Animals

For A Police Officer, There Is Never A Good Dog Call

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This Story From The Classics. Posted Originally in 2024 it is Reposted this year as part of the best of the best stories benandsteve.com are sharing at years end.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

4–5 minutes

I have driven thousands of miles in my police patrol unit. I have also answered nearly as many calls. I can attest that there are no ‘Good Dog Calls’ a police officer can be assigned to on duty.

Getting sent to a call involving a dog always includes extra concerns that should be more welcome. Dogs can be unfriendly, mean, unruly, and generally not trustworthy.

Case in point: I have responded to dog calls where the dog got reported missing. It was just across the street and refused to return to its owner. It came to my patrol unit and refused to get out. It insisted on staying, growling when we tried to pick it up and carry it back to its home. I can only guess why it didn’t want to go home.

I have been to dog calls where the dog has bitten a neighbor and had to get put in confinement. The owner objected to the dog’s removal, and a brigade of officers confiscated the dog. The animal control officer was not on duty. So the dog went into the police cruiser and made a hairy mess. It took weeks to get all the fuzz out. No pun intended. Then a day later, and while patrolling through the neighborhood, you see the dog getting walked by the owner’s child. Only to discover they have broken it out of doggy jail. You also have to file more serious charges against the dog owner. Something that you wish didn’t have to happen. The dog is confused over the whole back and forth. The Canine would have been home sooner had the owners only cooperated with the city.

Then, the next step is the crisis intervention, which is your own. It is early in the morning. And dispatch sends you to a home where a pit bull has a family trapped in their home. It will not allow them to get to their cars to leave to go to work or school. You arrive and see this dog running between the front and back doors, preventing the homeowners from exiting the house. You call your backup unit to bring the animal control unit since they are not on duty (as usual). 

The backup officer arrives in the Animal Control Unit—the beauty of every small-town police department. You get the dog loop poles when they arrive and devise a plan. The homeowners will call the dog to the backdoor. This will allow an officer to enter the house through the front door. Then your backup partner will go in the house and go to the back door and call the dog. When he rushes to the back door he will use one of the loop poles. Slipping a loop over the dog’s head. As he does, I will come up from behind and slip a loop over the head. And we will have a two loop pole control of the dog. Then together we will be able to control the animal to get it into the animal control vehicle. As we carry out the plan, the dog fights with all it has. Trying feverishly to bite and attack us. We get it to the truck, lift it in, and slide it into a carrier. Loosening the pole loops, we leave them intact so we can use them when we get out to the shelter. So to place the animal in a pen. We close the gate and say farewell to the family that had got trapped inside their home. Waving to us, they are grateful for our service. The dog is fighting like crazy inside the truck. It sounds like we have the Tasmanian Devil inside.

We drove six miles to the shelter, and our anxiety peaked. We were ready to take on this beast we had struggled with earlier. It is now eerily quiet. We cracked open the gate and took hold of the poles. We tightened the slack in the loops. To make sure the dog had tension around its neck so we can control it. We flipped open the gate, and ––––– NOTHING. The dog was dead. DEAD! IT WAS LIMP.

We are dumbfounded at what the hell happened. We had put it in the back of the truck and drove six miles. An investigation indicated that the dog continued fighting even inside the truck’s cage. And either had a heart attack or choked itself while fighting within the closure. We had no choice but to take the dog to the shelter. Had we left it at large we would have had to fight the dog. And even got put in a position to shoot the animal due to its violence. We intended to try and avoid that scenario, but sadly, it ended the dog’s life anyway.

There is never a good dog call!

Christmas the Cat: That Lost The Day Of Christmas And Found It All Over Again For Good!

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This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Christmas was a sleek, white cat with a bright red collar and a tiny bell. He sported one green eye. One eye blue. Christmas twinkles the kids called them. He got his name because he was born on Christmas Eve. Since then, his life revolved around the festive season. He loved the glittering lights and the scent of pine. He enjoyed the rustling of wrapping paper. He cherished the joy he saw in his family’s faces.

But one year, something went wrong.

Christmas morning, the children had excitedly unwrapped their gifts. Afterward, the family went off to visit relatives. Christmas the Cat had wandered into the pantry. Curious, he batted at a loose box of crackers, which tipped over with a crash. Startled, he darted behind a stack of canned goods. In the commotion, someone closed the pantry door, locking him inside.

Hours passed. 

At first, Christmas thought this was just an oversight. Someone would open the door soon and scoop him up for a cuddle. But the minutes stretched into hours, and the house grew silent. Panic set in. 

Had he missed Christmas?

~ The thought was unbearable. Christmas was more than his name—it was his favorite time of year! ~

He imagined the family around the table, sharing laughter, turkey, and pie. He pictured the children playing with their new toys. The warmth of the fireplace filled the room. Soft carols were in the air. And here he was, trapped in the dark, with only a box of crackers for company. 

Christmas, becoming convinced it was too late until the family returned that evening. His heart sank as he heard the keys jingle and the front door creak. He sat dejectedly on the pantry floor, his tail curled around him.

“Christmas! Where are you, buddy?” 

Called the youngest child, Emily.

The pantry door swung open, and a flood of light spilled in. Christmas blinked and looked up. Emily scooped him into her arms, covering him in kisses.

“We were so worried!” 

She exclaimed. 

“We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

The rest of the family gathered around, showering him with attention. Despite their love, Christmas couldn’t shake his gloom. He meowed mournfully, his usual purr absent.

“What’s wrong, Christmas?” 

Emily asked, stroking his fur. 

“You’re safe now.”

Her father, overhearing, knelt beside her.

“I think Christmas thinks he missed Christmas Day.” 

He said with a chuckle.

Emily’s eyes widened. 

“Oh no! That isn’t very good. We need to tell him it’s okay.”

She cradled Christmas close and said softly,

“You didn’t miss Christmas, silly kitty. Even if the day is over, Christmas isn’t just one day. It’s about love, kindness, and being together. We can celebrate Christmas every single day.”

Her words warmed Christmas’s heart.

He looked up at her, his green eyes shining. The bell on his collar jingled as he rubbed his head against her cheek.

That night, Emily insisted they set up a special celebration for him. They lit the tree again. They brought out leftover turkey for a feast. They even gave him a shiny bow to play with. As Christmas sat in Emily’s lap, batting at the bow, he realized she was right. Christmas wasn’t just about one day. It was about the joy and love that filled the house every day of the year.

Christmas the Cat didn’t fret about the calendar from that moment on. Whether it was July or December, he purred as loudly when the family was together. After all, every day is Christmas as long as there was love.

Elias: The Man with an Animal Connection – Better Than Dr Doolittle And Wiser Than Dr Livingstone

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2–3 minutes

The Listener

Elias never thought of himself as special. He lived in a small cabin at the edge of the woods. There, he worked as a carpenter. In the evenings, he fed the stray cats that wandered in from the trees. He had always felt an odd comfort around animals. He attributed this to his quiet nature and patient hands.

