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The Dogs Still Listen

Published September 3, 2025 by tindertender

Sometimes life takes everything from you—your career, your purpose, even your voice. That’s what Elaine believed, until the day she knelt in front of a dying shelter dog and heard, without words, that she was still needed.

“They called me a dinosaur—right to my face—while scrolling TikTok in my class.”

My name is Elaine Morris.
I taught English literature at Midstate College in Springfield, Missouri, for thirty-four years.
And this spring, I retired.
Quietly.
Unnoticed.
No banners.
No flowers.
Not even a handshake from the dean.

I walked out of Room 204 with a box of worn paperbacks, three dried-up markers, and a half-used tin of Earl Grey tea.
And I left behind a classroom that used to feel like a cathedral.

I started teaching in 1989. Back then, students took notes with pencils that squeaked across paper.
They raised their hands.
They stayed after class to argue about The Grapes of Wrath.
I remember a farm boy named Tyler who cried reading Of Mice and Men—said it reminded him of putting down his granddad’s dog.
Another girl, Amanda, wrote me a letter on real stationery after graduation. I still keep it in my nightstand.

But now?

Now they scroll.
They ask if they can just “email it” instead of speaking aloud.
I used to say, “Turn to page 64.”
Now I say, “Make sure your Wi-Fi’s working.”

Last semester, one of them called me “outdated.”
Another, a redheaded boy with expensive shoes, laughed and said, “No offense, but lectures are like… boomer YouTube.”

They didn’t mean it to be cruel.
That’s the worst part.
They didn’t even look up.

So I stopped asking them to.

I drank my tea.
Read my poetry out loud like I always had.
And walked out that last day with nobody knowing it was the last.

Except Sammy, the janitor.

“Last day, huh?” he said, pausing his mop outside the door.

I nodded.
He handed me a keychain I must’ve dropped a year ago.
“Guess it’s yours again.”

Then he walked away.

I sat in my car for nearly twenty minutes before turning the ignition.
I didn’t cry.
I just stared at my hands on the steering wheel, wondering what they were supposed to hold now.

The next morning, I made oatmeal, out of habit more than hunger.
Fed the birds.
Listened to the wind roll off the Ozarks through my open kitchen window.
And for the first time in decades, I had nowhere to be.

The silence wasn’t peaceful.
It was heavy.

I pulled out an old yearbook from 1994.
There I was, on page 12, caught mid-laugh in front of a chalkboard.
My hair was thick and curly then, a little wild.
My arms were full of books.
And my eyes looked… alive.

Now, at sixty-seven, I wear soft shoes and a wrist brace.
I shuffle more than stride.
And the house feels too clean, like it’s waiting for something to happen that never does.

Around 3 p.m.—the hour I used to prep for my evening class—I opened Facebook.
Just to scroll.
Out of boredom, I guess.

A photo stopped me.

A blurry image of a dog, posted by Greene County Shelter.
White muzzle.
Blind in one eye.
Caption: “URGENT: Hospice foster needed for 13-year-old female, owner deceased. Not eating. Losing hope.”

Her name?

Sadie.

That name pulled something out of me I hadn’t felt in years.

Sadie was the name of my childhood dog.
Brown with a white chest.
Used to follow me into the hayloft and sleep with her nose under my arm.
She died the night I got my acceptance letter to college.
I cried into her fur until sunrise.

Now here was another Sadie.
Also dying.
Also forgotten.

I stared at the post until my oatmeal went cold.
Then I clicked “Interested.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I walked barefoot around the living room, stopping to touch the old bookshelf I built with my father in ’72.
I ran my finger across the dusty spines: Frost, Dickinson, Faulkner.
No one reads them anymore.

They want screens.
They want speed.
They want answers before the question’s even finished.

But dogs don’t.
Dogs take time.

I thought of Sadie again—both of them.
And I whispered to no one, “What if I still have something left to give?”

The next morning, I drove to the shelter.
First time I’d been back since volunteering as a student in ’85.
The building was newer now, but it still smelled like bleach and despair.
A girl with blue hair and a clipboard greeted me.

“You here for hospice fostering?”
Her voice was flat, tired.
“I think so,” I said. “I clicked online. About Sadie.”

She nodded.
“Old gal hasn’t moved much. You sure you’re up for it?”

I smiled.
“I taught college kids who thought Shakespeare was a TikToker.
I think I can handle a tired dog.”

The girl laughed, just a little.
Then led me past rows of cages, most full.
Dogs barking, pacing, chewing on metal.

And then we stopped.

There she was.
Sadie.
Lying on a faded blanket, ribs showing, paws curled under like she was trying to disappear.

She didn’t lift her head.

The girl opened the gate.
“Go slow.”

I knelt down—slowly, knees popping—and whispered,
“Hey there, Sadie. You waiting for someone?”

Her ear twitched.
Then she lifted her head.
Blind eye milky, the other watery and deep.

She didn’t bark.
She didn’t flinch.

She just looked at me.
And didn’t look away.

I held out my hand.
She leaned into it.
Her fur was coarse, warm, alive.

That was the moment.

Not when I gave lectures.
Not when I got tenure.
Not even when I won that teaching award in 2007.

This.
This silent, fragile leaning.

