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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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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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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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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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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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.

What you leave today becomes someone’s answer tomorrow.

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.

        The Legend of Arizona’s Red Ghost Faris And His Caravan Of Former Calvary

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        Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

        Sailors and an Arab camel herder load
        a Bactrian camel aboard the USS Supply
        during one of the two expeditions to
        procure camels – National Archives

        In the sun-scorched deserts of Arizona, the vast emptiness was once filled with the pounding hooves of horses and the steady march of soldiers from the United States Cavalry. But for a brief moment in history, an unlikely companion joined their ranks—the camel. Brought from distant lands, these towering creatures with their humped backs and long legs had intended to be the army’s answer to the challenges of traversing the rugged terrain of the Wild West.

        A/I Created Photo

        In the mid-1800s, under the guidance of Secretary of War Jefferson Davis, the U.S. government embarked on a truly unique experiment-the ‘Camel Corps’. Camels, renowned for their endurance in desert conditions, were imported to America and tasked with the challenging job of carrying supplies across the barren landscapes where wagons and horses often struggled. The soldiers stationed at the forts in Arizona and New Mexico were initially skeptical. They were baffled by the strange creatures that spit and moaned, their massive feet gliding over the desert sands as if weightless.

        Among the camels, one stood out—a massive bull camel named Faris. He had traveled across the seas from the deserts of Egypt, his broad hump towering over his fellow camels. With piercing eyes and a personality as stubborn as the most seasoned cavalrymen, Faris became the pack’s leader, guiding the other camels through endless miles of scorching desert, carrying their loads without complaint.

        Library of Congress

        But the experiment was short-lived. As the Civil War loomed, funding for the Camel Corps dried up, and the forts in the Arizona desert began to close one by one. With the forts gone and no practical use for the camels, the military made a fateful decision: they turned them loose, setting them free in the vast desert wilderness. The soldiers and settlers who remained watched with mixed emotions as the camels slowly strode off into the horizon, their long necks and humps silhouetted against the setting sun.

        Library of Congress

        Faris led the herd, now wild, into the vast stretches of land where no human tread. Once tethered and burdened with human supplies, the camels embraced their freedom, roaming the desert, their calls echoing in the canyons and across the mesas.

        For years, sightings of the camels became the stuff of legend. Travelers and settlers spoke of giant creatures wandering the wilderness, spooking horses, and disappearing into the dunes as quickly as they were seen. Stories of ‘The Red Ghost’ surfaced, a phantom camel said to be terrorizing ranchers, with strange tracks left in the dust after raids on isolated farms. The mystery deepened with some claiming to see a human skeleton strapped to the back of one rogue camel, but no one knew for sure whether this was fact or fiction.

        Library of Congress

        Faris, now older but still commanding, led his herd deeper into the desert as the years passed. The camels, with no soldiers to guide them, learned to live off the sparse vegetation, adapting as always. They became masters of the land, surviving where few others could, a testament to their remarkable adaptability.

        Generations of Arizonans grew up hearing tales of the camels. Old ranchers would sit by the fire, recounting when they saw a lone camel watching them from the top of a ridge, its eyes gleaming in the moonlight before they vanished into the desert night. Cowboys whispered of Faris, the great camel leader, still roaming the wild, the last of a forgotten army, king of the untamed desert.

        So, the camels of the Wild West became more than just a footnote in history—they became legends, ghosts of a time when even the most foreign creatures found a place in the rugged and unforgiving land of the Arizona desert.

        A released camel or a descendent of one is believed to have inspired the Arizonan legend of the Red Ghost.

        One of the few camel drivers whose name survives was Hi Jolly. He lived out his life in the United States. After his death in 1902, he was buried in Quartzsite, Arizona. His grave is marked by a pyramid-shaped monument topped with a metal profile of a camel.

        Otis’ Second Chance

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        A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

        Despite the unbearable desert heat, Otis, a small white and tan dog with soft, sad eyes, bravely limped along the cracked streets of Mesa, Arizona. The sun beat down on him relentlessly, but he refused to give up. Abandoned on the outskirts of town, with nothing but the scorching pavement under his paws, every breath he took felt heavy, every step harder than the last.

        He didn’t understand why he’d been left. One minute, he was curling up in the backseat of a car, and the next, the door swung open, and he was pushed out, and the car was speeding away. Otis had waited by the side of the road, panting and confused, hoping they’d come back. But they never did.

        Days passed, and Otis grew weaker; the desert offered no relief, just endless heat. But fate wasn’t done with him yet.

        At a local rescue center, George and Henry, an older couple known for their kindness to animals, were sitting at home when they got a call. They hadn’t owned a dog since Shooter, their beloved companion, had passed away three years ago. Shooter had been their family, filling their lives with joy and unconditional love. But when they lost him, the grief was so deep they couldn’t imagine having another dog.

        Yet, the call they received from the rescue center had them thinking. Animal Control officers found the dog, who would be named Otis, wandering the streets, desperately needing a home. Could they come and see him?

        When George and Henry arrived at the shelter, they saw Otis—thin and weary but with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. It reminded them of Shooter, of how he looked at them when he needed comfort. Without a word, George knelt beside the dog, his hand gently resting on Otis’ head. Henry stood beside him, his heart swelling at the sight.

        Despite his weakness, Otis leaned into George’s touch, a silent acknowledgment that he was safe. In that moment, a bond was formed, strong and unbreakable. It was as if they had known each other for years, not just a few minutes.

        The decision to bring Otis home was not a difficult one. George and Henry knew Otis needed them, but they hadn’t realized how much they needed him. Losing Shooter had left a hole in their hearts, and while Otis could never replace him, he had a way of healing parts of them they hadn’t realized were still broken.

        Back at their home, Otis quickly settled in. George would joke that Otis had chosen them just as much as they had chosen him. The dog followed them everywhere, always by their side, as if he couldn’t believe his luck—he had found a family, a real home, where he would never get abandoned again.

        As the weeks went by, Otis grew stronger. His coat filled out, his energy returned, and he thrived under the love and care George and Henry gave him. They’d take him on long walks, though always in the early mornings or evenings to avoid the brutal Arizona sun. Otis loved their little garden, where he’d chase butterflies and curl up under the shade of a tree, a far cry from the harsh desert streets where his journey had started.