It began with his dog, Rusty. One evening while Elias rubbed behind the old hound’s ears, he thought he heard a whisper. It wasn’t a sound exactly, but a clear impression: “Don’t stop, that feels good.” Elias froze, hand hovering mid-scratch. Rusty nudged him insistently, and the thought returned, playful and warm. At first, Elias dismissed it as his imagination. The barn cat slinked across the porch the next morning. Yet, he felt a sharp pang of hunger that wasn’t his own. He realized something impossible was happening.

At first, the animals spoke only in feelings. They expressed affection when he stroked their fur. There was annoyance if he pulled away too soon, and gratitude when he left out food. But as days passed, the impressions grew sharper, almost like sentences forming inside his mind. One afternoon, Rusty limped. Elias felt a jolt of pain in his knee. This was followed by the plea: “It hurts, please help.” He checked and found a thorn buried deep in the dog’s paw. A sparrow darted to his windowsill and flooded him with urgency: “Nest broken, chicks in danger.” Elias followed its pull and discovered a nest toppled in the wind. He rescued the hatchlings before the foxes found them.

Word seemed to spread, though Elias never understood how. Stray dogs lingered near his cabin. Deer stared at him without fear. Once, even a wounded hawk landed on his porch rail. Each brought with it a silent voice—requests for healing, warnings of predators, messages of danger to others of their kind. With every answered call, Elias felt the bond deepen.

Soon he realized this gift was more than companionship. It was responsibility. He can bridge a gap no one else: soothing fear, preventing harm, guiding creatures toward safety. A flood threatened the lower fields. He was awoken by the frantic voices of burrowing animals. He led the farmer’s family to higher ground just in time. Poachers crept through the forest one autumn night. The owls carried their presence to him in overlapping echoes. He alerted the rangers. Before long, his reputation surpassed even that of Dr. Doolittle, carrying an edge that would have made famed explorer Dr. Livingstone himself take notice.

Elias no longer saw himself as just a man in a cabin. He was part of a living chorus, every feather, paw, and claw connected through an unseen thread. And though it sometimes weighed heavy on him, he carried it gladly. For the first time in history, animals had found someone who truly listened. He had discovered a purpose greater than he’d ever imagined.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025

The Great Tortoise Escape: A Neighborhood Mystery

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2–3 minutes

The Great Tortoise Caper

Photo by Edwin Lopez on Pexels.com

Harold was not your average backyard pet. For one thing, he was a tortoise—stoic, slow-moving, and entirely uninterested in chew toys or squeaky balls. He had a knack for testing boundaries. He focused specifically on the wooden fence that separated his little patch of green from the rest of the world.

It was a warm Thursday morning when Harold spotted his chance. The gate, left just barely ajar, beckoned. And so, with all the urgency of a creature who could nap through an earthquake, he set off.

The first few feet were thrilling—new smells, unfamiliar blades of grass. Soon he found himself among tall weeds. They brushed the top of his shell. The sunlight dappled through in golden patches. Harold was, for the first time in years, truly free.

Back at the house, his caretaker, Miriam, noticed the absence almost instantly. Panic bloomed. Harold wasn’t fast, but he was determined, and that made him unpredictable. She called the local HOA, who wasted no time sending out a neighborhood alert. Within the hour, a small army of retirees—sun hats on, binoculars in hand—fanned out through the cul-de-sacs and common areas. They called his name as if he actually come when called.

“Check under the hedges!”

shouted Frank from three doors down.


“Don’t forget the drainage ditch!”

added Ethel, peering into a shrub like it might hold the crown jewels.

But Harold was nowhere near the hedges. He was ambling through a corridor of tall grass, blissfully unaware of the search party. The grass parted to reveal shimmering water ahead—one of the golf course ponds, its surface gleaming like a mirror. Harold paused at the edge, the water rippling as a golf ball plunked in somewhere across the way.

It was here, in this quiet moment, that his adventure almost took a turn. The pond’s soft edge gave way under his front foot. Harold slid ahead, catching himself just in time. He gave the pond a slow, thoughtful look, decided it was not his scene, and turned back toward the grass.

Hours later, Miriam spotted him in the shade of a ficus tree near the clubhouse. He was calm, content, and entirely unbothered by the chaos he’d caused. The search party gathered, relieved, and one by one, they drifted back to their homes.

Harold was returned to his yard, the gate firmly latched this time. If you looked closely the next morning, you might have seen him sitting by that same gate. He was staring out at the world beyond. He was already plotting his next great escape.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 

Orange Noise II: Revenge Unleashed

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3–4 minutes

Orange Noise (By Pets Demand.)

By popular demand, this follow-up dives deeper into how the Orange Noise machines ended up producing such deadly results. Here’s the story.

It began as a fad.

“Orange Noise Therapy — the next step in restful sleep. Scientifically engineered to calm your mind and gently drift you into the deepest dreams.”

The commercials showed happy couples. There were slow-motion scenes of blissful smiles beneath soft blankets. In the background, a low, warm hum laced with delicate chimes sounded. It was hypnotic in a way you couldn’t quite describe. It made you want to close your eyes.

And so the orders poured in.

At first, it seemed perfect. People reported sleeping deeper than they had in years. Doctors praised it. Sleep scientists called it “a breakthrough.” Sales skyrocketed.

But then, somewhere in the shadows, something shifted.

A young woman in Warsaw woke to find her bird dead in its cage. The bars bent as if from desperate thrashing. A man in Toronto woke up with deep, bleeding scratches down his legs. He had no memory of how they got there. Reports trickled in, never connected — until they were too many to ignore.

Couples, families, entire households found dead. No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints. No footprints. Just wounds — savage, animal wounds.

But still, no one suspected the pets.

The killings always happened at night. Always when the chimes were playing. And the footage — when it existed — was either corrupted or mysteriously missing. Except for one file.

Detective Randall Kerrigan found it in a police evidence server, buried under mislabeled case notes. He watched it alone, the faint hiss of the playback filling his dim office. A couple lay in bed, breathing slow and deep. The chimes played softly in the background.

Then their cat jumped onto the bed. Kerrigan leaned up. The animal froze in place, eyes wide, pupils blown black. Its tail twitched once, twice — and then it lunged.

Kerrigan stopped the video, the cursor trembling in his hand. He replayed it. Again. And again. Each time, the truth pressed heavier on his chest: the Orange Noise wasn’t just calming humans. It was triggering something in animals. Something primal.

By morning, he’d traced dozens of similar cases — all linked to the therapy. The broadcasts were still going out, millions of households unknowingly inviting their killers into their bedrooms each night.

He took the evidence to his superiors. They dismissed it. “Mass hysteria,” they said. “A coincidence.” No one wanted to pull a billion-dollar product off the shelves. No one wanted to admit that bedtime bliss had become a death sentence.

Kerrigan tried to go public, but the networks shut him down. Lawsuits loomed. His badge was taken.

That night, he sat alone in his apartment. He heard it faint at first, then louder. It was the warm hum and the delicate chimes.

They weren’t coming from his speakers. They were coming from outside. From every apartment, every home in the city.

His own dog padded into the room, eyes fixed on him in a way they never had before.

Kerrigan stared back, a sick mix of fear and grief twisting in his gut. He reached slowly for the pistol on the table. Knowing that if he was right, this was the only chance he had. But a part of him hesitated. Because if he was wrong, he’d be killing the last friend he had left.