That was when I knew.

I had just been chosen.
Not as a professor.
But as a person.

I stood up, knees aching, and said to the girl,
“What do I have to sign?”

The girl raised her eyebrows.
“You sure?”

“I’m not sure about much these days,” I said.
“But I know this: she’s not dying here.”

We rode home in silence.
Sadie in the passenger seat, head down, but present.
I kept one hand on the wheel and the other close to her paw.
Just in case.

When we pulled into my driveway, she looked out the window.
Then looked at me.
And wagged her tail once.

Just once.

But it was enough to break my heart in the best possible way.

🪶 Part 2 – A Name from the Past
“I didn’t expect to cry over an old dog’s name. But some names hold everything you’ve ever lost.”

Sadie was curled in the corner of my rug like she’d always lived here.
One paw under her chest.
The other stretched toward the fire, like she remembered what warmth was.

I sat on the couch, hands folded, staring at her the way I used to stare at midterms.
Carefully.
Afraid to make a sound.
Afraid I’d ruin the stillness.

The vet had sent me home with a bag of medicine and warnings.
Renal failure.
Muscle wasting.
“Don’t get attached,” he said, too casually.

I wanted to say, Sir, I’ve taught five generations of heartbreak in paperback form—of course I’ll get attached.
But I just nodded.
Took the pills.
Paid the fee.
And drove home with a silent passenger.

That first night, I left my bedroom door open.
She didn’t move from the rug.
I whispered, “Goodnight, Sadie,” and felt foolish for how natural it sounded.

At 3:17 a.m., I woke up to a sound I hadn’t heard in forty years.
The soft tick-tick-tick of nails on hardwood.
I turned toward the doorway—and there she was.
Watching.
Waiting.

“Come on,” I said softly.
She walked in slow circles.
Then climbed onto the bed like it was a mountain she’d once known.

When she laid her head on my ankle, I cried.
Not loud.
Just enough to remember I was still alive.

In the morning, I dug through my garage until I found it.

A cardboard box.
Faded blue ink on the side: ELAINE – COLLEGE STUFF – 1985.
Inside: photos, a Walkman, old letters, a bracelet from a student I’d tutored in ‘88.

And at the very bottom—a Polaroid.
Me, age twelve.
In overalls.
Grinning like I had no idea what loss was.

Beside me: the first Sadie.
Mutt of unknown origins.
One ear up, one down.
Her head resting on my knee like it belonged there.

I held the photo next to the new Sadie, now sleeping beside the fire.
They weren’t the same dog.
But grief doesn’t care about accuracy.
It only cares that something you loved is gone.

And sometimes, when the world gets quiet enough…
It sends you back what you lost—just with more gray.

The next few days passed in soft routines.

Morning pills in peanut butter.
Short walks around the block.
Long pauses at fire hydrants like they were memory stones.
She refused to eat dry food, so I cooked her scrambled eggs with goat cheese.

Neighbors noticed.

One of them—Mrs. Lorna Finch, who once told me she “never trusted pit bulls”—came to the gate and said,
“She looks like she belongs here.”

“She does,” I answered.

“She yours?”

“She’s mine now.”

Lorna nodded once.
“Good.”

Then walked away.

That weekend, I took Sadie to the little park behind Midstate College.
The one where I used to read under the big sugar maple after lectures.

I sat on a bench with Sadie at my feet, watching two kids play with a drone.
They screamed at it like it was alive.
Never looked at each other.

No skin.
No laughter.
Just tech.

I thought about my final seminar.
Only four students showed up.
One kept texting.
Another asked if the final could be replaced by a podcast episode.

I told them to just… write me something honest.
None of them did.

That afternoon in the park, I closed my eyes and spoke to Sadie like she was an old colleague.
“I don’t think they even hated me,” I said.
“I think they just… didn’t see me.”

Sadie let out a long breath.
Like she understood.
Like she’d been invisible too.

That night, I was in the kitchen cleaning out my spice drawer when the phone rang.

Landline.
Still have it.
Not because I need it—just because I can’t let it go.

“Elaine?”
A woman’s voice.
Trembling a little.

“This is she.”

“This is Melanie. Melanie Kravitz. From your 2001 Gothic Lit class.”

I dropped the paprika.

“I’m sorry to call out of nowhere. I saw a photo of you with a dog on the Greene County Shelter page. I wasn’t sure if it was you but… your hands looked the same.”

That made me laugh.
They do look the same.
Spotted. Veined. Honest.

“I’m a vet now,” she said. “At Ozark Hills. If you ever need a second opinion, or a favor… I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do,” she said softly. “You told me I could write. That I didn’t have to marry my boyfriend just because he said so. That I had value.”

I couldn’t speak for a moment.

Then: “Sadie’s sick.”

“Sadie?”

“That’s the dog.”

Silence.

“My grandmother’s name was Sadie,” she said.
“She raised me after my mother left.”

I felt a chill.

“Would you… would you come see her?” I asked. “I think she’s holding on for someone.”

Melanie arrived the next day.
Shorter than I remembered.
Hair tied up.
Still had that nervous kindness in her face.

She knelt by Sadie without saying a word.
Listened to her heart.
Checked her gums.
Then looked at me and said, “She’s tired. But she’s still in there.”

