"Tank"

From Tranquilla 2 - The Back of Eddy Creek on Lake Barkley --- The following story according to snopes.com is not "true" and yet I quite suspect that many men and women who have deployed have faced similar situations and feelings. This is just a reminder of how much we do truly owe those who would defend our country at a time of war. My friend Lynn Beckman and Stephanie Farhie both sent the story to me on the same day. Lynn in her note to me says ...

"I imagine these circumstances really happened, some time, some where. If you have ever been so blessed to be on the receiving end of the unconditional love of an animal, have your tissues handy, because this is..... A really great dog story! ~Lynn Beckman" I agree.

They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.

But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. he shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.

But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys (almost all of which were brand new tennis balls), his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe we were too much alike.

For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls - he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff..... that I'd get him new things once he settled in.... but it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.

I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth of fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.

This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes. I was a little too stern with him and he resented it; I could tell. The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cellphone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest room, but I also mumbled, rather cynically, that the "damn dog probably hid it on me."

Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and wagged, the most enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction - maybe "glared" is more accurate - and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down. With his back to me.

Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought. And I punched the shelter phone number.

But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that, too. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice.".........

To Whoever Gets My Dog: Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time... it's like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong... which is why I have to go to try to make it right.

So let me tell you about my Lab, in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hordes them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful - really - don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.

Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones - "sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals: "back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down - I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.

I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.

He's up on his shots. Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car - I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.

Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.

Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....

His name's not Reggie.

I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it; of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well... well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.

His real name is Tank.

Because that is what I drive.

Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call to the shelter... in the "event"... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.

Well, this letter is getting to downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family. But still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.

And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family, and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me.

That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things... and to keep those terrible people from coming over here. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He was my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.

Thank you,

Paul Mallory

_____________________________________

I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory; everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.

"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.

The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.

"C'mere, boy."

He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.

"Tank," I whispered.

His tail swished.

I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.

"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So whaddaya say we play some ball?" His ears perked again. "Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room.

And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

From the “Love Shack” at Tybee Island, Georgia --- In visiting with our friend Sue by phone here at the island a while ago, it dawned on me as to the answer to the question: “What is it about Tybee Island that makes you like it so much?”

As I was telling Sue, for some reason I have never really felt like I had a “home” where I could be “just me” and not worry about what someone else would think. All my life I was expected to be the best at whatever I did, was to keep my head under the radar, and stay afloat.

I have always felt I was under intense scrutiny because of the various very public positions I held in government and the corporate world.

Living under the microscope can and does make you at least think you might be paranoid now and then. Every move you make can and often is criticized. This can and often does make you feel “unloved” and unappreciated for who you are.

No don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t that my parents didn’t love me. My Dad certainly had problems showing that but my Mom – well, there was never a doubt about the fact she loved her son.

I strived to become independent quickly in my life to “escape” the scrutiny of my parents and my community and at 19 years old was married and settled into a routine of work and school at Murray State University.

Independence is a hard thing to wrestle with I have found in these past 59-years. All people whether we like it or not are at the best interdependent on each other for love, work, interaction, and conversation. Yet, no one could say that I have not strived to be independent.

I recall in a relationship that was very meaningful to me a young woman saying, “I will never depend on anyone but myself.” Although that would be the same attitude I have harbored all these years in my personal and professional life honed by “Leland’s Laws” 1) Trust no one 2) Assume nothing 3) Triple check everything – the reality is that as humans we need each other.

That brings me back to Tybee Island and the dog park.

Who would have thought that I, of all people, would have become a “dog park addict” and a "Tybee-ite” so quickly; well, perhaps the reality is that it wasn’t that quick – we have after all been coming here regularly 20 years now – but to admit that my life has been enriched by the various characters I have met here – many of whom have become dear friends – is quite the admission for an old curmudgeon like me.

My grandfather, whom I have idolized and probably romanticized more than he would care for, always said that you could judge a man’s (or woman’s) character by how they treated dogs, children and their elders. He would be proud of many of the men and women I have met and brought into my circle of friends through the dog park. Needless to say, not all but the vast majority of the folks that visit there meet or exceed the criteria of Papaw’s character test. And so it was today that Sue and I shared our reasons for loving this island and its many characters.

I am finally at “home” here in my life even if it is just inhabiting two bedrooms, one bath college-like apartment with two dogs and the wife.

It has been a very long time since I felt secure with my situation and myself, there are many reasons for that and yet I finally feel I have arrived.

It is the realization perhaps that security, comfort and the love of friends is an organic process that as it changes either matures and grows more comfortable and meaningful or left to its own design without our effort withers and dies.

Strange as it may seem, I always thought I was “born” into the wrong family.