        For George and Henry, Otis brought life back into their home. The house felt warm again, filled with the sounds of paws on the floor and the happy panting of a dog that finally knew he was safe. They talked about Shooter often, his memory always present, but now there was a new energy and chapter that Otis had helped them begin. His joyous presence filled their home with warmth and happiness.

        Otis may have started his life alone, abandoned, and lost, but in George and Henry, he found something special—a family who had also been waiting for a second chance at love.

        In the cool evenings, as they sat on their porch with Otis at their feet, George would smile at Henry and say,

        “Shooter sent him to us, didn’t he?”

        And Henry, with a soft nod, would agree.

        “I think he did.”

        The End.

        Potbellied Pig Sheriff Ensures Peace: A Story from Lost Animals Farms

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        A Story By Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

        In the small, dusty town of Lost Animals Farms, nestled in the Arizona desert, Sheriff Leroy trotted proudly along, his hefty belly swaying side to side as he made his rounds. With a shiny badge on his chest, a snout that could sniff out trouble from miles away, and a well-worn cop hat resting above his beady eyes, Leroy was the heart of this farm town. The Sheriff’s trusty tool? A yellow Club Cadet golf cart that purred across the dusty paths, a squeaky siren perched on top. At the wheel sat Peppy, a scrappy border collie with a knack for precision driving.

        Leroy and Peppy patrolled Lost Animals, a sprawling farm with over five hundred animal residents. From the cows in the meadow to the chickens in the coop, Leroy knew every critter by name, and they all knew Leroy.

        “Leroy! Good mornin’!”

        A sheep called out as the cart hummed past.

        “Howdy, Shirley!”

        Leroy tipped his hat, his deep voice carrying through the air like a calm breeze.

        “Everything good on your end?”

        “Couldn’t be better, Sheriff!” 

        Shirley baaahed back with a cheerful nod.

        Lost Animals Farms had been a peaceful place under Leroy’s watch for years. Every day, he visited homes, ensured the animals were doing fine, and dealt with the occasional squabble over whose turn it was to drink from the watering hole. But today felt different. As Peppy skillfully maneuvered the golf cart down Main Trail, a sense of unease hung in the warm Arizona air.

        The call came just after noon.

        “Sheriff! Sheriff Leroy!”

         Rufus, a frantic rooster, flapped his way to the station, feathers flying everywhere.

        Leroy raised his snout from his snack, eyeing Rufus beneath his hat.

        “What’s the ruckus, Rufus?”

        “Crimewave! Crime wave!” 

        Rufus crowed, jumping in circles.

        “Some animals’s been breaking into homes! First, it was the chicken coop, then the rabbit hole, and now someone’s in the barn!”

        Leroy’s small eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Break-ins? CRIME! It wasn’t the kind of thing Lost Animals was known for. Peppy jumped into the cart and started the engine with a low growl. “Let’s roll, Sheriff.”

        The cart zipped off, dust kicking up as they sped to the barn. Leroy adjusted his gun belt, making sure his handcuffs jingled in place. Peppy barked at the animals scattering in the path, the word “crime” spreading like wildfire.

        When they arrived, the barn doors were wide open. Inside, chaos ruled. Hay bales were scattered, feed buckets overturned, and a shadowy figure rifled through Farmer Brown’s old toolbox in the corner.

        “Freeze!”

         Leroy hollered, his voice booming.

        “You’re under arrest!”

        The figure spun around, revealing none other than Slick Ricky, the sly raccoon known for his sticky paws. He’d been caught in minor mischief before, but this was bigger.

        Ricky smirked, raising his little hands as he slowly backed toward the barn door.

        “Well, well, Sheriff. Looks like you’ve caught me red-pawed.”

        Leroy wasn’t about to let Ricky get away this time.

        “Peppy, block the exit!”

        With a sharp bark, Peppy sped the golf cart in front of the barn doors, trapping Ricky inside.

        Ricky darted left, then right, his beady eyes darting for an escape, but it was useless. Leroy lumbered forward, his massive frame intimidating despite his plump size. He pulled out his handcuffs with a snouty snort.

        “Ricky, you’re done here. You’ve caused enough trouble in this town.”

        Just as Leroy was about to slap the cuffs on, Ricky dropped a bag of stolen goods and – out spilled carrots, apples, and even some shiny trinkets from the horse stalls.

        “It was just a little fun, Sheriff,” 

        Ricky sneered.

        “No harm in swipin’ a few things here and there, right?”

        “Wrong,” 

        Leroy said firmly.

        “Lost Animals is a peaceful place, and we won’t tolerate thievin’ here.” 

        With one quick motion, Leroy cuffed Ricky’s tiny paws.

        As Peppy wagged his tail in approval, the animals gathered outside the barn, murmuring. Word of the break-ins had spread fast, and now they watched as Leroy marched the criminal out of the barn and toward the golf cart.

        “Good riddance, Ricky!” 

        a horse neighed from the crowd.

        “About time!” –  squawked a chicken.

        Leroy loaded Ricky into the back of the golf cart, keeping a firm eye on him. As they drove back to the station, Peppy turned and winked at Leroy.

        “Another job well done, Sheriff.”

        Leroy chuckled, his potbelly bouncing as they cruised down the trail.

        “Yep, another day, another collar.”

        With peace restored once more, Leroy, the potbellied pig sheriff, continued his patrol, knowing that as long as he was around, Lost Animals Farms would stay safe for everyone who called it home.

        The End.

        The Cat On The Pole

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        A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

        In a quiet little neighborhood, there lived a curious cat named Whiskers. Whiskers was the cat who couldn’t resist exploring every nook and cranny of the world around him. From chasing butterflies in the garden to sneaking into open windows, there was nowhere Whiskers wouldn’t go.

        One sunny afternoon, Whiskers spotted something new and intriguing: a tall, wooden utility pole standing proudly in the middle of the neighborhood. Its wires stretched from its top, leading off in every direction like a spider’s web. With his insatiable curiosity, the pole towered high above everything else, and Whiskers decided that he just had to climb it.

        With a spring in his step, Whiskers leaped onto the base of the pole and began his ascent. He dug his claws into the rough wood, inching higher and higher. As he climbed, he felt the breeze tickling his fur, and the view of the neighborhood became more expansive. He could see the tops of trees, the roofs of houses, and even a distant hill he had never noticed before.