“She’s all bones.”

“So were we,” she said, “when you gave us a chance.”

That night, after Melanie left, I lay in bed with Sadie tucked into my side like a puzzle piece that finally fit.

I stared at the ceiling and whispered,
“What are you trying to teach me, girl?”

No answer.

But I swear—I dreamed in color for the first time in years.

🪶 Part 3 – The Dog Knew Me First 👇👇⏬⏬

“They posted my face online, called me pathetic—and Sadie licked my hand like I was still worth something.”

It started with a ping.

I was sitting on the porch with a mug of chamomile, Sadie curled up at my feet, when my phone buzzed.

13 new notifications.

Strange. I don’t get many these days. Just newsletters, pharmacy reminders, and the occasional forwarded joke from Lorna down the street.

I tapped the screen.

The first thing I saw was my own face.

Blurry.
Washed out by shelter lighting.
Eyes tired.
Hand gently resting on Sadie’s back.

Underneath, bold white text in a screenshot of a tweet:
“Boomer professor retires, adopts dying dog to ‘feel needed.’ This is so painfully sad.”

I blinked.

The caption from the person who reposted it was worse:
“She used to grade my papers. Now she’s grading kibbles.”
1,249 likes.
Dozens of laughing emojis.

I stared at it for a long time.
Long enough for the tea to cool in my hand.

Sadie stirred.
Lifted her head.

I looked down.
Her eyes were cloudy, but they found mine.
She leaned forward and licked the edge of my hand—right where the skin folds into itself.

It wasn’t much.
But it was real.
And in that moment, it meant more than any peer-reviewed publication ever had.

By lunchtime, the post had spread.

A student I barely remembered emailed to apologize:
“It wasn’t me, Dr. Morris. I just wanted you to know. Some of them are cruel.”

Some of them are cruel.
That sentence hit harder than the post itself.

Because when I started teaching, cruelty wasn’t clever.
It was shameful.
Students might grumble or gossip, but they didn’t humiliate you publicly and call it content.

Melanie came by that afternoon, holding a brown paper bag of supplements for Sadie.

She saw my face before I could fake a smile.

“I saw it,” she said quietly.
“Don’t read the comments.”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry.”

I sighed.
“It’s not the words. It’s the fact that they believe them.”

Melanie sat beside me.
“You saved my life once. In a classroom. In a moment. When I was just a kid with panic attacks and a spiral notebook.”

I looked at her hands—now sure, practiced, capable.

She continued, “Now you’re saving a dog who has nothing left. That’s not sad, Elaine. That’s grace.”

I didn’t reply.
But I didn’t cry either.
Which meant I believed her—at least a little.

That evening, I received a message on Facebook from someone named Lenny Parks.

“Saw what happened online. Don’t let them win. I work at the shelter part-time. If you’re ever up for volunteering… we could use someone like you.”

Lenny was young—mid-twenties, maybe.
His profile picture showed him holding a three-legged terrier with a look of such love I couldn’t ignore it.

I hesitated.
Volunteering?

I had taught Paradise Lost for three decades.
Given keynote speeches on Emily Dickinson’s structural rhythms.
And now a stranger thought I might be useful cleaning kennels?

Sadie sneezed beside me.
A loud, wet snort of a sneeze.
I laughed.
Then I messaged back: “I’ll come Wednesday. If you don’t mind old bones.”

He replied instantly: “The dogs won’t.”

Wednesday morning, I stood outside the shelter in worn sneakers and a cardigan I didn’t mind ruining.

Inside, the scent of bleach and wet fur wrapped around me like a memory.

Lenny met me at the door.

“You made it.”

“I said I would.”

He smiled.
“I like that. People say a lot these days. Doesn’t mean much.”

He handed me gloves and led me to the back.

“Start with kennel 12. Old lab mix named Rufus. Doesn’t bite. Just moans a lot.”

I nodded.
“Sounds familiar.”

I hadn’t scooped dog poop since the 80s.
But the body remembers things.

I cleaned.
I scrubbed.
I cooed at trembling muzzles.

It was messy, exhausting, and smelled like heartbreak.
But for the first time in months, I felt useful.

And the dogs didn’t care that I was old.
Or mocked online.
Or no longer “relevant.”

They only cared that I came back.

That afternoon, while rinsing out a metal bowl, I heard barking from the lobby.
Not panic barking.
Excited.
Hopeful.

A family was adopting.
Lenny waved me over.

“You want to say goodbye to Charlie? He’s heading home.”

I peeked around the corner.

A pit mix with bright eyes and a crooked tail was wagging so hard he nearly fell over.
A little girl with freckles kissed his nose.

I smiled.

And something inside me whispered, Maybe there’s still a place for you here.

But peace doesn’t stay long.

Not in this world.

That night, I got a call from the shelter.
Rufus had bitten a volunteer.
They were short-staffed.
Would I come?

I grabbed my keys and went.

When I arrived, Rufus was cowering in the corner of his kennel.
His teeth bared—not in aggression, but in fear.

I knelt, slowly.
Spoke in the voice I used when freshmen cried in my office after a bad grade.

“It’s okay, boy. You’re not in trouble.”