The dog took a step ahead.

And in that moment, hope and despair became the same thing. It was the hope that he can save himself. It was also the despair of knowing what it would cost him.

The Trail Guardians – Chapter Three: Bruiser’s Stand

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–6 minutes

Let’s get back to our story. –– Benji stood in the middle of the woods, heart racing, with three feral hogs growling and snorting nearby. Jackie had lost the scent trail. She couldn’t find the way home. Benji had just thrown away his only peace offering: the beef jerky. The hogs tore through the jerky in seconds. Benji and the three dogs tried to figure out what direction to go. But, now those hogs had regained interest in something more satisfying—the boy.

Oggy circled and snapped at the first boar, trying to keep it distracted. Jackie stood stiff and alert. She barked furiously at the second one. Her tail was rigid and her fur was raised. She positioned herself between the beast and Benji.

Bruiser, Dad’s Shadow

But it was Bruiser who took the lead.

With a thunderous bark, he lunged at the second boar. The clash was brutal. Bruiser’s sheer size and strength gave him an edge. Still, the wild boar was enraged and dangerous. It slashed with its tusks.

Benji screamed,

“No! Bruiser!”

But Bruiser didn’t back down. He planted his feet and forced the boar back with muscle and fury. Oggy darted in to nip at the animal’s hind legs while Jackie’s relentless barking finally drove the creature into retreat.

Within moments, the two remaining boars, startled and overwhelmed, turned tail and vanished into the trees.

Bruiser limped back, a fresh gash on his shoulder. Benji dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around him, whispering,

“You saved us. You’re the bravest dog in the world.”

The three dogs surrounded Benji, panting heavily—not from fear, but from duty fulfilled. They had done their job.

The sun had dipped lower now, and the smell of distant cooking reminded Benji of home. He hoped Jackie would catch a scent that would guide them back—but no such luck.

They were still stuck in No Man’s Land.

Benji sighed and looked at his companions.

“Well, boys… looks like we’re gonna be here for a while. As well find a safe place to rest.”

The fading daylight painted the woods in long shadows. The path behind them had become a confusing tangle of trees and underbrush.

“I don’t know where we are,” 

Benji admitted.

Oggy was licking his sore paws. Bruiser winced with every step. Jackie stood alert—ears perked, head rotating like a radar dish, listening for signs of danger.

Benji reached into his backpack and pulled out his trusty binoculars. Scanning the area, he spotted something—a cave etched into the canyon wall, not far off. It resembled an ancient hollow carved out of sandstone by the water long ago. If they can reach it safely, it can make a decent shelter for the night.

He pulled out a handkerchief. He tore it in half. He tied one piece to a high branch to mark the location.

Oggy took point. Bruiser limped beside Benji. Jackie stuck close this time and carefully marked her trail. They made their way to the cave.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the entrance. The cave was shallow and quiet, with no signs of animal tracks inside. It looked safe—for now.

Benji gathered dead wood from the forest floor and built a small fire at the cave’s entrance. As the flickering flames grew, casting dancing shadows, the four of them settled in.

But Benji had a surprise.

He hadn’t given all the food to the hogs. He had two cans of Vienna sausages tucked in his backpack. They were beneath a rolled-up poncho. His dad always said to keep them in case of emergencies.

He popped open a can. Instantly, three sets of ears perked up.

Benji smiled and shared the sausages with the dogs, eating slowly and grateful that they had something to eat. But he couldn’t help wondering: How are we going to get out of this mess?

As night fell, the forest faded into darkness. The stars lit up the sky, and the wind rustled the trees outside. The cave offered shelter from the breeze, and the dogs took turns keeping watch while Benji dozed beside the fire.

At around three in the morning, a sharp, blood-curdling scream echoed through the canyon.

All three dogs leaped up, growling and tense. Benji jolted awake. The fire had burned down to glowing coals.

Another scream—closer this time.

Benji grabbed a long stick and jabbed it into the embers, trying to spark a flame. The dogs stood bristling, their fur raised, eyes locked on the darkness beyond.

This is the most dangerous moment yet—except maybe for the hogs.

Benji fumbled through his backpack and found a small flashlight. He switched it on and swept the beam across the canyon.

There, near a shallow watering hole, stood two full-grown wildcats—the biggest Benji had ever seen. Easily 130 pounds each. But the barking, the firelight, and the beam of the flashlight startled them. They bolted, disappearing into the trees.

Benji sat back down, heart pounding. Sleep was impossible now.

Thinking to himself –––

Was something else out there?

Has anyone even started looking for him yet?

He’d never been gone this long.

He sighed and pulled the blanket around him tighter.

“When I get back,” 

he whispered to himself

 “I’m gonna be in big trouble. For good this time.”

But for now, he is still in No Man’s Land.

And he is lost.

They called it No Man’s Land for a reason. Legend has it, no man who ever entered those woods was seen again. That little detail? It’s something Benji overlooked when planning his latest adventure. Rumor has it. No search party will go in after him. No one’s willing to take the chance they will not come back either. So maybe Benji ought to start thinking about an extended stay. Is anyone even organizing a search? Or will they just do a flyover, check a few boxes, and call it good? Check back tomorrow as the story continues—because things in No Man’s Land are only getting stranger.

Life with Otis: The Rascal Dog’s Adventures

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

1–2 minutes

Otis the Rascal

Our dog Otis is a handful—and that’s putting it mildly. He’s been part of our lives for over eight months now, and frankly, he has us wrapped around his paw. That’s how I see it, anyway.

Each morning, I dig into news articles. Meanwhile, Otis curls up on my lap. He looks like the innocent angel he most definitely is not. Don’t be fooled by the calm exterior—he’s always on high alert. He knows the sounds of the mail truck, the delivery van, and anything that dare to approach our house. With every rumble outside, he barks thunderously. He is desperate to storm the front lines. If only that pesky screened door weren’t in his way.

A simple knock on the door transforms Otis into a spinning, barking whirlwind. Imagine a Tasmanian devil with a bark louder than his bite (but don’t tell him that). He’s so protective that we often must hold him back when company arrives. Sometimes, he gets so worked up. He earns a timeout in his kennel. There, he huffs in protest like a disgruntled dragon.

Sunday was a special day—Otis got to join us for a visit with friends, one of his all-time favorite activities. He made nice with their dog, at least at first. But soon, his sly, bullish side took over. He snatched the ball and refused to return it, parading it like a trophy, asserting his love for socializing.

After a long day of play, Otis stayed awake the entire ride home, refusing to miss a moment. He joined us for some late-night TV, eyes heavy but stubbornly open. When bedtime finally arrived, he collapsed into a deep sleep filled with dreams. He was chasing tennis balls. He also was reliving his glorious day of dominance and friendship. I like to think he also dreamed of the day he outsmarted the mail truck.

The Heartwarming Bond: My Three Childhood Dogs

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–4 minutes

My Three Dogs

Growing up, we had dogs that made our lives richer in ways I’m still discovering today. There were three of them: a St. Bernard–Collie mix, a German Shepherd, and a Rat Terrier—Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.