Perhaps this feeling has fostered in my life the need to “build my own families” with my own “brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers” of my choice. As Kay recently pointed out to me, perhaps I am more comfortable and at ease with my “extended family” than my few remaining members of my birth family.

It has been over the years the many “Dads” and “Moms” and the many “brothers and sisters” that I have adopted and that even to this day I am in touch with – that have comforted me in my times of need, encouraged me in my times of despair, and loved me when I had trouble loving myself.

It is here on Tybee Island that my “adopted parents” – Jim and Ann – also “parents” of Shadow – comfort me, shelter me, inspire me and provide unconditional acceptance and love.

And so it is here at this island that friends (and their “children”) like Sue (Ace’s Mom), Glenn (Marley’s Papaw), Miss Vivian (Sister’s Mom), Miss Nancy (Rocky’s Mom), Tim and Allison (parents to Lucy), Kim (Cole’s Mom), Chris (Roxie's Dad) and our dear friends and landlords Vince and Junie (Tobe’s parents) reach out to us and welcome us back. It feels like I am coming home finally.

It is said that people long to be at home and that your home is whatever place you long to be.

“Home is where the heart is.”

And that my dear friends would be Tybee for me.

Love, peace and grace,

Dr. Darryl

Meet Logan - A Young Man Wise Beyond His Years

From Tranquilla II on the Back of Eddy Creek - Lake Barkley --Many of you probably have already seen or heard this report about the 13-year old fellow named Logan that called into the local radio station and explained what "God had told him" - if you haven't I recommend you take a few minutes and watch this short clip. I am always moved by the wisdom that often come from those so young.

Love, peace and grace,

Dr. Darryl

We Will Miss You and I Will Always Regret Not Having the Opportunity

From Tranquilla II on the Back of Eddy Creek - Lake Barkley -- If the rumors I have just heard this evening are true - and they are still rumors but seem to be based in fact - one of my old high school friends and chums from the 60s is dead. The stories vary, however, it seems he may have taken his own life.

As someone who has struggled with depression all his life, I can attest to the horrible state of mind it can and does put you into and without relief what it can lead to. I have been to the point of having to lock away the gun from the bullets because I feared what I would do if they were easily accessible. I am thankful that most of those days are in the distant past and yet I am always alert to the old "Black Dog" as Sir Winston Churchill called the malady sneaking upon me.

Depression is one of the most insidious and meanness afflictions Man has ever had to deal with.

It is with much regret and a deep sadness that I have heard of this and had no idea that my friend could have needed help. I have not seen him in over 40-years but did hear about him now and then since we moved back to Kentucky.

I would have given anything to have sat him down and listened.

Sometimes my friends that is truly all we need. Good listeners are hard to find. Don't pass up the opportunity if it is presented to you.

The following story that came about in December 1996, hard to believe it was now 13-years ago, sums up some of my feelings.

Love, peace and grace to my friends' family and to all of you.

Dr. D.

We Will Miss You Billy Boy

Yesterday I attended the funeral of my first cousin William Chalmers Dorn Jr. Billy to almost

everyone.

Billy was thirty-seven-years-old and hadn't lost an ounce of baby fat since he was born. What he

had lost, nine months ago, was 85% of his skin in a freakish flash fire that happened when he was outside

burning some leaves. For the same amount of time it takes a human life to be born, the ghost that Billy had

become crept quietly toward the light.

First, for the longest time, in a coma in a burn unit in Paducah, Kentucky; then, for a much shorter

time, in the ironically named Bryan Dorn VA Hospital in Louisville. Finally, after coming out of his coma long

enough to say he hoped he hadn't caused his mother too much worry, The Captain told this former Coast

Guard sailor to "Stand down..." Last Sunday Billy died.

Billy is the oldest child and the only son of Chalmers and Jeanne Dorn. Chalmers is my mother's

brother. Chalmers has always intimidated me, at least until the last several years. Chalmers was an MP in

the military before joining the City Police Force. Chalmers is a big burly man who maintains the

steeliest eye contact I have ever seen and tends to twitch in an imperceptible way even when he is at "rest";

in short, he gives the impression of restrained violence.

In the late 60's, three things happened to Chalmers: Jeanne gave birth to twins that both died within

a day, his father, my grandfather, died, and he was thrown off a third story fire escape during a race riot and

landed on his back on a nail. After that, Chalmers was never the same man.

Jeanne is a part Indian school teacher who is the best cook I have ever known. She is, if there ever

was one, an earth mother. When she smiles, you see the sun coming up over the fields. When she

welcomes you into her home, you know she means it. When she moves her largish frame around the

kitchen, getting this or that dish of beans laced with fatback or plate of coconut cake ready for the table, you

know she is really thinking about you the whole time. When she breathes, Chalmers is glad to be alive.

