Dogtown… by Rachel Mankowitz

I want to live at Dogtown

Posted on August 18, 2013 by rachelmankowitz

There was a show on the National Geographic channel a few years ago set at an Animal Sanctuary in Utah called Best Friends. They have separate enclosures for birds and cats and rabbits and horses and pigs, and the section for dogs is called Dogtown.

The show focused on their work with last chance dogs, and how they try to give them better lives. Each dog has a team of veterinarians and groomers and trainers and volunteers looking out for them, and coming up with creative ideas for how to help them with problems other shelters couldnt solve. So a half-blind, ten year old dog, who couldnt walk on a leash, had people brainstorming ways to help him live his best possible life. And, if they couldnt find him a forever home, he would always have a home at the sanctuary.

Dogtown represents the kind of safety net I wish we all had, pets and humans alike, because the volunteers and groomers and vets and trainers at Dogtown seemed to be infused with a level of compassion and persistence you dont find in regular life. The problem is that most shelters are not Dogtown. Some have the compassion, but not the skill, or they have the volunteers, but not the money, or the space.

The shelter where we got Butterfly subsidizes her medical care, and sends buses to pick up dogs from puppy mills all the time, but they have no mandate to train the dogs, or help them overcome social deficits. Their goal is to send the dogs out to new homes as soon as possible.

See more at http://rachelmankowitz.wordpress.com/2013/08/18/i-want-to-live-at-dogtown/

Real reading is reincarnation.

 

there are readers and there are readers. There are people who read to anesthetize themselvesthey read to induce a vivid, continreal-readers-books-stackeduous, and risk-free daydream. They read for the same reason that people grab a glass of chardonnayto put a light buzz on. The English major reads because, as rich as the one life he has may be, one life is not enough. He reads not to see the world through the eyes of other people but effectively to become other people. What is it like to be John Milton, Jane Austen, Chinua Achebe? What is it like to be them at their best, at the top of their games?

English majors want the joy of seeing the world through the eyes of people wholet us admit itare more sensitive, more articulate, shrewder, sharper, more alive than they themselves are. The experience of merging minds and hearts with Proust or James or Austen makes you see that there is more to the world than you had ever imagined. You see that life is bigger, sweeter, more tragic and intensemore alive with meaning than you had thought.

Real reading is reincarnation.

https://chronicle.com/article/The-Ideal-English-Major/140553/

A Dog That Defines Pure Joy

I’ve never seen anyone that expresses the pure joy of being alive like Sammy, Susan’s Shih Tzu… when you’re around him you discover his happiness is contagious…

Arctic Sea Ice Minimum Sept. 13th, 2013

foot traffic in downtown Valdez, Alaska…

the photo above was made by Doug Lindstrand…
https://www.facebook.com/doug.lindstrand

Where The Wild Things Are

Emilio DeGrazia

Beneath the paved highways and streets
Where the pebble debris of long-dead seas
Has harmonized the white noise of minnow tails
With echoes in the ears of empty shells
Pearl-shimmering in sunlight streaks
That also warm dirt teeming with worms,
Grubs, beetles, roaches and ants
Do business as usual
In the traffic beneath the jackboots
Of empire state buildings swaying drunkenly
Under the influence of arrogance and ignorance––
There seeds find refuge in muck’s milk
And there they wait for their moment
To unfurl their flags out of cracked concrete.

 

the best poems come from the best storytellers… e.e. cummings

e.e. cummings

nobody loses all the time

i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added

my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when

my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner

or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Unde Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scrumptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and

i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol

and started a worm farm)


Edward Estlin Cummings :
http://www.poemhunter.com/