These three would become my best friends throughout my childhood.

The first to arrive was Oggy. He was a big, playful dog who loved to wrestle in the front yard for hours. But more than anything, he was our guardian. Oggy knew his role: to watch over us. Every afternoon, he met us at the gate when the school bus dropped us off and escorted us home. No stranger ever approached our house without Oggy ensuring they had our blessing to be there.

Next came Jackie, a spry little hound named after a friend’s dog. Jackie quickly became our best mouser and a fierce snake fighter, teaming up with Oggy on countless backyard missions.

Finally, Bruiser joined the pack—a German Shepherd with a name tougher than his heart. Although Bruiser had been obedience-trained and sounded intimidating, he was naturally gentle and shy. But when it mattered, he showed real courage, standing shoulder to shoulder with Oggy and Jackie to guard our home.

By age 13, the three of them followed me everywhere. We hiked deep into the forests near my dad’s ranger station, trekking miles through wildland few others dared to explore. Jackie scouted ahead, flushing out surprises. Oggy stayed close, my sturdy shield. And Bruiser brought up the rear, quietly ensuring nothing came up behind us.

Looking back, I realize they created a cone of safety around me, a living circle of love and protection. Whether I was on foot, on horseback, or driving a tractor, my trio was always there. They were my constant companions through childhood adventures.

Sometimes, we’d stop at a fallen log and sit together. I would talk to them about my troubles—problems that seemed so large at 13—and they would listen in silence. When I stood up again, the issues felt either solved or less heavy.

We would set off again every afternoon after school unless I had work to do for my dad. If I did have chores, they stayed right by my side, enduring the labor with me.

When I turned 17, we lost Oggy. His arthritis had left him nearly unable to walk, and his eyes had gone cloudy. With love and sorrow, my dad had a veterinarian help him cross over to a better place.

Jackie passed a few years later while I was away from home, already carving my path in the world. And then, in 1984, Bruiser’s body gave out after a long struggle with an incurable skin condition. After months of holding on, my parents made the painful but loving decision to let him go.

Those three dogs had been with me through it all. They ran beside me along ridges. They chased waterfalls. They climbed cliffs to the highest points of the land. They sat with me as we watched the world stretch out for miles.

Jackie once fought off a copperhead snake. She suffered terrible bites that swelled her head to twice its size. Yet, she survived and came running with us again. Oggy and Bruiser learned to shadow me unseen while I rode horseback, quietly blocking any stranger who came too close. It wasn’t training. It was friendship—the kind that instinctively protects without being asked.

In the end, the pain became too much for them to bear. Love helped us let them go. It broke our hearts. I’m grateful my dad made those final decisions because, to me, they weren’t just dogs.

They were my most faithful friends, making my childhood a place of wonder, safety, and unconditional love.

Memories of My Grandmother and the Whippoorwill

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–3 minutes

My grandmother, whom I affectionately called Mom, often shared childhood memories filled with the enchanting call of the whippoorwill. She spoke of its song with reverence, describing it as a sound of pure beauty that she dearly missed. Her stories wove a special bond between us. They spanned the miles that separated our homes in Northeast Texas, Southwest Arkansas, and Southeast Oklahoma.


Nowhere else, she insisted, did the whippoorwill’s call sound as sweet.


I lived nearly forty miles east of her. It was on a farm where the evenings were alive with the calls of night birds. When Mom visited, I would take her on walks to the barns. We listened to the quail and other birds stirring in the brush.


“Mom, are those the whippoorwills you were talking about?”

I’d ask eagerly.


She would shake her head, smiling softly.

“No, that’s not them.”


Her answer certainly puzzled me. I knew the birds in our region. What I heard matched the description of a whippoorwill. At least, it did to my ears. Yet she remained firm. The sound she longed for existed only in the woods of her childhood, some two hundred miles away.


Mom passed away in April 1975, and with her, I thought, went the mystery of the whippoorwill. But fate had other plans.


Not long after, my parents decided we would take a trip. We went to visit my great-uncle Sam and great-aunt Dora. They lived in the very place where Mom had been born. I expected only a family visit. Yet, something remarkable happened as we settled onto my great-uncle’s front porch.


The evening air cooled as the sun dipped below the horizon. Towering trees stood like silent guardians, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. The Ouachita Mountains stretched beyond us, their shadows deepening as dusk settled in. And then, clear as a bell, I heard it.


“Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”


The call rang through the crisp and melodic trees, carried by the mountains and forest floor acoustics. It was so rich and hauntingly beautiful, unlike anything I had ever heard.

At that moment, I understood.


I knew why Mom had never heard it quite the same anywhere else. Here, and only here, the whippoorwill’s call possessed a magic she had never been capable of finding again.
I have never heard it since.


But in that fleeting moment, I was surrounded by nature’s beauty. I heard the echoes of the whippoorwill’s song. I found peace. It was as if I had brought her wish full circle. I was hearing the sound she longed for. I was honoring her memory in a way that words never could.


And in that sound, I found her again.

Hear the sound in the video below.

Learn about the Whippoorwill here!

The Great Dog Escape: A Story of Resourcefulness

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–3 minutes

Huey sat in the corner of the kennel, ears perked, eyes darting toward the metal gate between them and freedom. Max, his trusted partner, paced back and forth, tail flicking with nervous energy. Around them, the others—Spike, Bella, and Rufus—pretended to be sleeping, but they were all listening, waiting for the signal.


“Tonight’s the night,”

Huey whispered.

“The screws turn in at nine. We give ’em an hour, then we move.”

Max nodded.

“Bella, you’re on distraction. Get that yapper down the row to start barking. When the guard checks on him, we make our move.”


Bella wagged her tail.

“Piece of kibble.”


Spike chimed in,

“I got the latch covered. I’ve been watching the humans do it for weeks. I think I can pop it.”


“Good,”

Huey said.

“Once we’re out, we head for the back gate. Rufus, you still got that big brute act down?”


Rufus grinned, his jowls flopping.

“One good growl and the yard mutt will scatter.”


The plan was perfect. They had worked out every detail. The humans thought they were dumb dogs, but they’d prove them wrong tonight.


The lights went out, and the night settled over the pound. A low growl rumbled from the cage at the far end. Right on cue, the little yapper started up. Bella joined in, then Spike, then the whole row. Sure enough, heavy boots clomped down the hall. The guard muttered something about “dumb mutts” and stomped off to quiet them down.


“Go time,”

Huey whispered.


Spike reached through the bars, jiggling the latch—a click. The gate swung open. One by one, they slipped out, moving fast and low, paws silent on the concrete. They were almost to the back gate when Max skidded to a stop.


“What is it?”

Huey hissed.


Max’s eyes gleamed in the dark. His tail quivered.

“Bone.”


Huey sighed.

“Forget it, we gotta—”


“Bone,”

Max repeated, but the others saw it, too. A big, juicy, perfectly gnawed bone, lying right there, almost like fate had placed it in their path.


Rufus whined.

“It’s beautiful.”


“No time!”

Huey barked.

“We gotta go!”