He looked at me, then collapsed into my lap like a falling tree.

I stroked his back, felt every rib.
So much weight gone.
So much trust still left.

And then I said it, out loud:
“Maybe I’m not done teaching.”

Not people.
Not anymore.
But these forgotten souls?

They still listened.
They still learned.

When I got home, Sadie was curled on the couch, tail thumping once as I entered.

I sat beside her and opened my laptop.
The viral post was still spreading.
But something new had appeared.

A comment.

From a stranger.

It read:
“She taught me Shakespeare and grace. Now she’s teaching me what love looks like at the end of life. Thank you, Dr. Morris.”

I didn’t recognize the name.

Didn’t need to.

Because some lessons take years to bloom.
And some students grow in silence.

Later that night, I stood at the back window, watching the moonlight hit the frost on the garden stones.

Sadie came up behind me.
Rested her head against my knee.

I placed a hand on her back.

“We’re not done yet,” I whispered.

Her tail wagged, barely, but enough.

Just enough.

Source: https://petmaximalist.com/the-dogs-still-listen/?fbclid=IwdGRjcAMlyvlleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHogPoLZmro4QxJBPVRRAaODlQUPGw_J-OznqC8aXP3NeSRXezAsI63qBZrd6_aem_xunMvzknfAombEa1IM-eDg

We Don’t Have Parasites in America

Published August 18, 2025 by tindertender

By Rachella Lumina

I just saw a post that really hit home. Someone cracked open a chicken egg and found a HUGE worm parasite inside. The comments were a fascinating mix of people from around the world—some outside the U.S. were like, “Just head to the pharmacy and grab antiparasitics.” No shame, no fear, just common practice. Meanwhile, here in America, people were scrambling in the comments, suggesting pyrantel pamoate like it’s some miracle fix.

But here’s the reality: Pyrantel pamoate does work—but it’s extremely limited. It’s a depolarizing neuromuscular blocking agent that paralyzes intestinal parasites like hookworms, pinworms, and roundworms, and then your body flushes them out. But it only works in the intestinal tract. That’s it. If parasites have migrated to your tissues, brain, liver, lungs, muscles, or anywhere else (which is extremely common, especially with strongyloides, toxocara, tapeworm cysts, trichinella, etc.)—it does absolutely nothing.

So what do you do? You go to a doctor. You finally build up the nerve to say, “I think I have a parasite.” And that’s when the circus begins:

“We don’t really have parasites in America.”

“Your symptoms must be anxiety.”

“Unless you traveled to a third-world country, it’s unlikely.”

“Even if you have them, they usually coexist with us.”

“That’s not a thing here.”

Gaslight. Dismiss. Repeat. And if you’re lucky enough to get them to agree to testing? They’ll run a stool test. One. Single. Stool. Test.

Now let me explain why that’s nearly useless.

Parasites have life cycles that include dormant stages, migratory phases, and intermittent egg shedding. The ova and parasite (O&P) test, which is what doctors usually run, only detects eggs or dead parasites in your stool. But here’s the problem:

Adult worms often live in tissue and don’t come out in your poop.

Eggs are only shed during short windows in the cycle—often once every 2–4 weeks.

Your immune system and digestive enzymes break down parasites, so by the time they pass through the gut, there’s often nothing left to detect.

Parasites like tapeworms or flukes can go years shedding no eggs at all.

Now flip to the bottom of the test results paper, where it says in tiny print—something like:
“Due to intermittent shedding, repeated testing is recommended 1–2 times per week over several weeks.”
But guess what doctors don’t do? They don’t order repeat testing. They don’t explain the test limitations. They look at that single negative result and tell you it’s all in your head.

Meanwhile, your symptoms—bloating, itching, rashes, food intolerances, weight changes, fatigue, behavioral changes, autoimmune reactions, even seizures—keep piling up. Because yes, parasites can affect the nervous system, the endocrine system, the gut-brain axis, and your immune response. There’s research showing links between toxocariasis and epilepsy, between intestinal parasites and histamine disorders, even helminths and altered neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine.

Parasites aren’t some third-world fairy tale. They’re here. They’re real. They’re stealthy. And thanks to our sanitized, pharma-dominated system that refuses to acknowledge chronic parasitic infections unless you’re literally vomiting up worms… we stay sick. And confused. And dismissed.

And if you dare to take matters into your own hands, start researching protocols, or order herbs or meds from overseas, then you’re labeled a “conspiracy theorist.”

We don’t have a parasite problem. We have a diagnostic and medical system problem.