The last time I saw Chalmers and Jeanne, which was years ago, they took me to a local stock car

race. Chalmers loves cars. He buys a new one every year. Because he used to be a cop, Chalmers enjoys

the largesse of his fellow police officers.

Nevertheless, on the way to the races, Jeanne said, "Chalmers, you're going too slow," and took

the wheel. After that, we spent more time in the median than we did in the road and passed several

patrolmen who simply waved at us before we slid into the dirt area behind the pits at the race track. I never

saw the race. I passed out from exhaustion at the race getting to the race. I dunno who won.

Jeanne and Chalmers' two other children, Beth and Jeannie Marie, are indescribably beautiful. Beth is

married to an almost stereotypical big hunk of a man who never seems to be unhappy from Georgia;

together, they have four children, one of whom, Lisa, at age thirteen, has her black belt and wants to be an

astrophysicist. Jeannie Marie, who is short like my grandmother, married a man who is roughly her height

and has one child. Jeannie Marie looks like Pocahontas.

Billy never married. He liked girls, he told my aunt, but he was too shy. After he left the Coast Guard, he

came back home to live with his parents and got a job as a security guard. His real job was to look after his

parents and his sisters.

Sometimes he and Chalmers farmed. Chalmers was once a big farmer, two thousand acres. Soy

beans mostly. Billy did most of the work. But mostly he lived with Chalmers and Jeanne.

Once, in the middle of winter, Jeannie Marie needed a typewriter ribbon to finish a paper she was

doing for a graphics design class she was taking at a local technical college. Billy drove her downtown in

his truck and along the way hit a sheet of ice that caused him to skid down a street and hit several cars in

the process. When the truck came to a stop at the bottom of the hill, Billy immediately got out of the truck

and called the police.

When the policeman arrived, he asked Billy, "Why didn't you just keep going?" Billy, irate, replied,

"They're someones' cars!"

The most moving part of the funeral for me was when they folded the American flag on Billy's

mahogany coffin and handed it to his mother. The man who folded it, who must have been burying people

before I was born, folded the flag with such great care I got goose bumps.

It must have taken him five minutes. Religiously he smoothed out every crease and made every

turn and then very very patiently waited for his young assistant to make the final tuck perfect before he

handed the field of stars to my aunt and whispered something to her that I couldn't hear. While he did this, I

had flashes of Americans landing against impossible odds at Normandy and Confederate soldiers going

over the top at Cemetery Ridge and Billy in the Coast Guard rescuing an eight-year-old on a catamaran that

his mother shouldn't have rented for him.

Billy was a big boy, although not as big as his father. He had a great smile and to the best of my

knowledge he never hurt anyone. In particular, he loved animals and children.

I never pushed Billy around when we were children because he giggled too much. Billy never got

married. He was too shy.

Rest in Peace, Billy Boy.

Rest in Peace.

10-7

December 4, 1996

"I'm Cured" - Kind of Sorta ....

From Tranquilla II on the Back of Eddy Creek - Lake Barkley -- Have you ever met a fellow and just knew from the outset you would be good friends? Such was the case when I met my buddy Matt Figert. It has been a while since I had a hunting, running, drinking and shooting buddy and certainly a while since I had a friend with as weird a sense of humor as I have.

My old pal Doug, as many of you will recall, got killed in a car accident a few years ago. One of the toughest eulogies I have ever delivered was at his services attended by law enforcement officers from across Tennessee and a most humbling experience to hear Amazing Grace played on the bag pipes followed by the lonely words that "Doug Bailey has gone 10-7." Doug was like a brother to me. He actually got me out of my shell from the loss of my dear old friend Bert Ballard and had me enjoying shooting and hanging out again.

When Doug died I kind of went back into the shell I am known to occupy from time to time in my life. I kept on "chopping wood and hauling water" but with little joy.

Then along came John - er I mean Matt.

A retired CPO and now a resident expert on an offshore oil rig, Matt and his wife Janette became fast friends. Matt liked good food and a variety of books, wine, beer, hard liquor, dogs and guns. He enjoyed deer hunting and breakfast at Miss Peggy's! Who was I to question the Universe? What more could you ask for in a good buddy?

So, when Matt sent me this cartoon it resonated.

This week I had a sonogram of one of those male body parts we don't speak of and having gone to a urologist now for four years I have come to appreciate the humiliation of stirrups and probes that women have long gone through.

The sonogram was fine. The blood tests are fine. The exam went as usual - it sucked. However, I have once again come through another year cancer free.

Am I "cured"? Well that is still to be determined but then I just couldn't resist sharing this cartoon with you as it so aptly sums up my feelings.

Kay and I will be off to work in Florida next week, I will be home for a day and then head to Iowa and Arizona. However, I will stay in touch as best I can.