        But as Whiskers reached the halfway point, something changed. Whiskers looked down and realized just how high he had climbed. The ground seemed so far away, and the pole suddenly felt narrow and precarious. His heart started to race, and Whiskers felt a twinge of fear for the first time.

        He tried to turn around and head back down, but climbing down was more challenging than going up. His claws struggled to find a grip, and the pole seemed to sway slightly beneath him. Whiskers froze, unable to move up or down, his tiny body clinging to the pole in desperation.

        Below, a few neighbors noticed the little cat stranded high above the ground. They gathered around, their faces filled with concern and their voices hushed in worry. One of the children shouted, “Look! A cat’s stuck on the pole!”

        Word spread quickly, and soon, the entire neighborhood had gathered. Some suggested calling the fire department, while others considered using a ladder to rescue Whiskers. But the pole was too high, and the cat was too scared to move.

        Finally, old Mr. Thompson, who lived in the corner house, shuffled to the scene. He was known in the neighborhood as the “Cat Whisperer” because he had a way with cats that no one could explain. With a calm and gentle voice, he looked up at Whiskers and said, “Come on down, Whiskers. It’s okay.” His presence alone brought a sense of hope to the worried crowd.

        Whiskers recognized Mr. Thompson’s voice. He had often visited Mr. Thompson’s garden, where Whiskers always got greeted with treats and soft pats on the head. The familiar voice gave him a sense of comfort, and he slowly turned his head to look down.

        Mr. Thompson continued to speak softly, coaxing Whiskers with soothing words. He knelt, holding his arms as if to catch the little cat. “You can do it, Whiskers. Just take it one step at a time.”

        With newfound courage, Whiskers began to inch his way down the pole. It was slow and nerve-wracking, but Mr. Thompson’s voice kept him calm with every step. The neighbors watched silently, holding their breath as the cat descended. His bravery was a sight to behold, and it filled the onlookers with a sense of pride.

        Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Whiskers finally reached the pole’s bottom. As soon as his paws touched the ground, he dashed into Mr. Thompson’s arms, trembling but safe. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, relieved that the brave little cat was back on solid ground.

        Mr. Thompson patted Whiskers gently and whispered, “There you go, little one. Safe and sound.”

        From that day on, Whiskers stayed close to the ground, content to explore the gardens and alleys instead of the towering heights. And every time he passed the old utility pole, he would glance at it but never again feel the urge to climb. After all, he had learned that some adventures are best left untried.

        The Cat That Came To Dinner

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        A Story By: Benjamin Groff© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

        It was the early 1930s, and the Oklahoma Dust Bowl swept through the Lower Plains States, leaving the land desolate. Sand drifts piled high against fence lines and buried the once-thriving crops. The sky, often a fiery orange, seemed to smoke under the relentless barrage of dust, with the sun reduced to a mere, dim glow fighting to penetrate the thick haze. In these trying times, the ingenuity of the people shone through. Cotton sacks and burlap gunny sacks, soaked in water, were draped over windows, turning the blistering wind into a cool, damp breeze—a crude yet effective method of finding relief from the unforgiving heat.

        One late afternoon, as the sun struggled to set, casting long shadows across the Groff household near the Caddo-Washita County line, Florence ‘Mom’ Groff finished preparing the evening meal—known simply as “Supper.” The family gathered around the table, hands clasped in prayer, their faces etched with the lines of hard work and resilience.

        But as they lifted their heads, ready to eat, a sound cut through the thick silence—a soft, sad meow. The children were the first to hear it, their eyes widening in surprise. Then Mom and Pop heard it, too, and a hush fell over the room.

        Mom Groff had always wished for a cat, a companion to keep her company, and a mouser to guard the pantry. To her, the sound was nothing short of a divine blessing, a wish finally granted amidst the harshness of their lives. The family’s joy was palpable, a rare moment of lightness in a world often shrouded in dust. Their hearts swelled with hope and anticipation, their spirits lifted by the prospect of a new member in their humble household.

        With a heart full of hope, Mom poured a saucer of milk and gently opened the screen door, its hinges creaking as she knelt. Mom propped the door open and called softly, coaxing the stray Cat into the kitchen’s warmth.

        The Cat, a scraggly creature with dust-matted fur, cautiously stepped inside, its eyes wide and curious. It approached the saucer and began to lap the milk, its tail flicking contentedly. The family watched in silence, their smiles growing as they saw the Cat settling in, imagining it becoming a permanent household member.

        But fate had other plans. Just as the Cat seemed at ease, a sudden gust of wind caught the screen door, slamming it shut with a thunderous WHACK! The noise startled the Cat, sending it into a frenzy. With a yowl that echoed through the house, the Cat leaped onto the dining table in a single bound, scattering dishes, plates, glasses, and silverware in all directions. Food splattered across the room, landing in the laps of the children and Ben, Mom’s husband, who sat stunned at the chaos unfolding before them.

        Now in full panic mode, the Cat darted around the kitchen, running along the walls as if possessed, leaving deep scratch marks and a trail of destruction in its wake. The family could only watch in disbelief as the once-peaceful scene became utter chaos. Dishes clattered, food splattered, and the Cat’s wild antics turned the kitchen into a battleground.

        Finally, Ben, known as “Pop,” rose from his chair with the calm of a man who had seen it all. He grabbed a broom and walked to the kitchen door, his face determined. As he held the door open, he quietly muttered, ––– “scat, you son of a bitch, you. Scat!”

        “Scat, you son of a bitch, you. Scat!”

        With that, the Cat shot out the door, disappearing into the dust-laden twilight, leaving behind a shambling kitchen and a family in stunned silence. The sudden departure of the Cat left the family in a state of shock, their hearts still racing from the unexpected turn of events. The once lively kitchen now stood in stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.

        The story might have ended there, but it became a cherished family tale, retold with laughter that brought tears to the eyes of those who heard it. My dad, JD Groff, was the one who shared it most often, his voice shaking with joy as he recalled Pop’s uncharacteristic outburst. Dad would always add with a chuckle, “Pop never cursed a day in his life until that damn Cat tore the hell out of our dinner table.”