ETA anti parasitic options-

🌿 HERBAL ANTIPARASITICS:

Gentle options for kids and sensitive individuals marked with a ()*

Clove* – kills parasite eggs

Wormwood (Artemisia absinthium) – broad-spectrum, best used in combo

Sweet Wormwood (Artemisia annua)* – milder than regular wormwood

Black Walnut Hull – strong, works well with clove and wormwood

Neem – antiparasitic and antifungal

Olive Leaf Extract* – good broad-spectrum option

Garlic (aged or extract) – strong antiparasitic and antifungal

Barberry or Oregon Grape Root – supports liver and fights gut pathogens

Mimosa pudica seed – sticky fiber that “grabs” parasites

Pumpkin seeds or oil* – paralyzes worms

Papaya seeds* – shown to kill intestinal worms

Thyme oil or herb – strong antimicrobial

Fennel seed* – gentle and helps with bloating

Goldenseal – antimicrobial and liver-supportive

Turmeric / Curcumin* – anti-inflammatory, weak antiparasitic support

Diatomaceous Earth (food grade) – physically damages parasite exoskeletons

Quassia or Gentian root – very bitter, supports bile flow and detox

💊 SUPPLEMENTS & NATURAL COMPOUNDS:

Berberine – found in goldenseal, barberry; great for gut infections

Caprylic acid – antifungal, can weaken parasite biofilm

Monolaurin – from coconut oil, helps with viral and parasitic infections

Activated Charcoal / Bentonite Clay – binders to absorb die-off toxins

Magnesium citrate or oxide – keeps bowels moving

Digestive enzymes (especially with protease) – break down parasite structures

Probiotics – especially L. plantarum, L. rhamnosus, L. salivarius

Zinc & Vitamin A – help repair gut lining after parasites

Grapefruit Seed Extract – very potent antimicrobial

Iodine (nascent or Lugol’s) – antiparasitic and antifungal

Colloidal silver – controversial, but some use short-term for pathogens

Methylene blue – antiparasitic, also antiviral/antimalarial (needs supervision)

🏺 HOMEOPATHIC OPTIONS:

(Best under guidance of a homeopath but gentle and non-toxic)

Cina 30C or 200C – classic worm remedy for children (especially with teeth grinding)

Spigelia – often used for tapeworms or heart/lung parasite symptoms

Sulphur – general detox and constitutional parasite remedy

Teucrium – used for rectal itching and pinworms

Artemisia vulgaris – homeopathic wormwood

Antimonium crudum – gut parasite-related indigestion and discomfort

Calcarea carbonica – for sluggish digestion and parasitic tendencies

Cuprum metallicum – can be used in seizure-prone kids with parasites

Homeopathic nosodes (like Parasite Nosode or Toxoplasmosis Nosode) – deeper clearing under guidance

💉 PHARMACEUTICAL ANTIPARASITICS:

(Most require a prescription in the U.S., but many are OTC abroad)

Albendazole – broad-spectrum, effective against many worms

Mebendazole – often used for pinworms, roundworms

Ivermectin – crosses into blood, good for strongyloides and tissue-dwelling worms

Pyrantel Pamoate (Reese’s OTC in U.S.) – good for pinworms/roundworms, but only works in intestines

Praziquantel – used for flukes and tapeworms

Nitazoxanide (Alinia) – often used for Giardia and Cryptosporidium

Metronidazole (Flagyl) – used for amoebas, giardia, bacterial overgrowth

Tinidazole – similar to metronidazole, longer half-life

Methylene Blue (Rx in high dose) – antiparasitic, antiviral, and neuroprotective

Tips for sensitive kids:

Use glycerite tinctures instead of alcohol-based

Mix powdered herbs into smoothies, applesauce, or nut butters

Start low and slow to avoid die-off symptoms

Always support detox pathways (liver, bowels, lymph) and binders help.

The Heart of a Good Man

Published August 11, 2025 by tindertender

Testimony from a Veterinarian

I once stitched up a dog’s throat with fishing line in the back of a pickup, while its owner held a flashlight in his mouth and cried like a child.
That was in ’79, maybe ’80. Just outside a little town near the Tennessee border. No clinic, no clean table, no anesthetic except moonshine. But the dog lived, and that man still sends me a Christmas card every year, even though the dog’s long gone and so is his wife.

I’ve been a vet for forty years. That’s four decades of blood under my nails and fur on my clothes. It used to be you fixed what you could with what you had — not what you could bill. Now I spend half my days explaining insurance codes and financing plans while someone’s beagle bleeds out in the next room.

I used to think this job was about saving lives. Now I know it’s about holding on to the pieces when they fall apart.

I started in ’85. Fresh out of the University of Georgia, still had hair, still had hope. My first clinic was a brick building off a gravel road with a roof that leaked when it rained. The phone was rotary, the fridge rattled, and the heater worked only when it damn well pleased. But folks came. Farmers, factory workers, retirees, even the occasional trucker with a pit bull riding shotgun.

They didn’t ask for much.

A shot here. A stitch there. Euthanasia when it was time — and we always knew when it was time. There was no debate, no guilt-shaming on social media, no “alternative protocols.” Just the quiet understanding between a person and their dog that the suffering had become too much.

And they trusted me to carry the weight.

Some days I’d drive out in my old Chevy to a barn where a horse lay with a broken leg, or to a porch where an old hound hadn’t eaten in three days. I’d sit beside the owner, pass them the tissue, and wait. I never rushed it. Because back then, we held them as they left. Now people sign papers and ask if they can just “pick up the ashes next week.”

I remember the first time I had to put down a dog. A German shepherd named Rex. He’d been hit by a combine. The farmer, Walter Jennings, was a World War II vet, tough as barbed wire and twice as sharp. But when I told him Rex was beyond saving, his knees buckled. Right there in my exam room.