Enjoy my friends. Simper Fi, De Oppresso Liber, God Bless America and yes Nancy, BHO and Harry those "Tea Parties" are for real and we are serious!

Love peace and grace,

Dr. D

When You Know You Have Friends - Bert Ballard 1929-2002

Brother Bert Ballard, Brother Jim Suitor, and Me

From Tranquilla II on the Back of Eddy Creek - Lake Barkley -- My ole buddy Bert Ballard (Sept. 30, 1929 - March 25, 2002) is sorely missed. Bert and I were friends from the first day we met and shared a beer at the old Holiday Inn in Bardstown.

Older than me, Bert was that older Brother I always wanted but he also served as a mentor, hunting buddy and sometimes a Father figure. We went through our divorces together and I had the privilege of being able to spend a year of Thursdays with Bert while he was in Hospice care.

I credit the old man with saving my own life when he sternly pointed out to me to never ever take blood in your urine lightly. Bert died from complications of bladder cancer.

Bert dished out some good advice over the years. Some of it hard to take at times. He believed you probably truly only loved one woman ever in your life and that most men had unrequited love in their hearts. He and I shared the belief that you never sit with your back to the door.

That southern gentlemen were always gentlemen, irrespective of the situation. That dogs will almost always die before you do and your heart will be broken by it. That the only good Bourbon was Kentucky Bourbon and to stay away from anything else. He razed me alot about liking Scotch as much as Bourbon but that was okay, because he was my buddy.

Bert and I hunted together for 30-years in Alabama, Kentucky and Georgia and I use the term "hunting" lightly since many years our idea of the sport was to go to the woods and watch and listen and never take a shot. But we always ate and drank well. We always told the same stories so they must have been true.

When Bert finally decided there would be no more chemotherapy, this occurred after his daughter Julie preceded him in death from breast cancer, I decided that I could not allow him to just go gently into the night. So, every Thursday I would trek to Bardstown and in the early stages of the dying process we would go to lunch and for a drive and come back for cocktails around 4 p.m.

We would tell some of the same stories. He would show me his old home place and talk about his childhood and his days as the general manager of the Stephen Foster Story. He would brag on his kids and sometimes cry about the loss of his daughter. Some days we would "plink" with his old .22 or .38 and some days we would just sit quietly and be with each other.

As the time grew nearer I sat down and wrote the following letter. I share it with you because I believe that we owe it to those we love and believe in to tell them that. So many times we forget that life has no guarantees and that the next minute could be our last.

This is what I wrote to my best friend. Maybe in some way it will inspire you to sit down and write a letter to your best friend. I hope so. They are few and far between and are so very precious.

February 8, 2002

My dear Brother Bert,

To simply tell you I am grateful for the shotgun would be an understatement. However, I really don’t like the conditions under which I am having to accept it.

It seems just like yesterday that we met at the Holiday Inn during one of the travel show planning meetings. I recall afterwards we escaped and had a beer with Dawn Ford and some other folks. That was 30-years ago.

The time has flown by. I knew from that day that we would be good friends. I never had any idea that you would end up being my very best friend, confidante, and most dependable hunting buddy.

Ah, the times we have shared. And I guess that is what saddens me. To think that we won’t get to create any more of those memories. But what wonderful memories they are. I will always cherish them. And as long as my mind stays in tact, I will always be able to take them out and recall them with as much fondness as the days and nights we created them.

Some of my earliest memories are of you and Hank Lindsey and me. Working the Cincy travel show, meeting Miss Mississippi, and you guys trying to drop me off with some old broad that was strolling the sidewalk in the wee hours of the morning!

Then there was the days of the go-go girls and the old soul singer in the cabaret that we went to that was a hospital theme. Remember that one? They used bed pans to pass around pretzels. But you may remember she had a voice and moves like a 30-year old.

Hell, she had to be 90 if she was a day.

There was the days of the peanut bar in the old Hilton. The time we got snowed in in Cincy and Cleveland and probably other places that I forget.

There was the Milwaukee trip where we ate raw hamburger, red onion slices, on a piece of bread and drank cold Pabst beer. There were the St. Patty Day parades and the two of us cold as could be bundled up and leaning back to back to hold each other up after a night of drinking.

Then there was the year of being on the wagon. Remember when we carried our root beer wherever we went? Most people didn’t think we could do it. But we did. I recall having to do it to prove to myself that I didn’t have to wake up in a city and not know which city I was in. I got tired of looking for phone books to remind me of the town I had slept in the night before.

There were the musical rooms on nights when snow and ice was so deep no one could travel, or at least shouldn’t have. Then there was the infamous Indy night when Dawn Ford played room arranger and none of us except you ended up in the proper room!