Max, still, had already lunged for it. Spike growled, trying to shove him aside. Bella snapped at them both. Chaos erupted. Snarls and yips filled the air.


Lights flicked on. A door slammed. The humans were coming.


“Run!”

Huey yelled, but it was too late.


A net came down over Rufus. Bella yelped as a leash snapped around her neck. Huey dodged left, but a firm hand grabbed his collar.


Max? He was still chewing.


The next day, they sat in their cages, tucked tails, watching the humans talk about “bad dogs” and “extra security.”


Max sighed, staring at the bone still sitting outside the fence.

“Worth it.”


Huey groaned.

“Next time, we leave you behind.”


But they all knew there would be a next time. Because a good dog never quits, and a great dog always has another plan.

The Cat Who Became King: Whisker’s Tale

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GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–3 minutes

“Whisker the Magnificent: The Cat Who Became King”

In the grand kingdom of Eldoria, mighty kings and queens ruled vast lands. No one ever expected their next ruler to be ––– a cat.

It all began when King Aldric, the last of his line, passed away without an heir. The kingdom was chaotic, for the noble families all vied for the throne. Arguments broke out, alliances crumbled, and the land teetered on the brink of war.

Amid this turmoil, a small, scruffy cat named Whisker roamed the royal palace. He had been the late king’s favorite pet. Whisker was a feline of unusual intelligence. His golden eyes seemed to see into a person’s very soul. Whisker spent his days lazily lounging on the throne as if he already owned it.

One day, the nobles gathered to decide the fate of the kingdom. The council was about to descend into another shouting match. Then Whisker leaped onto the great table and let out a commanding “meow.”

The room fell silent.

The royal advisor, an old and wise man named Cedric, chuckled. “This cat would make a better ruler than squabbling fools.”

The nobles laughed, but then a curious idea took hold. Whisker had lived in the palace for years, witnessing political games and royal affairs. He had a knack for knowing which people were trusted, often hissing at schemers and rubbing against the kind-hearted. What if –– what if fate had chosen him?

The High Priest of Eldoria, known for interpreting omens, declared, “The gods often choose the least expected. This feline is their will made manifest.”

And so, as a jest at first, they crowned Whisker with a tiny golden circlet. But what began as a joke soon became a tradition. Now known as –– King Whisker the Magnificent ––, he was placed on the throne. His presence alone brought peace, for no noble dared question his rule—after all, who argues with a cat?

Of course, Whisker did not speak, but he ruled in his way. When matters of state were brought before him, he would purr to show approval. If he disapproved, he would flick his tail and walk away. If a noble displeased him, he would swat their hand with his paw. Soon, even the most corrupt learned to fear his judgment.

Under King Whisker’s reign, Eldoria flourished. The land was peaceful, trade thrived, and justice prevailed. The people adored their feline ruler, leaving out bowls of milk and fish in tribute.

Years passed, and when Whisker finally passed into legend, a statue was erected in his honor, inscribed with the words:

“He ruled with wisdom, claw, and whisker.”

And so, Eldoria remained a land where, for one golden age, a cat had indeed been king.

Tim’s Journey Raising Game Chickens

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

4–5 minutes

Tim and His Prize Chicken

Tim had been caring for his father’s White Rock chicken pen for months. It was a new chore he got handed as he got older. Tim collected eggs from nests, fed the chickens, and cleaned the pens. He also ensured plenty of fresh water for the fowl to drink.

One day, Tim’s father came home from work. He told Tim they were going on a short trip. The purpose of the trip was to look at game roosters and hens. He suggested that if Tim wanted to buy one, he should bring the money. Tim had been saving this money from doing chores and receiving it as gifts.

Tim gathered his savings—an impressive $25.00—and he and his father set off to explore this new thing he had just heard about: “Game Chickens.” They arrived at a property owned by the Gaines family about twenty miles away. Tim was surprised to see dozens of small doghouses spread across the backyard.

Mr. Gaines, a middle-aged man, came out of the house, greeted Tim’s father, and asked, 

“You’re here about the chickens, aren’t you?”

Tim and his father answered in unison, 

“Yes, we are!”

They looked around and discussed their options. Tim’s father purchased five hens and five guineas. Tim proudly bought a rooster with his savings.

When they returned home, Tim’s father explained, 

“We’ll use the rooster you bought to encourage these hens to lay eggs. Once we collect enough eggs, we’ll place them in a new incubator I bought. I’ll teach you how chickens lay eggs. You’ll also learn how they set and hatch their eggs.”

It felt like forever to collect enough eggs, but it only took about a week. Once they had gathered a good number, Tim’s father marked each egg with an ‘X’ on one side. He marked an ‘O’ on the other side of each egg. He then placed them in the incubator. He ensured the proper humidity. He added a small amount of water to the bottom tray. A screen was placed over the water, and the eggs were laid on top.

Tim’s father explained, –––

“For the first eighteen days, we must turn the eggs regularly. Turn them at least thrice daily. This prevents the developing chicks from sticking to the shell. The incubator will handle the temperature, but it’s up to us to turn them.”

Tim learned they couldn’t touch the eggs with bare hands, as oils from their skin clog the shell’s pores. They used cotton gloves to handle them. Tim eagerly helped his father turn the eggs daily, hoping to see signs of life inside.

As they approached the last three days, Tim’s father announced, –––

“No more turning. The chicks need to position themselves for hatching now. And we must keep the incubator closed—no peeking!”

It was the hardest thing for a nine-year-old to resist opening the incubator, but Tim managed. Then, on the twentieth day, he heard a faint ––

“Peep, peep!”

“Should we open it and see if they’re okay?” 

Tim asked excitedly.

“Not yet,”

His father replied.

“Let’s give it another day or two to make sure they all have time to hatch.”

That was not the answer Tim wanted to hear, but he trusted his father. The next two days felt like an eternity. The soft peep grew louder, and his father finally said, –––

“Let’s open it up and see what we have!”

To their amazement, all fifty eggs had hatched. The incubator was full of tiny, fluffy chicks, chirping loudly in their new world.

Tim and his Rooster
Tim holding his Rooster

Over the next month, Tim was responsible for feeding the chicks a unique grain mix. He also provided fresh water with added vitamins to prevent early diseases common in poultry. In about eight weeks, the chicks had grown into young roosters and hens, scattering in all directions across the farm.

Tim learned that game roosters were naturally aggressive toward each other. As they matured, the males had to be separated or butchered. Many ended up in the freezer, while a few got held back as breeders for future generations.

Tim’s father also explained why Mr. Gaines had so many small doghouses in his yard.

“He separates his game roosters to keep them from fighting. Some people sell them, and some even use them for illegal cockfighting, but we’ll never do that. It’s inhumane and against the law.”

As for the guineas, Tim’s father let them roam freely around the farm. 

“They’re the best burglar alarms you can have. If anything or anyone unusual comes around, they’ll make a racket.”

Tim discovered the game chickens laid green, blue, and brown eggs. All are in demand by area residents looking to avoid white eggs, and they have added health benefits.

Through this experience, Tim gained a lifelong appreciation for the care and responsibility of raising animals. He learned patience, the importance of careful handling, and how to nurture life from beginning to maturity. This lesson stayed with him forever.

