbornly he resisted, and became 20 unmovable pounds of dead weight as he pressed his black velvet chin even more firmly into the ground.

"I don't know what's gotten into him," said Tom. "I guess we'd better pick him up and go home."

As I bent down to pick Max up, I glimpsed something buried deep in the weeds next to Max's head, something that looked very much like a bit of brown braided-leather.

No, I thought. This can't be possible.

I tugged gently, as though pulling a small carrot out of the ground, and there they were, covered with dirt. My keys.

"Oh, my gosh!" I yelped. "I can't believe it!"

I screamed so loudly that pedestrians across the street looked over with alarm. "No problem!" I called to them, grinning ecstatically, dangling the keys in the air. "Our dog found my keys!"

They must have thought I was crazy. And for a moment, I wondered if I was. How in the world did Max, a dog who barely had a nose, let alone a sense of smell, manage to lead us precisely to this tiny patch of weeds and grass?

Good dog!" I picked Max up and buried my face in his soft fur.

He waggled his cinnamon-bun tail and snorted happily.

As the three of us turned and headed toward home, Tom speculated that perhaps the keys had, indeed, been taken by one of the workers.

"It would have been nice," Tom smiled wryly, "if Max could have found the keys before we changed the locks."

Later that afternoon, the phone rang. It was the doctor with good news. The CT Scan had revealed that Tom was healing nicely after all. Not to worry, the doctor said. Tom would be fine.

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought back over the week and remembered my prayer over the telephone with my friend, Sara.

"Oh, Kitty," I heard God's whisper. "When will you learn to stop worrying and trust Me? You know I always hear you when you pray. And you know I always answer. In My own time. In My own way." Sometimes in the most unlikely and surprising ways....

Sometimes even with a pug.

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Kathryn Slattery is a long-time Contributing Editor for Guideposts magazine, and the author of several books, including her memoir, Lost & Found: One Daughter's Story of Amazing Grace (GuidepostsBooks). Learn more about her work, and see pictures of Max at her Web site.

Source: Guideposts
http://www.guideposts.com/print/21146

A Pointer Named Cheyenne

Here's a wonderful story that I received from a friend.... Thought it might encourage you! –Kim

Her aging father needed something to lift his spirits. Or someone...

By Catherine Moore, Seattle, Washington
October, 1995

"Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!" my father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?"

Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.

"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back.

At home, I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature.

He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and he had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day, I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.

Four days after his 67th birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.

But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon, I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session we prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent.

A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believed a Supreme Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human beings on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day, I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental-health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet, their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Longhaired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs – all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons – too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen, a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats.

But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.

I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.

"He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in, I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"

"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog."

I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house, I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.

"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog, I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it!" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. I followed Dad, dragging the dog with me.

"You had better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, old man?" I screamed. At those words, Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.

Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then, Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.

It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together, he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night, I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way l feel, I thought as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church sanctuary. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.' I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before...the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article...Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter...his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father...and the proximity of their deaths.... And suddenly, I understood, I knew, that God had answered my prayers after all.

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Source: Guideposts
http://www.guideposts.com/print/11846

Also see: TreeGivers – Plant a Memorial Tree