There were the antics with Brother Jim in Indy and East St. Louis. And yet, we all got out alive, God surely protects children and fools!

There were all the opening nights and your hospitality to all of us all those years. Of course, after the first two times of watching “The Story” I looked forward to just sitting in the office with my Bro. And having a drink and laughing and clowning around as we often did.

There were the AAA tours and the bartending, baggage carrying and always the promoting of our properties and the dances and meals and busses. Through it all you maintained your good humor.

Remember our writers’ tours and you guiding for me? I never told them you weren’t from Lake Barkley. I just told them all they had one of the best damn guides and he happened to be my best friend.

They all seemed okay with that. And you even caught some fish!

Remember those scary houseboat rides at night on Lake Cumberland and Lake Barkley?

And then there were all our hunting trips. I will miss them the most. Alabama and then Georgia and finally Kentucky. All those years of Daddy Paul and Mrs. Reed and Mrs. Nixon. Then Brother Jim had to screw it up killing the largest deer ever taken off their property and not telling them before someone else did!

The years we got deer and the years we didn’t. It never really mattered to me. It was about having time with my best friend that mattered.

I am so grateful you could hunt this year although I know it had to be tiring on you. I will forever be grateful for that though and for Elmer’s stand building abilities.

Some of my friends have never understood that it wasn’t about hunting. It was about being together as friends. Spending timing catching up and laughing and talking and drinking and playing cards and cooking meals and sitting in deer stands watching squirrels.

You have been more than just a friend of mine Bert. You have truly been my best friend.

You hung in there with me through all of it. The good and the bad. You stayed beside me when I went through the Rebecca and Judy thing. You were still there after I screwed them up and had foolishly broken my heart more than once.

You were there when Kay came into the scene and you were there when David and Dad died.

You have been here for the July 4th celebrations and the fireworks. And to think you won’t be here for those is really very difficult for me.

You were more than just a friend to me Bert. You taught me a great deal about marketing and tourism. I thank you for that. You and Bill Knight and Ray Scott took me under your wings and helped me learn from some real professionals. I am appreciative.

You are the big brother I never had. The Father that paid me more attention than my own Dad. You are my running buddy, my hunting buddy, my mentor, my touchstone.

If there was anything I could do other than pray I would. Yet, I must confess that I prayed lots in 1991 and those prayers were answered for eleven more years. God was good to us. I think he understood from my prayers that I just couldn’t stand to loose you then. He comforted me as he comforts you now. Through his grace I shared eleven more years of your friendship. I am so grateful for that.

I pray that there will be a miracle. That something will happen and reverse all this yet I am realistic and I understand the reality. I just don’t want you to suffer and I do want you to know how much I love you.

I will never forget you. Your shotgun will always hang in a special place in my cabin. Every time I look at it will recall our fun times together.

And if you can Bro. Please stop by now and then. Put your hand on my shoulder or hug me in that way you hug so well. Whisper to me when I get too far afield - I will listen hard.

I have told a few people about this but not many. The evening after we buried Weldon Petty I was en route to Chattanooga. I had Weldon and Sue Weller on my mind. I don’t know if I said it out loud or not but I said something to the effect of “Sue if you and Weldon are okay give me a sign that I can’t miss.”

Just about that time I topped Monteagle and was heading down when the biggest, brightest explosion I have ever seen in the sky happened. I thought a plane had blown up. I rushed into Chattanooga and stopped at the Tennessee Patrol station just outside of town to report what I had seen. They had heard about it already. They said no planes had gone down. No explanation.

The news later that night said NASA nor NORAD had an explanation but thought it was probably space junk.

Then it dawned on me that Sue and Weldon probably sat back in Heaven and chuckled to themselves. I am convinced that was a sign from them.

If you can let me know you are okay when you pass over. Don’t scare me. Just comfort me. You don’t have to do explosions. Just an overwhelming feeling of you hugging me will be okay.

I love you Bro. I always will. I will be up to see you later this week.

Love, peace and grace your younger more handsome Brother,

Darryl

Finding Family at a Dog Park

From Tranquilla II on the Back of Eddy Creek - Lake Barkley --- All my life I have "created" my own families. Maybe I do that because as an only child I sought solace, companionship, "brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers" that meet your needs when those needs are not met in your life. So, it was ever since I came home in 1971 and tried to put stuff out of the back of my mind.

I had no relationship with my biological Dad to speak of even though we did try toward the end of his life to reconcile and for my Mother's sake we both tried hard. My Mom had always been overly protective, which led me to do all sorts of things to "prove to myself" that I could do them despite her protestations and although I dearly loved her she never really understood all that I did and why I did it, which is probably true of most Mothers.

My first "family" was composed of "Brothers" Bob, Bert, Bill, Weldon, Don, Jim, and Hank; "Sisters" Mary Anne, Sue, and Jacki; "Mom" was Brooksie and "Dad" was Colonel L.B.