He didn’t say a word. Just nodded. And then — I’ll never forget this — he kissed Rex’s snout and whispered, “You done good, boy.” Then he turned to me and said, “Do it quick. Don’t make him wait.”

I did.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat on my front porch with a cigarette and stared at the stars until the sunrise. That’s when I realized this job wasn’t just about animals. It was about people. About the love they poured into something that would never live as long as they did.

Now it’s 2025. My hair’s white — what’s left of it. My hands don’t always cooperate. There’s a tremor that wasn’t there last spring. The clinic is still there, but now it’s got sleek white walls, subscription software, and some 28-year-old marketing guy telling me to film TikToks with my patients. I told him I’d rather neuter myself.
We used to use instinct. Now it’s all algorithms and liability forms.

A woman came in last week with a bulldog in respiratory failure. I said we’d need to intubate and keep him overnight. She pulled out her phone and asked if she could get a second opinion from an influencer she follows online. I just nodded. What else can you do?

Sometimes I think about retiring. Hell, I almost did during COVID. That was a nightmare — parking lot pickups, barking from behind closed doors, masks hiding the tears. Saying goodbye through car windows. No one got to hold them as they left.

That broke something in me.

But then I see a kid come in with a box full of kittens he found in his grandpa’s barn, and his eyes light up when I let him feed one. Or I patch up a golden retriever who got too close to a barbed fence, and the owner brings me a pecan pie the next day. Or an old man calls me just to say thank you — not for the treatment, but because I sat with him after his dog died and didn’t say a damn thing, just let the silence do the healing.

That’s why I stay.

Because despite all the changes — the apps, the forms, the lawsuits, the Google-diagnosing clients — one thing hasn’t changed.

People still love their animals like family.

And when that love is deep enough, it comes out in quiet ways. A trembling hand on a fur-covered flank. A whispered goodbye. A wallet emptied without question. A grown man breaking down in my office because his dog won’t live to see the fall.

No matter the year, the tech, the trends — that never changes.

A few months ago, a man walked in carrying a shoebox. Said he found a kitten near the railroad tracks. Mangled leg, fleas, ribs like piano keys. He looked like hell himself. Told me he’d just gotten out of prison, didn’t have a dime, but could I do anything?

I looked in that box. That kitten opened its eyes and meowed like it knew me. I nodded and said, “Leave him here. Come back Friday.” We splinted the leg, fed him warm milk every two hours, named him Boomer. That man showed up Friday with a half-eaten apple pie and tears in his eyes. Said no one ever gave him something back without asking what he had first.

I told him animals don’t care what you did. Just how you hold them now.

Forty years.
Thousands of lives.
Some saved. Some not.
But all of them mattered.

I keep a drawer in my desk. Locked. No one touches it. Inside are old photos, thank-you notes, collars, and nametags. A milk bone from a border collie named Scout who saved a boy from drowning. A clay paw print from a cat that used to sleep on a gas station counter. A crayon drawing from a girl who said I was her hero because I helped her hamster breathe again.
I take it out sometimes, late at night, when the clinic’s dark and my hands are still.

And I remember.

I remember what it was like before all the screens. Before the apps. Before the clickbait cures and the credit checks.

Back when being a vet meant driving through mud at midnight because a cow was calving wrong and you were the only one they trusted.
Back when we stitched with fishing line and hope.

Back when we held them as they left — and we held their people, too.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s this:

You don’t get to save them all.
But you damn sure better try.

And when it’s time to say goodbye, you stay. You don’t flinch. You don’t rush. You kneel down, look them in the eyes, and you stay until their last breath leaves the room.

That’s the part no one trains you for. Not in vet school. Not in textbooks.

That’s the part that makes you human.

And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The Umbilical Cord

Published July 18, 2025 by tindertender

“This is what an umbilical cord is supposed to look like.
White. Limp. Translucent.
Because its mission is complete.
Every last drop of cord blood has been delivered to the baby – as designed.
But that’s not what usually happens.
In most hospitals, the cord is clamped and cut within seconds.
The baby cries, the team moves fast, and parents are told “it’s routine.”
No one stops to ask…
What was in that cord?
And where did it go?
Let’s break it down:
Cord blood is not extra.
It’s loaded with:
🩸 Up to ⅓ of your baby’s total blood volume
🧠 Oxygen to protect the brain
🛡️ Immune cells to prevent infection
💪 Iron to prevent anemia
💉 STEM CELLS to repair and build tissue, organs, and immunity
This isn’t waste.
It’s a biological treasure.
So ask yourself… why is it clamped early?
Why are we told the cord is useless after birth, when the baby hasn’t even received all of what’s theirs?
And here’s the darker truth:
💰 That cord blood is worth thousands on the market
💰 The placenta is sold for stem cell research, vaccine development, skincare, cosmetics, and Big Pharma products
💰 Entire biotech companies are built on the lie that your baby’s leftovers are “medical waste”
But the parents?
They’re left in the dark.
Told it’s “no big deal.”
Told it’s just discarded.
While behind the scenes, someone else cashes in.
This system isn’t broken.
It was built this way.
But THIS photo shows what happens when you don’t comply.
When you wait.
When you let the birth unfold as it was designed.
When the baby receives all of their blood. Their protection. Their power.
This is the kind of image that makes people uncomfortable –
Because it exposes what most have never questioned.
But once you see it…
You can’t unsee it.
SEE. IT.”
~ DrJodi Shabazz

2 Women, 2 Battles

Published May 20, 2025 by tindertender

We all struggle with something …..