        Pride Parade Heroism: Bud and Jake’s Unbreakable Bond

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        Bud and Jake, two inseparable friends since childhood, shared a bond that was as strong as the fields and stables of their small hometown. As the sun came up on a crisp Saturday morning, they loaded their old pickup truck with supplies and hitched up the horse trailer, ready for the adventure ahead. Inside the trailer, their beloved horses, Star and Blaze, stood patiently, saddled, and prepared for the parade in Cleo Springs.


        The air was charged with anticipation as Bud and Jake embarked on their journey, the Pride Flag they’d carefully packed fluttering in the wind. This year, they were resolute in their decision to ride in the parade and demonstrate their unwavering support for equality and love in all its forms. The flag, a beacon of their indomitable spirit, symbolized their commitment to standing up for what they believed in, no matter the odds.


        As they drove along the winding country roads, their conversation was light and full of laughter. They reminisced about past adventures and planned the day ahead. However, their joy was short-lived. Out of nowhere, a car screeched to a halt in front of them, forcing Bud to slam on the brakes. Before they could react, two men with hardened faces and a menacing air approached the truck, guns drawn.


        “Out of the truck, now!”

        One of the thugs barked, his voice rough and commanding. Bud and Jake exchanged a glance, understanding the gravity of the situation. They complied, stepping out slowly with their hands raised.


        “We don’t want any trouble,” Jake said calmly, trying to diffuse the tension.

        The second thug, his eyes cold and calculating, shoved Bud roughly against the truck.

        “We need a ride, and this truck and trailer will do just fine, the first thug snarled.

        “Get in the back, and don’t try anything funny.”


        With their hands tied behind their backs, Bud and Jake were forced into the truck’s bed, their hearts pounding with fear and uncertainty. The thugs climbed into the cab, and the old pickup roared back to life, veering off the main road and onto a remote, deserted path.


        As the miles stretched on, Bud and Jake’s minds raced, searching for a way out of their predicament. They knew they couldn’t let these criminals escape, especially not with their horses. Bud caught sight of the Pride Flag, still within reach in the truck bed. An idea began to form.

        “Jake,”

        Bud whispered, his voice barely audible over the engine’s rumble.

        “When I give the signal, we need to act fast. Trust me.”


        Jake nodded, his eyes filled with determination. As the truck slowed to navigate a particularly rough patch of road, Bud made his move. With a swift motion, he grabbed the flag and lunged at the nearest thug. Jake followed suit, using his body to knock the second thug off balance.
        The struggle was fierce but fleeting. Bud and Jake, fueled by adrenaline and their unbreakable bond, managed to overpower the thugs and secure them tightly with the Pride Flag. Panting and bruised, they confined the criminals in the back of the truck, a testament to their courage and resilience.


        Bud climbed into the driver’s seat, and Jake took a moment to check on the horses, who, though agitated, were unharmed. With renewed purpose, they headed back toward the main road, the thugs’ angry curses silenced by the engine’s roar.


        As they neared Cleo Springs, the sight of the parade brought a wave of relief and triumph. They pulled up to the sheriff’s station, where sheriff’s deputies quickly took the thugs into custody. Hearing of their harrowing ordeal, the townspeople greeted Bud and Jake with cheers and admiration.


        With the crisis behind them, Bud and Jake joined the parade, and their Pride Flag symbolized their resilience and courage. Riding side by side on Star and Blaze, they waved to the crowd, their hearts full of pride not just for who they were but for what they had overcome together. The parade continued to celebrate love, unity, and the indomitable spirit of friendship.

        Weiner: The Bravest Piglet of Maplewood Farm

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        Once upon a time, in a picturesque countryside, set between rolling hills and verdant fields, there was a farm known as Maplewood. This farm was home to various animals, each with unique charm, but none were as spirited and curious as a little piglet named Weiner. The air was always filled with the sweet scent of hay, and the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves was a constant backdrop to their lives.


        Weiner was a tiny, rosy piglet with a button nose and twinkling eyes that sparkled with mischief and curiosity. He lived in a cozy style with his mother and siblings, who were a mix of different farm animals. The farm was a bustling place, with chickens clucking, cows mooing, and sheep baaing. Unlike his siblings, who were content with their daily routine, Weiner always dreamt of adventure. He would often sneak out to explore the farm, befriending every animal he met, from the clucking chickens to the gentle cows.
        One sunny morning, while Weiner was innocently frolicking near the edge of the farm, he noticed something unusual. The air felt different, and there was a faint smell of smoke. His tiny heart began to race as he trotted closer to the source. To his horror, he saw a small fire spreading near the barn, where all the hay was stored. The entire farm, his home, could be in grave danger if it reached the barn.


        Weiner knew he had to act fast. He dashed back towards the farmhouse, his tiny hooves kicking up dust as he ran. Reaching the farmhouse, he found Farmer Brown sitting on the porch, sipping his morning coffee.


        “Oink! Oink!” Weiner squealed frantically, tugging at Farmer Brown’s pant leg. His eyes were wide with fear, and his little body was trembling.


        Farmer Brown looked down, puzzled. “What’s the matter, little Weiner?”
        Weiner kept squealing and pulled harder, trying to convey the urgency. He was scared, but he knew he had to do something. Sensing something was wrong, Farmer Brown set down his coffee and followed the piglet. As they neared the barn, the smell of smoke became unmistakable.

        “Oh no! The barn’s on fire!”

        Farmer Brown exclaimed.

        He quickly ran to the water pump and started filling buckets. Weiner, thinking swiftly, dashed off again, this time towards the duck pond. There, he found his friend, Daisy, the duck, a wise and gentle creature, and explained the situation in frantic oinks and quacks.


        Daisy, understanding the urgency, rallied her duck friends. Together, they formed a line from the pond to the barn, each duck passing water in their beaks. Weiner joined the line, using his snout to help splash water on the flames. The ducks’ feathers glistened in the sunlight as they worked, and Weiner’s tiny hooves splashed in the water, creating a rhythmic sound.


        The commotion attracted the attention of the other animals. The cows used their strength to push heavy water troughs closer while the chickens flapped their wings to fan the flames away from the barn. The sheep, not wanting to be left out, used their woolly bodies to smother smaller fire patches. It was a true display of teamwork and unity.