The Great Bison Incident: A True Survival Story

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

3–4 minutes

The Great Bison Incident (A True Story)

Carney had no idea what his neighbor, Ted Ortiz, had done. Ted had recently purchased what everyone around here called a buffalo—though, technically, they were bison. His grand idea? Cross-breeding the massive bull with his cattle. What is there to go wrong?

That morning, Carney had spent hours plowing one of his fields. When he finally finished, he hopped down from his tractor. He stretched his back and pulled out his packed lunch—a simple sandwich and a thermos of water. After a few quick gulps, he was ready to tackle the next field.

He set off across the pasture, taking his usual shortcut. Halfway across, he heard a deep, rumbling snort behind him. At first, he figured it was just one of Ted’s cows and kept walking. But then he noticed something—the snorting sound was moving with him.

Carney turned around and froze.

A massive, very annoyed bull bison stood just a few yards away. And Carney had unknowingly interrupted the beast’s afternoon of affection.

The bison pawed the ground, snorted louder, and locked eyes with Carney. He had seconds to decide—fall, play dead, or run like hell. He chose the latter.

Now, Carney was in his fifties. He was not exactly a sprinter, but he moved like an Olympic athlete when faced with a furious bison. His only hope was a nearby tree. He scrambled up, arms and legs flailing, barely reaching a branch as the bull slammed into the trunk below.

Unfortunately, Carney had picked the wrong tree.

It was dead.

The bison rammed it again. The whole thing groaned and wobbled. Carney had two choices—jump and run or ride the tree down like a doomed cowboy in a slow-motion disaster.

So he jumped. And ran.

And here’s where things took an unexpected turn.

Carney swears he made it to the fence, jumped over, and escaped without a scratch. But according to the newspaper, the story went a little differently.

The article claimed that the bison knocked the tree over after Carney hit the ground. Then it turned its fury back on him. Carney had no other options. He did the only thing he thought possible. He dropped to the ground. His face was down in the dirt, and he played dead.

The bison approached, snorting, its heavy breath huffing across Carney’s back. It sniffed his head. His shoulders. His boots. Then, it reached his backside—and suddenly, something changed.

The bull gagged.

Its eyes watered, and its massive body trembled. The mighty beast gave a final snort of disgust. It turned its tail and bolted. The beast ran away as fast as its hooves carried it.

Carney, shaking but victorious, got to his feet and went to the other field. Before plowing, he had to detour into the nearest creek. He needed to scrub off whatever offended that bison so severely.

The newspaper never revealed its source for this version of events, but everyone had their suspicions. Most believed the town barber had something to do with it. After all, most of the town’s best stories started in his shop.

To this day, the Great Bison Incident resurfaces whenever the local men need a good laugh. It is a legendary reminder that sometimes survival comes down to sheer luck, including an unfortunate choice in lunch. It’s a tale that never fails to entertain.

This is a true story. The names have been changed to protect the privacy of those in real life.

Mabel the Cow: A Unique Weather Oracle

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–4 minutes

THE COW THAT FACED EAST AND WEST

Mabel The Cow
Mabel The Cow That Stood East and West

Mabel was no ordinary cow. Unlike her bovine companions, most faced north or south due to the Earth’s magnetic field. She alone possessed the uncanny ability to sense the shifting seasons. Her unique gift made her a figure of fascination and wonder in the town. If she stood facing due west upon stepping from her barn, an early spring was certain. But if she turned east, the town braced itself for six more weeks of winter’s harsh grip.

The people’s trust in Mabel was unwavering. She had consistently met their expectations. She had never let them down. This held true since old Farmer Ed Boyd’s grandfather first noticed her peculiar habit. To them, she was more than just a cow—an oracle of the changing seasons, a symbol of nature’s quiet wisdom. Their collective belief in her was a bond that united the entire community.

On this particular February 2nd, 2025, the excitement was palpable. The air was crisp. The sky was cloudless. The crowd murmured in hushed voices as they watched Farmer Ed lead Mabel from the barn. She had just finished her morning hay and grain, and Ed had completed the daily milking. Now, all eyes were on the old cow.

Mabel stepped into the winter sunlight, surveyed the expectant faces before her, and let out a deep, resonant moo. Then, to everyone’s shock, she did something she had never done before.

She laid down.

Not facing west. Not facing east. But southwest.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Uncertainty hung in the air, and people exchanged nervous glances.

“What does it mean?”

whispered Mrs. Thatcher, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Farmer Ed scratched his head, bewildered.

“Well, folks, I reckon Mabel’s got somethin’ new to tell us this year.”

Sheriff Dobbs adjusted his hat.

“Maybe it means we’ll have a little of both—some winter, some spring?”

Standing on tiptoe beside his father, Young Tommy Jenkins piped up,

“Or maybe she’s just tired!” 

His innocent humor brought a wave of laughter, momentarily easing the tension.

The laughter helped ease the tension, but the mystery remained. Some of the older farmers nodded knowingly. It was as if they were saying that nature always had its way of keeping folks guessing.

And sure enough, in the next weeks, the weather seemed as indecisive as Mabel had been. One day, warm breezes carried the scent of budding trees. The next day, an icy wind howled through town. It coated the fields with frost. The seasons wrestled for control, neither willing to yield entirely.

By March’s arrival, the town understood—Mabel had been right all along. That year, winter and spring refused to play by the usual rules. It was a season of in-between, cold mornings followed by warm afternoons, snow melting too soon only to return overnight.

From that year onward, the town no longer saw Mabel’s predictions as simple answers. They realized that nature didn’t always give clear signs. It spoke in whispers, patterns, and subtle shifts. Only those who truly paid attention understood these messages.

And so, every February 2nd, the people still gathered at Ed Boyd’s farm. They came not just to see where Mabel would stand. They attended to be reminded of life’s one true certainty—change is always coming.

Mabel, as always, remained the one true expert.

A Journey Through Fields: Life Lessons from Uncle Neb

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

An Uncle’s Field of Memories

The older man rocked back and forth on the porch swing, the wood creaking under his weight. His nephew, Jake, sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, listening intently. The evening sun stretched its shadows long across the yard, the golden light flickering through the trees.

“You ever run through a plowed field, boy?” 

Uncle Neb asked, a slow grin spreading across his weathered face.

Jake wrinkled his nose. 

“Why would I do that?”

Ole Neb chuckled.

“Ah, you don’t know what you’re missin’. When I was your age, runnin’ through a fresh-plowed field was the best thing in the world. The dirt was soft, the furrows deep. Felt like jumpin’ across waves in the ocean—only, it was earth beneath your feet, not water.”

Jake smirked. 

“Sounds messy.”

“Sure was!”

Uncle Neb laughed. 

“And I’d get a good whuppin’ from your grandma for trackin’ mud in the house, too.”

He leaned back, sighing. 

“Every spring, my daddy plowed and prepared the land to plant maize and oats. That was our winter feed for the livestock. Down at the bottom of our place, we had an alfalfa field. Grew some of the best in the county, thanks to the floods from the neighbor’s lake.”

“Wait—you let your field flood on purpose?”