And all those years we worked together in the travel show business we knew we were "family". "Mom" helped me through my heartbreaks; "Dad" gave me good advice and little money; and my "brothers" well they were just there to help me get into trouble and live life more to its fullest. My "sisters" - it was my job to protect them from many of my "brothers" and all those other scandalous people they would encounter in life.

Then one day "my family" began to die. Sue from breast cancer complications, Weldon from a massive heart attack and then my ole buddy and best pal of 30 plus years Bert from complications of bladder cancer.

Of course, I went off to new jobs and left the travel show business and slowly the "family" became more of a family in name.

However, my need for family never changed.

Then I found Tybee and a dog park.

Sitting on a bench one day I began to realize that a new family was forming not by intention this time but through grace. My Mom and Dad have passed - Jim and Ann Knipe are my surrogate parents and took on that role almost 20-years ago - I often say that if I could have chosen my parents it truly would have been Jim and Ann as my Mom and Dad - and then at the dog park I found "brothers" Paul, Mike, Chris, Vince, Glenn, and Tim and "sisters" Miss Vivian, Allison, Annie, Junie, Chrissie, Kim and Fio.

"Cousins" abound there as well --- coming and going now and then but there are some of us that are "regulars in this family" at least when we are around and others who are regulars because it is a place to come to "be at home."

Tim and I were talking one day. I think he understands that sometimes it is truly hard to "come home" but then we do what we must and life, well it goes on day by day, and until I get back to the dog park to sit and have a cocktail and philosophize I guess I am hung doing so right here.

There are those reading this that understand and get it. So, this video of the St. Patty's Day parade at Tybee Island set to music sums it up well.

At Tybee you live life and enjoy it just as we all should daily. Except there it is exaggerated some and even those of us who the world may deem "different" - well, at Tybee and at the Tybee Dog Park we are all accepted for who we are --- and the dogs? --- well they have known this concept for a very, very long time.

Until next time.

Love, peace and grace, Dr. D

When a Beloved Dog Dies - By Our Friend Junie

From Tranquilla II on the Back of Eddy Creek - Lake Barkley --- You just know I have told people over my 58-years. You just know. Maybe it is intuition, a feeling, a sixth sense or something even more esoteric but whatever it is you just know.

You know within 30-seconds of meeting someone whether or not you will like them.

Such was the case with our dear friends (and new landlords) Vince and Junie at Tybee Island. For one thing they love dogs (and as you will see later in this article Junie captures that well in writing); second, the are kind and gentle people, which is demonstrated through their behavior towards people and animals; and third, they are connective souls - two people who have finally found each other on this trip through this world and you can see it in their behavior toward each other and hear it in their words when they speak.

So, it was no surprise to me that when Junie shared her latest writing with me (she also wrote and sang for me a little ditty she had composed about their dog Tobe) that it would capture the spirit of one of her dear friends feelings when his dog passed. Since it was published in the Tybee Island newspaper I believe it is safe to republish it here.

For some of us our dogs are the closest friends we ever have. For those of us that were only children they became a focus of our world, our constant companions, our confidants, our best pals. And even for us guys when girls came along it was always our "best buddies" that were there when our hearts were broken.

Here is Junie's tribute to her friend Jimbo's dog "Rebel."

When a Beloved Dog Dies

The e-mail from Jim Heflin read: “My beloved Rebel died Saturday morning at 2:30 a.m. from a heart attack. He and I played outside most of the day, and he was his normal self. The vet said that he had more than likely been sick for some time and that dogs, like humans, mask their pain so that those close to them will not worry. I am grateful that he did not suffer, but I miss him more than you will ever know. He was my constant companion for 11 years.”

Rebel came into Jim’s life by accident---or maybe not. Whatever the case, a large dog, with a large head and huge ears, showed up in Jim’s yard on Tybee 11 years ago and decided to stay. Rebel grew into a “Great Beast”, part German Shepherd and part Akita, who knew how to spell. If he heard the letters, c----a---t, the chase was on. He enjoyed illegal frolics on the north beach with Jim’s family, and when Jim moved to a house with a pool, Rebel enjoyed poolside activities as well as an occasional swim. The Heflin’s house will not be the same without his booming bark or presence. Jim will not be the same either---he has lost his best friend.

People who are lucky enough to have the unconditional, uncomplicated love of a dog know that dogs bring out the best in us. “May I always be the person my dog thinks I am” pretty well sums it up. We thrive emotionally because of their constant and non-critical affection. Actually the only real fault they have is that their lives are too short. We know from the beginning that our dogs will probably leave this world before we do, but we are willing to undergo the terrible grief because the time we have with them is worth it.