        The farm was a flurry of activity. Thanks to Weiner’s quick thinking and the cooperation of all the animals, the fire was soon under control. The flames were extinguished before they could reach the barn, saving the precious hay and the farm itself from disaster. It was a moment of triumph and relief for everyone.


        Farmer Brown, covered in soot but immensely grateful, gathered all the animals around. “Thank you, everyone, for your help. But especially you, Weiner. If it wasn’t for your bravery and quick thinking, we could have lost everything.”


        Weiner blushed under his pink fur, happy to have helped save his home. From that day on, Weiner was known as the hero of Maplewood Farm. The other animals looked up to him, and he became a symbol of courage and teamwork. Though he still loved to explore, Weiner did so with a new purpose, knowing that sometimes, even the smallest piglet could make the most significant difference.


        Maplewood Farm continued to thrive, with Weiner’s tale of heroism becoming a cherished story passed down through the generations. The little piglet who saved the farm had shown everyone that anything was possible with bravery and a little teamwork.

        THE END!

        The Heartwarming Story of Jello: From Community Beloved Dog to Honorary Mayor of Millbrook

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        Jello, a spirited dog with golden fur, floppy ears, and a tail that wagged like a metronome, lived in the quaint town of Millbrook. He was a free spirit, beloved by all, and a fixture of the community, embodying the warmth and unity of Millbrook.

        Jello had his routines. Every morning, he would trot to the bakery where Mrs. Thompson would have a fresh scone waiting for him. Then, he’d visit the school playground, where children would shower him with affection and sneak him bits of their lunches. Jello often spent afternoons lounging in the sun outside the library, where Mr. Caldwell would read to him from the latest novels. By evening, he would make his rounds at the town square, greeting everyone with a joyful bark before curling up under the big oak tree for the night. The community’s love for Jello was palpable, creating a sense of unity and togetherness.

        The townspeople adored Jello so much that someone humorously suggested nominating Jello for Mayor when the mayoral election came around. The idea quickly gained traction. “Who better to represent our town than Jello?” they said. “He’s loyal, kind, and brings everyone together.” And so, in an unprecedented turn of events, Jello’s name appeared on the ballot.

        As the election drew near, excitement buzzed through Millbrook. Posters of Jello, donning a makeshift mayoral sash, adorned shop windows and bulletin boards. The slogan “A Mayor Who Cares” echoed through the streets. But a week before the election, something terrible happened: Jello went missing.

        Panic spread like wildfire. Where could he be? The entire town, deeply concerned, rallied to search for him. Kids formed search parties, calling his name through the woods and fields. Shopkeepers closed early to join the search; even the local police were on high alert. There were flyers everywhere: ‘Missing: Jello. Our Town Hero. Please Help!’. The town’s reaction to Jello’s disappearance was a testament to their deep empathy and concern.

        As days passed with no sign of Jello, whispers of foul play began to circulate. The thought was too dreadful to bear, but the town’s unity shone through their worry. They held candlelight vigils, their collective hope a beacon in the darkness, a testament to their resilience and unity.

        On the eve of the election, a familiar bark echoed through the town square just as hope was waning. It was Jello, looking a bit dirty and tired but otherwise unharmed. The townspeople greeted Jello with cheers and tears of joy. Mr. Caldwell, who had been leading a search party near the old mill, found him trapped in an abandoned shed, likely having chased a squirrel inside and gotten stuck.

        The town’s relief was palpable. Shopkeepers cleaned him up, fed him his favorite treats, and gave him more attention. Election day arrived, and with Jello safe and sound, the town celebrated their unusual but heartwarming choice for Mayor. After tallying the votes, it was no surprise that Jello won by a landslide. Although the title of Mayor was symbolic, the gesture embodied the spirit of Millbrook: a community united by love, kindness, and the belief that sometimes the best leaders remind us of the simple, unspoken bonds we share.

        Jello, the dog who roamed freely but belonged to everyone, was now the honorary Mayor of Millbrook. His tale became a cherished legend, reminding all who heard it of the power of community and the unexpected ways in which leaders can emerge.

        Midnight: Guardian of Secrets in Solstice Hollow

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        In the small, forgotten town of Solstice Hollow, days bled into each other with the relentless monotony of time. The sun hung heavy and perpetually on the horizon, a blazing sphere casting an otherworldly glow over the desolate streets. It was always twilight here, neither night nor day, as if the town existed in a pocket of suspended reality.

        The alley in the photograph was known as Whispering Lane, a narrow pathway flanked by crumbling buildings that seemed to sigh with the weight of their own history. Shadows stretched long and lean across the cracked pavement, and the air was thick with the scent of old wood and dust. At the intersection of the lane and Main Street stood an old house, its paint peeling and windows dark, a silent sentinel in this forgotten part of the world.

        On the roof of this house sat a black cat, its eyes glinting like emeralds in the perpetual twilight. The cat, known to the townsfolk as Midnight, had been there for as long as anyone could remember. Legend had it that Midnight was not an ordinary cat, but a guardian of secrets, a keeper of the town’s strange and sorrowful tales.

        One such tale was that of Eleanor Weaver, a young woman who had lived in Solstice Hollow many decades ago. Eleanor was a spirited and curious soul, always wandering the boundaries of the town, seeking something beyond the endless dusk. She was fascinated by Whispering Lane, drawn to its eerie silence and the whispers that seemed to emanate from the very walls.

        One evening, Eleanor ventured further down the lane than ever before. The sun, fixed in its eternal descent, bathed the alley in a warm, golden hue, casting long shadows that seemed to beckon her forward. As she walked, she heard faint murmurs, indistinct yet strangely comforting, as if the lane itself were sharing its secrets with her.

        At the end of the lane, where the shadows were deepest, Eleanor discovered a hidden door set into the side of an old brick building. The door was ancient and weathered, its surface etched with cryptic symbols. With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, she pushed it open and stepped inside.

        What Eleanor found beyond the door was a realm beyond her wildest imaginings—a place where time flowed differently, and the laws of reality were mere suggestions. She wandered through dreamlike landscapes, met beings of light and shadow, and learned the true nature of Solstice Hollow. She discovered that the town was a sanctuary, a refuge for those who had lost their way in the world. The perpetual twilight was a barrier, a protective veil that kept the town hidden from the rest of existence.

        Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, yet Eleanor felt no urge to return. She had found her place, her purpose, in this otherworldly dimension. But as with all who ventured too far into the unknown, a time came when she had to make a choice: remain in the dreamscape forever, or return to the world she had left behind.

        Eleanor chose to return, carrying with her the knowledge and serenity she had gained. She emerged from the hidden door, back into the eternal twilight of Whispering Lane. The townsfolk noticed a change in her—a quiet wisdom in her eyes, a sense of peace that seemed to radiate from her very being. She never spoke of what she had seen, but Midnight, the ever-watchful cat, seemed to understand.

        Years passed, and Eleanor’s tale became part of the whispered legends of Solstice Hollow. The hidden door was never found again, and some began to doubt it had ever existed. Yet, on still evenings when the sun cast its golden glow over Whispering Lane, the whispers could still be heard, faint but persistent, as if the alley itself remembered.

        Midnight remained on the rooftop, a silent guardian, watching over the town and its secrets. And in the timeless twilight of Solstice Hollow, life continued, a delicate dance between reality and the unknown.

        The WIndscreen Phenomenon

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        Earl’s Service Station was well known in town. It had to be. It was on the corner of Broadway and Main, downtown. Everybody in the city went to get their cars serviced, and the gasoline tank filled up there; they had to; it was the only gas station in the small town. Working in a gas station, Earl or his son Skip would wash the windows of cars while they were filling up. They would still be trying to scrub the bugs off the windshield on warm summer nights, long after the gas had clicked off.

        Cars that didn’t need gas would pull in, and without being asked, he would get out to work on their windshield cleaning with squeegees and sponges. It was on the house because Earl had a “full service” operation. When you bought gasoline there, anytime you stopped in, you got service. Everyone knew that you didn’t have to purchase gasoline for the service. Earl provided the work because that was the reputation of his business.

        It was the 1960s, and business ran steadily through the 1970s. However, as the 1980s crept in, a truckstop up the road near the big highway had put in giant tanks that held truckloads of fuel and could undersell Earl. It was self-serve, and the drivers had to clean their windshields. They’d have to check their oil and steering fluid, but now, all that didn’t matter. 

        Earl still had enough local customers and monthly charge accounts to keep his business open; repairing flat tires and selling accessories like windshield wipers, fluid, and antifreeze would keep him afloat. And it did through to the time he retired and handed the business over to his son Skip, who had been working in his father’s station since he was out of high school. 

        Skip noticed changes over the years, something more than people going to the big station up the road; the cars coming into the service station didn’t have bugs on the windshield. He had watched a television program a month or two earlier and remembered hearing about the windshield phenomenon. 

        It had a more scientific explanation, but Skip explained it to a group of local coffee drinkers as locals began noticing changes in their community due to the unnecessary killing of insects using insecticides that are too potent for their intended uses. The next phase would change the growth of trees in the region, which could harbor diseases that would wipe out other natural grasses and trees known to the area. 

        The coffee drinkers howled insults at Skip ––– 

        Skip, you are the gasoline island science professor.

        Another said,  

        Yeah, just like the professor on Giggi’s Island or whatever they named that old show.

        The coffee drinkers had a good laugh on Skip’s behalf and left it at that. Skip went on about his business, knowing he was on to something. A few days passed, and an agent from the county’s local university agriculture extension program came into the service station for refueling. Skip introduced himself and said ––

         Hey, do you have anything to do with bugs where you work?

        The agent said –––

        I do. I am responsible for a survey we do every Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. We have traps about twenty-five miles outside town and collect and count insects. See their type, how many, where they came from, and if they are locals or travelers. Why do you ask?

        Skip replied –––

        Windshields. There are hardly any bugs on windshields these days. When I was growing up, it took forever to scrub them off; now, there are hardly any. 

        The Agent replied –––

        It is because of insecticides. The bugs are getting killed off in masses, and they are not coming back. When they do, it kills everything down the line and up the line. It just goes on and on! 

        The agent’s words hit Skip like a ton of bricks. The number of insects was plummeting drastically, and it was a catastrophe in the making. Without insects, entire food chains would collapse. No crops would get pollinated, leading to a scarcity of food for birds, amphibians, reptiles, and even us. The ripple effect was clear-as the frogs die off, the animals that feed on them would also perish, leading to a devastating impact on the entire ecosystem.

        Skip said,

        WOW! Such a chain of events is indeed a catastrophe; no one knows about it because all attention is focused on global warming.

        The agent told Skip,

        Well, only some of the attention. We are trying to educate farmers and homeowners living in rural areas about how to use insecticides and pleading with people not to kill off bee colonies. Plus, quit killing insects. We need them, ants and all, to survive. Remember, the insects will die off with global warming affecting them too; they can’t live where their habitat is changing and are no longer welcoming to their living conditions. It isn’t just the insecticides that we are dealing with. Some areas are turning into deserts; others are seeing floods, and others are experiencing storms like never before. These extreme weather events are all linked to global warming, which is also contributing to the decline of insects.

        Skip told the agent that he had tried explaining the issue to his buddies at the coffee shop; however, they didn’t think he knew what he was talking about. The agent said you were right and good for you! I am interviewing with the local media. Tell your friends to watch for it this weekend.

        On Sunday morning, Skip stopped at the local cafe for coffee with the crew. As he walked in, everyone began cheering. 

        “There’s the man” There’s Mr Smarts!”

        It wasn’t until Skip sat down that he learned that the Agriculture Agent had referred to him in the interview as what an alert citizen was representative of; he had noticed the changes in his environment and said something.

        An ‘alert citizen’ is someone who is observant and proactive in reporting changes in their environment, like Skip. Something so great caused the local agency to alert farmers to stop using all level 1 and 2 pesticides.

        At least until the Extension Service looked into the lack of insects in the region. The news article then explained the importance of insects to the livelihood of all living creatures, just as the agent and Skip had talked about.

        Learn more about the windscreen phenomenon visit here!

        Bella Saves The Day

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        Once upon a time, in the idyllic countryside of Cloverfield, there lived a milk cow named Bella. Bella, with her gentle eyes and a coat that was brown and white as snow, was the heart and soul of a small family farm nestled between rolling hills and vibrant meadows. Her reputation preceded her, known throughout the village for her abundant milk and her kind and serene demeanor.

