Créer mon blog M'identifier

The Perfect Dog

Le 7 septembre 2016, 11:17 dans Humeurs 0

During summer vacations, I would volunteer at the vet's, so I'd seen a lot of dogs. Minnie was by far the funniest-looking dog I'd ever seen. Thin curly hair barely covered her sausage-shaped body. Her bugged-out eyes always seemed surprised. And her tail looked like a rat's tail.
 
She was brought to the vet to be put to sleep because her owners didn't want her anymore. I thought Minnie had a sweet personality, though. "No one should judge her by her looks," I thought. So the vet spayed her and gave her the necessary shots. Finally, I advertised Minnie in the local paper: "Funny-looking dog, well behaved, needs loving family."
 
When a young man called, I warned him that Minnie was strange looking. The boy on the phone told me that his grandfather's sixteen-year-old dog had just died. They wanted Minnie no matter what. I gave Minnie a good bath and fluffed up what was left of her scraggly hair. Then we waited for them to arrive.
 
At last, an old car drove up in front of the vet's. Two kids raced to the door. They scooped Minnie into their arms and rushed her out to their grandfather, who was waiting in the car. I hurried behind them to see his reaction to Minnie.
 
Inside the car, the grandfather cradled Minnie in his arms and stroked her soft hair. She licked his face. Her rattail wagged around so quickly that it looked like it might fly off her body. It was love at first lick.
 
"She's perfect!" the old man exclaimed.
 
I was thankful that Minnie had found the good home that she deserved.
 
That's when I saw that the grandfather's eyes were a milky white color - he was blind.

Going Home

Le 16 août 2016, 06:54 dans Humeurs 0

  I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few years,

to be told a new in one form or another. However, I still like to think that it really did happen, somewhere, sometime Wedding Planning.

  They were going to Fort Lauderdalethree boys and three girls and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches as the gray cold

of New York vanished behind them.

  As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He kept chewing

the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.

  Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him,

trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced

herself.

  “We're going to Florida,” she said brightly.“ I hear it's really beautiful.”

 “It is, ” he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.

  “Want some wine?” she said. He smiled and took a swig Hair Styling course. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.

  In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's,and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked

nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he told his story. He

had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.

  “Are you married?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You don't know?” she said.

  “Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife,” he said. “ I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it

hurt too much, well, she could just forget me, I'd understand. Get a new guy, I saidshe‘s a wonderful woman,really somethingand forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write me for

nothing. And she didn‘t. Not for three and a half years.”

  “And you're going home now, not knowing?”

  “Yeah,” he said shyly. “ Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through, I wrote her again. We used to live in Brunswick, just before Jacksonville, and there's a big oak

tree just as you come into town. I told her that if she'd take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget itno

handkerchief, and I'd go on through.”

  “Wow,” the girl exclaimed Muti Media course. “Wow.”

  She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children. The woman was handsome

in a plain way, the children still unformed in the much-handled snapshots.

  Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. The bus acquired a dark, hushed mood,

full of the silence of absence and lost years. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment.

  Then Brunswick was ten miles, and then five. Then,suddenly, all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances of joy. All except

Vingo.

  Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs20 of them, 30 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome billowing in the

wind. As the young people shouted, the old con rose and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.

What I Have Lived for

Le 6 août 2016, 08:00 dans Humeurs 0

Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind istick 100w. These passions, like great winds, have blown me higher and thither, in a wayward course, over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the verge of despair.

I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy-ecstasy so great that I would have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness-that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what - at last - I have found.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men ud bellus. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And l have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds away above the flux. A little of this, but, not much, I have achieved.

Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heaven. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberated in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, and i too suffer ego one vt.

This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and I would gladly live it again if the chance were offered to me. 

Voir la suite ≫