Jake asked, wide-eyed.

“Didn’t have a choice, boy! The heavy spring rains would swell that lake, and the water would just roll over into our land. But let me tell you, that soaked ground made the alfalfa thick and green. We never had to worry about our cattle goin’ hungry.”

Jake traced a knot in the porch wood with his finger. 

“You had cattle?”

“Sure did. Horses and chickens, guineas, goats—you name it. Had a big ol’ barn on the west side of the place where we kept ’em. But there was one animal I couldn’t go near—one of our milk cows. It is the meanest thing you have ever seen. That cow would lower her head and charge at me as soon as she spotted me.”

Jake grinned. 

“You were scared of a cow?”

Uncle Neb narrowed his eyes playfully. 

“You woulda been too, boy! Kids had tormented that cow before she came to us. Made her mad as a hornet. Your grandpa had to milk her himself ’cause she wouldn’t let nobody else close.”

Jake laughed. 

“Sounds like she had a grudge.”

“That she did. But that was life on the farm, son. You learned to work with what you had, respect the land, and steer clear of mad cows.”

Ole Neb winked. 

“Now come on, let’s go walk that field out back. Maybe you’ll see why runnin’ through dirt felt like flyin’ to a boy like me.”

Jake hesitated, then hopped up.

“Alright, Uncle Neb. But if I trip, you owe me ice cream.”

Neb laughed, his voice warm as the setting sun. 

“Deal, boy. Deal.”

And together, they walked toward the fields, the past and gift blending with every step.

The Little Puppy That Was Capable To Do What Others Said Thought He Couldn’t

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2–3 minutes

A small town was nestled by rolling hills and surrounded by fields of wildflowers. In it, there lived a scrappy little puppy named Patches. He was a mix of this and that, with one ear that stood up and the other that flopped down. Patches was small for his age. But, he had something that set him apart. He leaped higher than any dog anyone had ever seen.

At first, no one noticed Patches’ gift. He spent his days chasing butterflies and rolling in the grass like any other puppy. It was a sunny afternoon. The town’s children were setting up a lemonade stand. A gust of wind came through and carried their banner high into the branches of an old oak tree.

“Oh no!”

“How will anyone know about our lemonade?”

Cried Emily, the youngest of the children.

Patches, who had been snoozing nearby, perked up. He tilted his head, wagged his tail, and, without hesitation, bounded toward the tree. He made a mighty leap and soared through the air. He snatched the banner in his teeth. Then, he landed gracefully on the ground.

The children cheered.

“Patches saved the day!”

From that moment on, Patches became the town’s little hero. Patches fetched lost kites from rooftops. He rescued baby birds from precarious ledges. Simply bringing smiles with his high-flying antics was enough to prove his worth. Patches proved that being small didn’t mean you couldn’t do big things.

One day, during the annual Harvest Festival, a gust of wind toppled the mayor’s prized pumpkin from the display podium. The enormous gourd rolled straight toward a table of pies, threatening to ruin the event. The crowd gasped.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Patches darted into action. He landed on the pumpkin with a mighty leap, planting his tiny paws firmly to slow its roll. The pumpkin came to a stop just inches from the table. The crowd erupted into applause, and the mayor declared Patches the town’s official mascot.

From then on, Patches wore a little red cape stitched by Emily’s grandmother. Wherever he went, he reminded everyone that sometimes, the smallest among us can do the most extraordinary things.

Otis, the Guardian of the Pack

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3–4 minutes

From the moment Ben and Steve walked into the shelter, Otis knew they were his people. It wasn’t just how they crouched down to his level. It was the warmth in their eyes and the promise in their voices.

“You’re coming home with us,”

Steve had said. Otis had wagged his tail so hard he nearly toppled over. He vowed then and there to be the best protector any family ask for.

Life in his new home was nothing short of paradise. Otis had a cozy bed by the fireplace, more toys than he can chew, and an endless supply of love. But what truly mattered to him was his duty to keep Ben and Steve safe. He took it upon himself to investigate every rustle in the bushes, every knock at the door. No leaf dared to blow towards his masters without Otis standing his ground.

Otis’s vigilance, nevertheless, had its challenges. After one too many encounters with a growling Otis, the mail carrier learned to toss packages from a distance. Neighborhood passerby’s hoped drop off leaflets and country club newsletters. They were met with a flurry of barks so fierce they often retreated before reaching the door.

Things came to a head one sunny Saturday when their neighbor Marlene, visited. Otis had met her once before and didn’t trust her an inch. She was too loud, animated, and far too close to his people to his liking. When Marlene leaned in to hug Steve, Otis darted between them, barking his warning. Steve scooped him up, carrying him to the laundry room for a “time out.”

“Otis, you need to relax,”

Steve said, his voice equal parts exasperation and affection. Otis stared back, unconvinced. Who would protect them if he wasn’t on duty?

During one memorable stormy night, Otis proved why his protectiveness wasn’t just a quirk—it was his calling. The wind howled, rain lashed against the windows, and the house creaked under the storm’s force. Otis lay at the foot of the bed, his ears perked. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the backyard.

Ben and Steve bolted upright. Otis was already off the bed. He growled as he raced to the source of the noise. They found him at the patio door. He barked furiously at a tree branch. The branch had broken off and slammed into the house. While it wasn’t an intruder, Otis’s readiness reassured them that no danger would catch them off guard.

Over time, Ben and Steve learned to appreciate Otis’s protective nature and quirks. They worked with a trainer to help him distinguish between threats and friendly visitors, but his fierce loyalty never wavered. Otis accepted his ‘time outs’ with dignity. He understood that even the most dedicated guardians needed to let their pack relax occasionally.

Otis knew one thing for certain in his heart. Ben and Steve had rescued him from a lonely life. He would spend every day making sure they were loved, protected, and never alone. His love for them was as deep as the ocean, and his loyalty as unyielding as the mountains.

You can welcome a pet into your life if you have the love and resources. Reach out to your local animal shelter. Explore adoption if you’re ready for this commitment. Before taking this step, make sure your heart and home have plenty of space. Your budget should also be ready to support a forever family member. A new family member is waiting for you!

A Dog Will Always Keep You Honest – Truly!

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2–4 minutes

They will always find ways to expose the truth whenever it is necessary. A dog will keep you honest because they are always watching you. They know everything you do. They hear everything you say.

Take, for example, Otis, a Jack Russell Terrier with soulful eyes and a tail that wagged like a metronome. Otis belonged to Ben and Steve, who pride themselves on being organized and composed. But Otis saw through it all. He knew when Steve “accidentally” skipped the morning bike ride. Steve chose instead to lounge in his recliner with a cup of coffee. Steve tried to cover up his lapse in discipline. He mentioned a “hectic morning” to explain his work demands. Otis carried the bike shorts he had abandoned by the door into the middle of the living room. His silent reproach was explicit.

Dogs, after all, have a way of sniffing out the truth—not just with their noses but with their instincts. Otis had a keen sense of timing. He knew when Ben told little white lies to his mother over the phone. Ben claimed his last doctor’s appointment suggested he was healthy. Meanwhile, he was polishing off a bag of chips. Otis would sit by his feet. He stared intently, daring Ben to admit to the salty crunch he tried to hide. Finally, Ben conceded and gave Otis a chip. He did it to keep Otis quiet during the phone conversation.