        Each day, Bella’s world would brighten with the first light of dawn. 

        As the sun peeked over the horizon, Farmer Joe, a kind-hearted man with a weathered face and a perpetual twinkle in his eye, would greet Bella with a warm smile, his voice filled with affection,

        “Good morning, Bella!”

        Bella, in turn, would respond with a soft moo, her eyes sparkling with joy at the sight of her favorite human.

        Farmer Joe would lead Bella to the milking shed, where she would stand patiently, chewing on sweet clover while Farmer Joe hummed old folk tunes. He had a gentle touch, and Bella never felt any discomfort. As the rhythmic sound of milk filling the pail echoed through the shed, Bella felt a deep sense of contentment, knowing her milk would soon nourish the family and their neighbors.

        Bella’s milk was known for its rich and creamy texture. Every morning, Farmer Joe’s wife, Martha, would churn some of the milk into butter and cheese, filling their kitchen with delicious aromas. Martha’s dairy products were the talk of the town, and people from neighboring villages would come to buy them. But Martha always saved a special treat for Bella: a handful of fresh, juicy apples.

        After her morning milking, Bella spent her day grazing in the lush pastures, enjoying the company of her fellow cows and the playful calves that bounded around. She had a special friend among the herd, a young and curious calf named Daisy. Daisy followed Bella everywhere, imitating her every move and looking up to her as a wise and gentle mentor.

        One day, as Bella and Daisy were grazing near the forest’s edge, they heard a faint, distressed bleating. Bella’s ears perked up, and she looked around to find the source of the sound. It didn’t take long to spot a tiny lamb stuck in a thorny bush, its wool tangled and its eyes wide with fear.

        Bella, with her calm and reassuring presence, approached the lamb slowly. Daisy watched in awe as Bella, displaying a courage that belied her gentle nature, gently used her nose to nudge the lamb free from the thorns. Once the lamb was free, it nuzzled Bella in gratitude before scampering to find its flock.

        Daisy trotted up to Bella, eyes wide with admiration.

        “Bella, you’re so brave!”

        she exclaimed.

        As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over Cloverfield, Farmer Joe came to bring Bella and the other cows back to the barn. He noticed a new spring in Bella’s step and the proud look in Daisy’s eyes.

        “Had an adventure today, did we?”

        he asked, patting Bella affectionately. Bella responded with a contented moo, happy to be home and looking forward to another peaceful night.

        Inside the barn, Bella settled into her cozy stall filled with fresh straw. As she lay down, she felt a deep sense of fulfillment. Bella had her family, friends, and the beautiful Cloverfield to call home. She closed her eyes, listening to the soft rustling of the barn and the distant hoot of an owl, grateful for the life she led and the small joys of each day. The tranquility of the night enveloped her, promising a peaceful sleep and a new day filled with possibilities.

        And so, Bella the milk cow drifted off to sleep, dreaming of green pastures and new adventures, ready to face whatever the next day would bring with her steady heart and gentle spirit.

        ~ ROSE ~ A WILD HORSE FOR A SUMMER WITH BUD

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        Photo by David Dibert on Pexels.com

        Bud was only 14 when he first met what would become his best friend for the summer. She had never been around people running wild in a pasture since birth. A 3-year-old Dunn filly, a horse commonly referred to in the region as a Red-River-Dunn for its color, a reddish tint coat with black stockings, mane, and tail. She had darker red hair around her mane and ears, slicked down her jacket, and features made for a beautiful horse.

        Bud’s dad bought her at a horse auction, and he and Bud went to load Rose; she had never been touched. Getting a rope to place a halter on her was a rodeo of itself in the lots behind the auction house. Getting her loaded into a trailer was a site to see. She reared and fought, tearing the trailer’s tail lights, clearance lights, and various fixtures off the trailer before finally getting into the trailer, most likely tiring from repeated attempts to load. No whips or harsh attempts were made to get Rose into the trailer; she never saw such strange things and was frightened by their appearance.

        After a ride home, Bud wondered if the new horse would still be standing; it was long after midnight when they arrived back at the farm. As they pulled into the barnyard, Bud’s dad backed the trailer into an empty pen and unloaded the horse. The father and son gave the horse some hay and water and a gallon of oats. Then, the two went to the house; it had been a long night.

        A technique known as plow-driving or plow-reining

        A few hours later, which most people would describe as the following day, Bud and his father were up with sunrise. That is the way you work on a farm. They went to do their chores. By the time Bud got to the barn where the new horse was, he was shocked to see his dad had a saddle on it and was behind it, plow-driving it. Plow-driving is a process where one runs a rope from each side of the bridal through the stirrups of a saddle to about ten feet behind the horse to teach it reign before mounting it and training it at riding; it is very similar to what you would see a farmer doing to guide his draw-horse behind a plow on a farm.

        Bud had always heard of how his dad had a magic touch with horses but never witnessed the gift so many spoke about. What happened next would deepen the mystery even greater.

        Bud’s dad saw him entering the pen and said,

        “I am glad you are here; it is time for you to get on her. I think we will call her Rose.”

        The father then proceeded to gather the reigns in his hands and walked up to steady the bridal and hold the horse steady. As he did, he angled the horse’s head, and Bud could see his father quietly speaking into the horse’s ear. Then his father said,

        “It is ok now. You can get on.”

        Bud stood there thinking that not 8 hours earlier, they had watched this horse, which a human had never touched, nearly destroy an endgate on a stock trailer, taking over an hour to load from a dock where it usually takes five minutes for the most problematic cases. But Bud trusted his dad and knew he would never place him in danger, so he went up. He was expecting to be going for an 8-second Bronco ride.

        After Bud settled in the saddle, he first experienced what he would describe to friends and family as the Cadillac ride. Using just two leather reins from a halter and not a bridle, he clicked his mouth for Rose to go, and she began walking. He reigned her using the plow-rein system; he gradually began using neck touch reining by letting the rein on the neck tell the horse which direction you wanted it to go. Rose was incredibly talented, a fast learner, and became acquainted with people fast. On the first day, the father and son had the horse performing levels of training that typically take weeks or months for other horses.