Look at this photo.
I mean -really- look at it.
What do you see?

Two women. Two battles.

Two hearts. Two souls. Two bodies.

When you look at this photo, try not to judge.

Instead, try to understand that we all face our own battles every day.
Some we might share with others, some we keep to ourselves.
They might be obvious. They might not be.

Everyone is facing something they struggle with.
EVERYONE.

And no matter what separates your battles from hers, his battles from theirs, we are ALL human.

Be kind ❤

Comforting the Inner Child

Published April 28, 2025 by tindertender

Often times we defend ourselves via anger due to feeling the need to protect the inner child from hurt. Be that suppressed ice-cold passive anger or outright active anger.

Every trigger is an opportunity to respond in a more loving way. I don’t mean being a pleaser or a victim and allowing someone to treat you badly. I mean being able to be compassionate which means unconditional loving with ‘healthy boundaries.’

Sometimes you will react strongly when the button is pushed, other times you will have space enough to move away and de-escalate the hurt. When you do get space, even for a few minutes, it’s an opportunity to be loving towards your inner child and reassuring them that they are safe within you. They are sensitive to discordant vibrations within the nervous system. They need to hear from you!

This dialogue with the inner child helps in calming the hurt and calming the nervous system, so you can find a healthy response rather than a reaction.

We are all a work in progress.
One breath one step at a time.
Your inner child needs to feel safe within you, and the best person to give them that reassurance, is you.

Blessings 🐾🌿✨

(Art: unknown as yet)

Be the One Who Heals

Published April 27, 2025 by tindertender

Ay-hay, nitotem. Sit with me by the fire awhile. Let me tell you a story—one the ancestors placed in my heart when I was young and full of hurt, and one that’s kept me walking straight even when the winds of sorrow tried to bend me.

Long ago, before the town came, before the hydro dams took the breath from our rivers, there was a boy named Kīsikāw, which means “He Who Comes From the Sky.” He was born during a thunderstorm—his first cries were swallowed by the roar of the heavens, and the old ones said he was destined to carry lightning in his heart. But that lightning—it’s a dangerous thing, êkwa—because it can burn just as easily as it can shine.

Kīsikāw grew up in a house where love was a quiet, broken thing. His father, wounded by residential school, carried pain like a second skin. He didn’t know how to be gentle. His words struck like fists. His silence cut deeper. And his mother, she tried—oh, how she tried—but she was drowning in her own grief. The boy learned early that some wounds don’t bleed on the outside.

When Kīsikāw was older, he carried that pain like a bone knife tucked under his ribs. He judged quickly, he rejected before he could be rejected, and his shame made him sharp. People saw him as cold, but really, he was just trying not to break apart.

Then, one day, an old woman named Nôhkom Iskwew came to him. She had eyes like the still waters of Pimicikamak, deep and watching. She said, “Grandson, the hurt you carry—did it make you stronger, or just harder?” He couldn’t answer. “You carry the hurt of generations, but you have the chance to be the one who lays it down. Be the one who breaks the chain, not the one who binds it tighter.”

He sat with that. It didn’t make sense at first. How do you heal by opening old wounds? But she told him: “When you were judged, did you not cry out for understanding? When you were cast aside, did you not long for someone to accept you, as you are? Then be that someone.”

And slowly—like the river thawing in spring—he began to change. He learned to listen without defending. To forgive without forgetting. To speak from his heart instead of his pain. He chose to be gentle where his father was harsh. To love fiercely where he was taught to be silent. He became the man he needed as a boy, and in doing so, he healed not only himself, but his children, and their children too.

So I say to you, kîsikâw pîsim, sun-child: be the one who breaks the cycle. Choose compassion over cruelty. Choose to be medicine, not more poison. You are not what happened to you—you are what you choose to become from it.

That is our way. That is the power of pimâtisiwin—the sacred life. Carry it gently.

John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network

Heal This Land

Published April 8, 2025 by tindertender

The fires are burning

So reach for me
Like the petals of a rose
Bloom in it’s season
Gentle and slow
My body is the mountain
The ocean, the river
The sand and the soil
The life giver
So come on now, my friend
Speak to me
Help me understand
Let us walk together
Take my hand
And we will heal this land

We will heal this land

Do you hear the call?
We will heal this land

If you could only believe

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Tina Malia

Heal This Land lyrics © Boundless Light

Female Heart Atacks

Published April 5, 2025 by tindertender

Here is a warning for all from an ER nurse who says, this is the best description of a woman having a heart attack that she has ever heard. Please read, pay attention, and SHARE……….

FEMALE HEART ATTACKS

I was aware that female heart attacks are different, but this is the best description I’ve ever read.

Women rarely have the same dramatic symptoms that men have … you know, the sudden stabbing pain in the chest, the cold sweat, grabbing the chest & dropping to the floor that we see in movies. Here is the story of one woman’s experience with a heart attack.