But Otis’s honesty wasn’t just about catching lies. He had an uncanny ability to bring clarity to the chaos. One summer, Ben and Steve’s neighbor, Mary, argued about a missing garden gnome. Steve assured Mary they hadn’t seen it. Yet, when they let Otis out that evening, he returned with the gnome in his jaws, proudly wagging his tail. Maybe Ben and Steve had borrowed it. Or Otis had “borrowed” it himself. The truth stood on four legs, panting happily.

Otis also kept Steve honest about his emotions. When Steve plastered on a smile for his colleagues after a lousy day, Otis knew better. He’d gently nudge Steve’s arm. Sometimes, he laid his head on Steve’s lap. This grounded Steve with the companionship that didn’t tolerate pretending. Dogs don’t care for masks; they prefer the raw, unfiltered you.

And that’s the magic of a dog’s honesty. They don’t demand perfection—they demand authenticity. They hold you accountable not with judgment but with love. Otis didn’t care if Steve skipped a bike ride. He didn’t care if Ben ate chips or if there had been a misplaced garden gnome. What mattered was that they learned to face the truth. It was messy, but they became a better version of themselves because of it. Otis is a good boy, and he proved it, by helping others be good!

A dog will always keep you honest because they never stop believing in the good in you. They don’t just witness your life—they join in it, gently guiding you toward honesty in ways only a dog can.

If you have room in your heart and home for a pet, consider visiting your local animal shelter. These shelters hold loving animals waiting for a second chance to find their forever family. Adopting a pet changes their life and brings warmth, joy, and companionship to your own. A new furry friend can be the missing piece that turns your house into a proper home.

Gerald The Goose Goes Mad On Park Goers Until He Finds Officer Tom A Friend For Life.

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In the heart of a bustling city, there was a quaint park known for its serene beauty and vibrant wildlife. Among the ducks and swans was one particularly notorious resident—a mad goose named Gerald. Gerald had a reputation for chasing unsuspecting park-goers, honking furiously and flapping his wings in a display of avian aggression.

One sunny afternoon, the park was filled with families enjoying picnics and children playing games. A commotion erupted as Gerald began his usual antics, sending people scattering in all directions. Exasperated by the chaos, the park’s caretaker decided it was time to call for help. Enter Officer Tom, a kind-hearted police officer known for his patience and love for animals.

Officer Tom arrived at the park, his calm demeanor contrasting sharply with the commotion around him. As he approached Gerald, the goose stopped, tilting his head curiously. Something about Officer Tom intrigued Gerald. Instead of chasing him away, Gerald shuffled to the officer and nuzzled his leg affectionately.

Seeing the unexpected bond forming, Officer Tom decided to take Gerald home. He became the goose’s sole caretaker, and they developed a deep friendship. A gentle loyalty to Tom replaced Gerald’s wild antics, and the two became inseparable. They were a familiar sight around town, with Gerald waddling faithfully beside Tom on his daily patrols.

As the years passed, Officer Tom grew older, and his hair turned silver. Gerald, too, showed signs of aging, but their bond remained as strong as ever. The townspeople grew fond of the duo, often stopping to chat with Tom and feed Gerald treats. They became beloved characters in the town’s story, symbolizing friendship and loyalty.

One day, the town was struck by the sad news of Officer Tom’s passing. The townspeople mourned the passing of their beloved officer, but their hearts also went out to Gerald, who was now alone. Concerned about the old goose, the townspeople gathered to decide what to do.

In a touching display of unity, the town took turns caring for Gerald. Each day, a different family welcomed him into their home, ensuring he was well-fed and loved. Though he missed his dear friend, Tom, Gerald found comfort in the townspeople’s kindness.

And so, Gerald lived out his days surrounded by the love and care of the community. The story of the mad goose and the kind-hearted officer became a cherished legend, reminding everyone of the power of friendship and the importance of looking out for one another.

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COYOTES CAUSING TROUBLE IN METRO AREAS

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© 

A coyote is threatening our dog on our patio at our home in Arizona, and we have few options to deal with it. The overpopulation of coyotes is a continuing problem, and there is nothing city, county, or state officials say they can do. Now, coyotes bravely walk onto our patio during the evenings and have threatened our dogs. We have witnessed the challenges of other dogs in the neighborhood by pairs of coyotes. Knowing when the animals will try to pass through or how many will appear is challenging. It has become necessary to be present with our dogs whenever we let them out to take breaks in the yard for their safety. We carry sticks and poles to beat the coyotes away. Is there anything someone can do to stop these animals?

The overpopulation of coyotes in many metropolitan areas, including Arizona, California, and Nevada, is a severe issue. This poses a threat to our pets and disrupts the balance of the local ecosystem, leading to potential conflicts with humans and other wildlife.

  1. Immediate Steps to Protect Your Pet
  • Bring Pets Indoors: When a coyote is spotted nearby, the most effective action is immediately bringing pets inside. Never leave small pets, like dogs or cats, unattended outdoors, especially at night, as they are at high risk. This simple step can significantly reduce the chances of a coyote attack, giving you control over your pet’s safety.Make Noise: If you can do so safely, use loud noises to scare the coyote away. Yelling, clapping, or banging objects can be effective, as coyotes tend to be skittish around loud sounds.
  • Use Water or Bright Lights: If accessible, spray water or turn on outdoor lights to deter the coyote from staying near your property. Many coyotes dislike sudden light exposure or water splashes.

2. Long-Term Prevention Strategies

    • Secure Food Sources: Coyotes are drawn to food left outdoors, such as pet food, garbage, or bird feeders. Remove these attractants by keeping pet food indoors, securing trash bins, and cleaning up fallen fruit or food from patios.
    • Fence Your Yard: Installing a tall, solid fence (at least 6 feet high) with a roller at the top can prevent coyotes from jumping over. A ‘coyote roller’ is a simple yet effective device that one can add to the top of a fence. It consists of a PVC pipe or metal rod that spins freely, making it difficult for coyotes to gain a foothold. Use Coyote Repellents: Commercial coyote repellents around the yard. These products typically use strong odors to discourage coyotes from venturing too close.

    3. Legal and Ethical Considerations

      • Consult Arizona Wildlife Authorities: For ongoing issues, contacting local wildlife or animal control agencies can help address concerns about coyote activity. In Arizona, the Arizona Game and Fish Department offers guidance on wildlife management.

      4. Avoid Harmful Methods:

      In Arizona, using traps and poison to deal with coyotes is generally prohibited. These methods can pose risks to other wildlife, pets, and even humans, and their use can result in legal consequences. Exploring humane and safe alternatives when dealing with coyote issues is essential. Educate the Community

        Organizing neighborhood awareness of wildlife encounters is crucial in building a united approach to preventing conflicts with coyotes. Sharing best practices and staying alert about sightings will benefit other pet owners and encourage community-wide efforts to limit coyote activity. Educating the community can all play a part in keeping our pets and properties safe.