        Bud’s dad said, as the day progressed,

        “Rose will be yours for the summer. We sold Sam, which was your horse, so I wanted to buy this green horse to get you something to work on.”

        A green horse needs training in horsemanship, riding, leading, mannerisms, and behavior. Bud feared Rose would be a challenge if she had any flashbacks and wanted to return to her before human days. 

        The next day, Bud’s biggest concern was the end of school before Summer break. He had fourth-quarter tests to pass. Rose would have to hold until he had his schooling squared away, but he knew she’d be waiting for the summer that was about to come.

        Watch for part 2 tomorrow!

        George and The Bear, A Life Turned Around

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        By: Benjamin Groff

        A new neighbor moved down the road. His name was George. He had two strong mules that could pull a plow, a milk cow, and a rooster, but no hens. It looked like he had just taken up living in an old hut abandoned by old farmers who once lived in the area and had gone on. Bill and Nora lived down the road, and further up the hill lived John and his wife, Laura.  

        Bill, on his horse, was on his way to check on John and Laura when he passed George’s new living setup. Seeing George’s farming efforts, Bill decided to stop and extend a warm welcome. He introduced George to the rest of the neighbors, John, Laura, and his wife, Nora, and invited him to visit anytime. Bill emphasized the mutual reliance of neighbors and assured George that their door was always open, fostering a sense of community and support. 

        Bill, after his brief encounter with George, continued his journey to John and Laura’s home. He shared the news of their new neighbor, George, and they all agreed on a plan. They decided to reach out to George and invite him for a warm community dinner on Sunday, a gesture that would help him feel welcomed to their little community.

        That night, Bill fed his animals on his farm and locked his barn. He and his wife settled down in their home with a cozy fire flickering in the fireplace. They sat and thought about how lucky they were to have their little farm and life. It was to be a cool night but not cold, and Nora left their bedroom window cracked to let fresh air in as they slept. It must’ve been after midnight when Bill and Nora’s dog “Blue” started barking, and Bill yelled for him to lay down and go to sleep, saying to Blue,

        “We’ll go hunting tomorrow, dog!”

        The dog, looking miffed, he had heard something unusual but obeyed Bill and lay down, all the while staring out the door, watching for something to move.

        The following day, Bill went out to feed his livestock and noticed hay, corn, and other items had gone missing from his barn. The back barn door swung open –– Bill recalled –– it had not been the night before. He saddled his horse and rode to John’s, and they, too, had been missing several things: pots and pans, a chicken, and a piece of meat from their smokehouse. Bill told John not to say anything to George until they knew the new neighbor had anything to do with the missing items. Just because George was new to the area didn’t mean he had taken anything.

        On his way home, Bill stopped by to check on George. But, it looked like George was still asleep, and his wife, whom Bill hadn’t met, was timid and only waved through the door. So Bill rode his horse back home.

        When he got home, Bill had a hunch and got some stiff bailing wire used to bundle hay. He stuck it into his corn cobs, which he stored in his feed storage bins. He then slid a small band onto a few of his best hens’ legs. That night, Bill and Nora went to bed and again had their window cracked open, and Blue was guarding them next to the bed. Sometime after midnight, Blue began barking and scratching at the door. And again, Bill told him to lie down. But this time, Bill knew why Blue was barking.

        The following day, Bill went to his barn, and sure enough, the corncobs he had placed the wire on were gone. Some hay and the hens he had slipped the bans on their legs were gone. Bill returned to the house, had breakfast, and told Nora he was going over to Georges. When he arrived, the neighbor was out in his yard, and the two men met. And Bill asked George if he could see George’s mules. As they were looking at the mules, George saw a corncob and broke it open, and there was a wire. The wire he had stuck in it the night before.

        Bill turned to George and said,

        “George, this corncob is mine. I put this wire in there last night. I will find the same thing if I break open a few more corncobs. And, I have seen several hens you have today that you didn’t have yesterday, and they have a ban on their legs. I know because I placed it on them last night as well. John is also missing some meat and old pots and pans up the road, and I’ve heard talk from other neighbors about missing things around. We don’t do such things around here!”

        George apologized and said that he would bring the items he took back before the day’s end.

        At sundown the following day, Bill and John were talking, and they had not heard from George but knew he was at home. George had not returned anything. Other men who were missing items met Bill, and they said ––

        “we need to teach George we don’t steal.”

        They all agreed. The men went and hitched a team of horses up to a wagon and put an old whiskey barrel and some rope in it. They then went to George’s. When he came out onto his porch, the men surrounded him, tied him up, and put him in the wagon. Some of the men’s wives came to stay with George’s wife while the men took him out in the wagon. 

        They climbed a tall, steep mountain that was clear of trees on one side. When they got to the top, they set the whiskey barrel out and told George to get inside. He did. Then they tacked on the top. George could only see one small hole in the side of the barrel.

        The men told “George, this is your punishment for stealing from us. You are to be in this barrel overnight”, but they were interrupted.

        A big ole bear came sniffing out of the woods, and the men jumped on the wagon and took off. Looking out of the hole, George couldn’t see what was going on, but the bear backed up to the barrel, sticking its tail in the hole. When it did, George grabbed it and scared the bear, causing it to run down the mountainside. As it did, the barrel rolled, banged, thumped, jumped, flew, hit, and jarred the barrel. Causing to fall to pieces when it hit the bottom of the mountain. George was beaten and bruised but alive, and the neighbor men in the wagon were all waiting on him. Two of them got on each side of him and helped him into the wagon; another handed him a jar of salve, telling him it would take care of every scratch on him. When he healed, the other men told him to hitch his mules up to his wagon and come by their place, and they’d have some items to help him start farming and set up a house with his wife. Bill and John told him that he never had to steal again in his life. All he had to do was be a good neighbor and help others when they needed it, and others in the community would help him. Bill said, “If you are having trouble, don’t starve. We’ll help you out, just like you will help us out when we need it.”

        If you are having trouble, don’t starve. We’ll help you out, just like you will help us out when we need it. 

        Then, all the farmers and people who lived in the area came together on a sunny afternoon and celebrated having new neighbors, George and Bessie. There was food, games and their fellowship built lifetime bonds. From then on George was the best neighbor and went on to pass on the lessons he learned from Bill and John and the other farmers and neighbors who had turned him away from stealing.

        The End!