I had a heart attack at about 10:30 PM with NO prior exertion, NO prior emotional trauma that one would suspect might have brought it on. I was sitting all snugly & warm on a cold evening, with my purring cat in my lap, reading an interesting story my friend had sent me, and actually thinking, ‘A-A-h, this is the life, all cozy and warm in my soft, cushy Lazy Boy with my feet propped up.

A moment later, I felt that awful sensation of indigestion, when you’ve been in a hurry and grabbed a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a dash of water, and that hurried bite seems to feel like you’ve swallowed a golf ball going down the esophagus in slow motion and it is most uncomfortable. You realize you shouldn’t have gulped it down so fast and needed to chew it more thoroughly and this time drink a glass of water to hasten its progress down to the stomach. This was my initial sensation–the only trouble was that I hadn’t taken a bite of anything since about 5:00 p.m.

After it seemed to subside, the next sensation was like little squeezing motions that seemed to be racing up my SPINE (hind-sight, it was probably my aorta spasms), gaining speed as they continued racing up and under my sternum (breast bone, where one presses rhythmically when administering CPR).

This fascinating process continued on into my throat and branched out into both jaws. ‘AHA!! NOW I stopped puzzling about what was happening — we all have read and/or heard about pain in the jaws being one of the signals of an MI happening, haven’t we? I said aloud to myself and the cat, Dear God, I think I’m having a heart attack!

I lowered the foot rest dumping the cat from my lap, started to take a step and fell on the floor instead. I thought to myself, If this is a heart attack, I shouldn’t be walking into the next room where the phone is or anywhere else… but, on the other hand, if I don’t, nobody will know that I need help, and if I wait any longer I may not be able to get up in a moment.

I pulled myself up with the arms of the chair, walked slowly into the next room and dialed the Paramedics… I told her I thought I was having a heart attack due to the pressure building under the sternum and radiating into my jaws. I didn’t feel hysterical or afraid, just stating the facts. She said she was sending the Paramedics over immediately, asked if the front door was near to me, and if so, to un-bolt the door and then lie down on the floor where they could see me when they came in.

I unlocked the door and then laid down on the floor as instructed and lost consciousness, as I don’t remember the medics coming in, their examination, lifting me onto a gurney or getting me into their ambulance, or hearing the call they made to St. Jude ER on the way, but I did briefly awaken when we arrived and saw that the radiologist was already there in his surgical blues and cap, helping the medics pull my stretcher out of the ambulance. He was bending over me asking questions (probably something like ‘Have you taken any medications?’) but I couldn’t make my mind interpret what he was saying, or form an answer, and nodded off again, not waking up until the Cardiologist and partner had already threaded the teeny angiogram balloon up my femoral artery into the aorta and into my heart where they installed 2 side by side stints to hold open my right coronary artery.

I know it sounds like all my thinking and actions at home must have taken at least 20-30 minutes before calling the paramedics, but actually it took perhaps 4-5 minutes before the call, and both the fire station and St Jude are only minutes away from my home, and my Cardiologist was already to go to the OR in his scrubs and get going on restarting my heart (which had stopped somewhere between my arrival and the procedure) and installing the stents.
Why have I written all of this to you with so much detail? Because I want all of you who are so important in my life to know what I learned first hand.

  1. Be aware that something very different is happening in your body, not the usual men’s symptoms but inexplicable things happening (until my sternum and jaws got into the act). It is said that many more women than men die of their first (and last) MI because they didn’t know they were having one and commonly mistake it as indigestion, take some Maalox or other anti-heartburn preparation and go to bed, hoping they’ll feel better in the morning when they wake up… which doesn’t happen. My female friends, your symptoms might not be exactly like mine, so I advise you to call the Paramedics if ANYTHING is unpleasantly happening that you’ve not felt before. It is better to have a ‘false alarm’ visitation than to risk your life guessing what it might be!
  2. Note that I said ‘Call the Paramedics.’ And if you can take an aspirin. Ladies, TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE!

Do NOT try to drive yourself to the ER – you are a hazard to others on the road.

Do NOT have your panicked husband who will be speeding and looking anxiously at what’s happening with you instead of the road.

Do NOT call your doctor — he doesn’t know where you live and if it’s at night you won’t reach him anyway, and if it’s daytime, his assistants (or answering service) will tell you to call the Paramedics. He doesn’t carry the equipment in his car that you need to be saved! The Paramedics do, principally OXYGEN that you need ASAP. Your Dr. will be notified later.

  1. Don’t assume it couldn’t be a heart attack because you have a normal cholesterol count. Research has discovered that a cholesterol elevated reading is rarely the cause of an MI (unless it’s unbelievably high and/or accompanied by high blood pressure). MIs are usually caused by long-term stress and inflammation in the body, which dumps all sorts of deadly hormones into your system to sludge things up in there. Pain in the jaw can wake you from a sound sleep. Let’s be careful and be aware. The more we know the better chance we could survive.

A cardiologist says if everyone who sees this post would Share or re-post, you can be sure that we’ll save at least one life.

*Please be a true friend and SHARE this article to all your friends, women & men too. Most men have female loved ones and could greatly benefit from know this information too!

Credit goes to the respective owner 🫡

You Are the Medicine

Published February 20, 2025 by tindertender