Dogs and their owners make up a large part of Tybee’s population, and are a daily sight on the island ---in trucks, convertibles, or cars (either in the driver’s lap or riding shotgun) ---in bicycle baskets, in wagons, walking their owners, hanging off porches, chasing cats, and howling at sirens. The sight of them always makes me smile. And, in a few months, when Jim has had some time, maybe he’ll find another best friend. Not a replacement, because Rebel can never be replaced, but another best friend. Because none of us can have too many friends. I think Rebel will be pleased if he does.

“You think dogs will not be in heaven. I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.” Robert Louis Stevenson

And yes, Junie and Kay it made me cry.

Love, peace and grace and until next time, Dr. D

Unconditional Acceptance

The following story has circulated over the Internet for years. Yet each time I read it I am reminded of the powerful lesson it conveys. Just as Jesus Christ and Buddha told parables to explain morality so do such stories that come either from a real incident or the mind of those who would wish it to be true.

Breakfast at McDonald's

I am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree. The last class I had to take was Sociology. The teacher was absolutely inspiring, with the qualities that I wish every human being had been graced with. Her last project of the term was called, "Smile."

The class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions. I am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway. So, I thought this would be a piece of cake, literally.

Soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and I went out to McDonald's one crisp March morning.

It was just our way of sharing special playtime with our son. We were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then even my husband did. I did not move an inch... an overwhelming feeling of panic welled up inside of me as I turned to see why they had moved.

As I turned around, I smelled a horrible "dirty body" smell, and there standing behind me, were two poor homeless men. As I looked down at the short gentleman, close to me, he was "smiling".

His beautiful, sky blue eyes were full of God's light as he searched for acceptance... He said, "Good day" as he counted the few coins he had been clutching. The second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend. I realized the second man was mentally challenged, and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation.

I held my tears as I stood there with them.

The young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted. He said, "Coffee is all, Miss," because that was all they could afford. (If they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something. He just wanted to be warm). Then I really felt it - the compulsion was so great I almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes.

That is when I noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging my every action. I smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to give me two more breakfast meals on a separate tray. I then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot. I put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman's cold hand.

He looked up at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, "Thank you." I leaned over, began to pat his hand and said, "I did not do this for you. God is here working through me, to give you hope." I started to cry as I walked away to join my husband and son.

When I sat down, my husband smiled at me and said, "That is why God gave you to me, Honey, to give me hope."

We held hands for a moment, and at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given, were we able to give.

We are not church goers, but we are believers.

That day showed me the pure light of God's sweet love. I returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand. I turned in "my project" and the instructor read it. Then she looked up at me and said, "Can I share this?"

I slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class. She began to read, and that is when I knew that we as human beings and being part of God, share this need to heal people and to be healed.

In my own way I had touched the people at McDonald's, my son, instructor,and every soul that shared the classroom, on the last night I spent as a college student.

I graduated with one of the biggest lessons I would ever learn:

UNCONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE.

Stimpy's Memorial Garden

Many of you have asked and here are the answers: 1) We had Stimpy cremated; 2) We have designed a "memorial garden" for the old man -- he always found the "sweetest and softest spot" in any of Kay's flower beds so it was just fitting to do the same for him; 3) the garden overlooks the lake and the new landscaping that has been completed. Thanks for asking and take a look at the video to see the memorial. Many thanks to Jim and Barb for the "memorial stone".

"Words can't express how much I appreciate all of you"

Our friend Susan Gaffney-Evans shared this poem with us that captures a lot of the feeling we all have when we lose a dear canine friend.


Lend A Pup

I will lend to you for a while, a pup, God said,
For you to love him while he lives and mourn for him when he's dead.
Maybe for twelve or fourteen years, or maybe two or three
But will you, 'til I call him back, take care of him for me.

He'll bring his charms to gladden you and (should his stay be brief)you'll always have his memories as solace for your grief.
I cannot promise he will stay, since all from earth return
But there are lessons taught below I want this pup to learn.

I've looked the whole world over in search of teachers true
And from the folk that crowd life's land I have chosen you.
Now will you give him all your love nor think the labor vain,
Nor hate me when I come to take my Pup back again.

I fancied that I heard them say "Dear Lord Thy Will be Done,"
For all the joys this Pup will bring, the risk of grief we'll run.
We'll shelter him with tenderness, we'll love him while we may
And for the happiness we've known forever grateful stay

But should you call him back much sooner than we've planned,
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes, and try to understand.
If, by our love, we've managed, your wishes to achieve
In memory of him we loved, to help us while we grieve.

When our faithful bundle departs this world of strife,
We'll have yet another Pup and love him all his life.

Author Unknown

"Just a Dog" - I'm Okay - Will Be Back in Touch Soon

For all of you that have written and called and inquired. Thanks.

