Ffolkes,
And so it begins again. It’s enough to make you just want to rant sometimes. The news every day bombards us with the craziness going on in the world, providing us with the mental equivalent of dried dung in such quantities the Berbers could make a fire lasting all night. Politicians speak out every day, spewing tons of the most amazing crap, proving with every word just how insane they are, and people keep lapping it up like ice cream. The media that reports all this possibly plays the worst part in the charade, as they continue to report on the most trivial BS they can find. They don’t seem to care whether it is dignified, or if it makes any sense; they just want to increase ratings, and bad news does that better than good. Oh well, I could rant on this forever, and it’s not going to…

Noah came to live with us when he was about 10 months old; we rescued him from taking the long walk at the Humane Society kennel in Santa Rosa. It was my son’s fifteenth birthday, and he wanted a dog, swearing up & down that he would take responsibility for its’ care. Pets were always part of family life when I grew up, and our last dog had been gone for a bit over a year, so it was time to expand the family once again.

As Cory and I walked down the aisle between cages at the kennel, a large variety of dogs started a welcoming cacophony of different barks; shrill tiny ones, deep booming ones, polite yips, all blended together in an almost desperate frenzy, as each animal, many of them almost frantic, tried to get our attention. Some pawed at the gate, some jumped up, some looked…