JUST A DOG

From time to time, people tell me, "lighten up, it's just a dog,"
or, "that's a lot of money for just a dog."

They don't understand the distance traveled, the time spent, or the costs involved for "just a dog."

Some of my proudest moments have come about with "just a dog."

Many hours have passed and my only company was "just a dog,"
but I did not once feel slighted.

Some of my saddest moments have been brought about by "just a dog,"
and in those days of darkness, the gentle touch of "just a dog" gave me comfort and reason to overcome the day.

If you, too, think it's "just a dog," then you will probably understand phrases like "just a friend," "just a sunrise," or "just a promise."

"Just a dog" brings into my life the very essence of friendship, trust, and pure unbridled joy.

"Just a dog" brings out the compassion and patience that make me a better person. Because of "just a dog", I will rise early, take long walks and look longingly to the future. So for me and folks like me, it's not "just a dog" but an embodiment of all the hopes and dreams of the future, the fond memories of the past, and the pure joy of the moment.

"Just a dog" brings out what's good in me and diverts my thoughts away from myself and the worries of the day.

I hope that someday they can understand that it's not "just a dog”, but the thing that gives me humanity and keeps me from being "just a man or woman." So the next time you hear the phrase "just a dog." just smile -- because they "just don't understand."

"Just a Dog" by Richard Biby, Broken Arrow, Oklahoma

9 March 2008 - "I did this lecture really for only three people"

FROM THE BACK OF EDDY CREEK ON LAKE BARKLEY --- The snow that dumped about 6 inches here and there on us but never materialized into the massive winter storm predicted by our local weather forecasters is already beginning to melt away. In fact it is supposed to be in the 60s by Wednesday.

The three "boys" have enjoyed it especially Max, the Alaskan Malamute, who now thinks this is pretty good living. Stimpy is enjoying it at his own pace and does continue to take his daily walks with us when he chooses now. There are days when I can't get him to go at all. Little Bit is forever the be close kind of guy who has your back.

Today, I want to share with my readers two You Tube videos.

The first is from a friend of ours in southern Illinois whom we met doing some work for an engineering company down in Paducah. It seems that her son was brutally beaten by two young men all because they were jealous over the fact he was dating one of their former girl friends. These hoodlums left this young man to die in a park. The quick action of EMTs and medical personnel saved his life and the dedication of PTs in rehab has him on the road of struggle back to normalcy, whatever normalcy may be for him in the future continues on. The first video below is the current status of this brave young man Brady, his family, his caregivers and his belief and faith in God. I suspect you will find it as inspiring as I did.

Brady's Road to Recovery

This second video is truly important to me at this time in my life. On those days when I am really feeling about as depressed as I can get I need something like this to remind me of the delicate nature and real frailness of life. Yes, this is an Oprah video from a college professor whom we can all learn a great deal from about the true meaning of life and death. Peace be with you all.

The Last Lecture


Until next time.
Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
www.armstrongandassociates.org

Stimpy Update and My First You Tube Type Video

On The Back of Lake Barkley --- The storms have moved through here this evening. They even disrupted Yoga class in Princeton when the brick facade fell off the building next door to the Yoga studio. Everyone is fine but the storms persist. We are keeping a close watch. The temps here today approached 60 and they are suppose to drop to the 20s this evening. Ideal weather for tornadoes and thunderstorms!

I again want to thank all of you who continue to ask about Stimpy and how he's doing. Here is the latest. He continues his daily walks with us although today his first walk was very short. He strains to go potty but with the stool softeners he is dong pretty good. He is eating well especially now that I am sharing some deer sausage with him daily --- don't tell the other two fellas here --- they don't get any.

So I tried out my new Casio camera this evening and got some video --- it has my "baby" voice for my buddy Stimpy --- I can't help it I am just like that with my old man. As you can see he is being well cared for ;-) and yawning and stretching and enjoying his couch!

Enjoy ---

Dr. Darryl

L. Darryl Armstrong

http://www.armstrongandassociates.org/

The Old Man and the Dog

I don't know Catherine Moore but I love her as I do my friend Stephanie and Momma Knipe both who sent me this story.

If ever a story captures the belief I have about "angels" and my own dog Stimpy this story does just that. Maybe there are those of you out there that have not yet understood that Stimpy is not "just a dog" to me. This story might help you understand why I feel that way.

Enjoy, Dr. D


The Old Man and the Dog
by Catherine Moore


"Watch out! You nearly broad sided 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 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 sixty-seventh 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 he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind.

But the months wore on and God was silent. 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. Long-haired 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 a n d 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 D ad 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."You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" 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 be side 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 I 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.

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."

"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.

Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
http://www.armstrongandassociates.org/