I just said good-bye to Lisbeth.
Several weeks ago, my visiting nephew, Ryan, had told me the Stieg Larsson series was very good. I found "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" a little thick off the top, but when it got good, it was very good! The pace of the second book helped make it my favorite and the New York Times assessment on its back cover, "intricate, puzzle-like...startling and violent", works for me.
The third book was only available in hardcover. After finishing the second, I thought, initially, I would simply wait until the third book came out in paperback. Ha! I managed to hold off two and a half weeks before I caved-in and bought "The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest". At least it was 30 per cent off!
During those two and a half weeks, I left Lisbeth at Gosseberga on a kitchen bench with a bullet in her brain. I needed to know she would be OK and that her father would get what was coming to him. I wanted to know what happened to Niederman.
I don't usually go for grotesque, twisted, literary fiction and the series is full of that, but the characters and plot were thoroughly compelling and well worth whatever wincing was necessary to get to the next paragraph.
For the third book, knowing there is no fourth, I would read a chapter on the train into or from work and then listen to my iPod. I didn't want to get to the end and had decided to limit myself to one chapter at a time. This has been going on for a few weeks. This week, because I was so close to the end, I gave myself permission to finish the story and series. I was just sitting out on the back deck in the sunshine reading the last pages.
Author Stieg Larsson had half-finished a fourth book, set in Canada, when he died in 2004. I'm not sure I look forward to Hollywood's version of his stories.
While I may not hear any more about Lisbeth, I will always be hoping that she's keeping out of trouble.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Will You Turn That Thing Down
Susan enjoys several television shows and specialty channels. She regularly falls asleep watching programs on our bedroom television. One of the many great things about Susan is that, once she falls asleep, she doesn't mind me watching sports.
I'm hoping to earn a few points here.
Sports on television come with very particular noises and noise patterns, including bellowing announcers, crowd cheers and repeated referee whistles. These sounds, though at low volume, can seep into the drowsy mind of a sleeping beauty.
Still going for points.
On Sunday nights, early on in our relationship, I would watch Formula One races once she'd fallen asleep. Even though the volume was pretty low, the distinctive and unrelenting sound of the cars would sometimes wake her up. As fate would have it, she's blossomed into a bigger F1 fan than me!
I'm not sure what this says about sports, and it may well say something positive, but watching sports keeps me from thinking. Late at night, it empties my mind, a process generally completed in the blink of an eye, and entices me to fall asleep.
Susan is usually in bed and asleep long before me and so, most nights, the pattern unfolds with few hiccups. Once I negotiate the minefield of squeaky toys, which, when stepped on unexpectedly, squawk so loudly the hair on top of my head stands up, and the rawhide chew sticks, which, when stepped on unexpectedly with all your weight, generate enough pain to bring tears to my eyes, the rest is easy.
Almost.
The festival of fur must be displaced with the delicate touch of a well-trained bomb dismantler. When I'm not there to claim my territory, the dogs tend to conveniently park themselves on my side of the bed. I try to slide, lift, drag, shift or shove them as gently as possible. If I disturb the dogs too much, they'll just get up and start wandering around the bed, initiating an unpredictable and frightening sequence of events which, all too often, leads to one of them walking across Susan's sweetly sleeping face as my hands stifle the gasp coming out of my mouth and I gawk in shock!
This rather awkward turn of events prompts my perfected "drop and roll" escape maneuvre. Quickly, I drop to the ground and roll out of the room as Susan grumbles and mutters at having been disturbed; at these moments, it's far better not to be caught in her field of vision.
Once I manage to get in bed, I locate a sports broadcast on the television, adjust the volume and then place the remote somewhere within reach. Commercial breaks often find me desperately flinging my arm in the direction of the remote for a fast volume adjustment. Commercials are too loud and much louder than regular programming!
Once I turn down the commercials, I cower and hold my breath to see whether Susan will stir. In the end, I'm forced to choose between hearing the play-by-play and disturbing the precious repose of my darling wife.
That's got to be worth a point, or two.
For me, the choice is clear.
There may or may not be points inherent in that last statement.
On those rare occasions when the remote lands in my hand as we watch television in the living room, I'll just press the mute button during commercials. Most commercials already insult my intelligence; I'd rather not be deafened on top of being force-fed their cheesey propaganda.
The CRTC has been asking for advice on what to do about loud commercials. Tuesday of this week was the deadline for submissions. In two months, the commission received 7,293 written submissions, ten times the number of complaints it had received about television commercials in the last three years combined! Some people claim the problem will get worse before it gets better because in September, Canada will complete its transition to digital signals; digital allows for a greater range of sound than analog.
The US has a law in place requiring broadcasters and distributors, such as cable and satellite carriers, to comply with set volume standards by the end of this year. Canada is working on a solution. The CRTC wonders whether the problem can be fixed voluntarily, or whether it will be forced to crack down, which is what happened in the US.
People are sick of being blasted by advertisers.
Besides, Susan needs her rest.
I'm hoping to earn a few points here.
Sports on television come with very particular noises and noise patterns, including bellowing announcers, crowd cheers and repeated referee whistles. These sounds, though at low volume, can seep into the drowsy mind of a sleeping beauty.
Still going for points.
On Sunday nights, early on in our relationship, I would watch Formula One races once she'd fallen asleep. Even though the volume was pretty low, the distinctive and unrelenting sound of the cars would sometimes wake her up. As fate would have it, she's blossomed into a bigger F1 fan than me!
I'm not sure what this says about sports, and it may well say something positive, but watching sports keeps me from thinking. Late at night, it empties my mind, a process generally completed in the blink of an eye, and entices me to fall asleep.
Susan is usually in bed and asleep long before me and so, most nights, the pattern unfolds with few hiccups. Once I negotiate the minefield of squeaky toys, which, when stepped on unexpectedly, squawk so loudly the hair on top of my head stands up, and the rawhide chew sticks, which, when stepped on unexpectedly with all your weight, generate enough pain to bring tears to my eyes, the rest is easy.
Almost.
The festival of fur must be displaced with the delicate touch of a well-trained bomb dismantler. When I'm not there to claim my territory, the dogs tend to conveniently park themselves on my side of the bed. I try to slide, lift, drag, shift or shove them as gently as possible. If I disturb the dogs too much, they'll just get up and start wandering around the bed, initiating an unpredictable and frightening sequence of events which, all too often, leads to one of them walking across Susan's sweetly sleeping face as my hands stifle the gasp coming out of my mouth and I gawk in shock!
This rather awkward turn of events prompts my perfected "drop and roll" escape maneuvre. Quickly, I drop to the ground and roll out of the room as Susan grumbles and mutters at having been disturbed; at these moments, it's far better not to be caught in her field of vision.
Once I manage to get in bed, I locate a sports broadcast on the television, adjust the volume and then place the remote somewhere within reach. Commercial breaks often find me desperately flinging my arm in the direction of the remote for a fast volume adjustment. Commercials are too loud and much louder than regular programming!
Once I turn down the commercials, I cower and hold my breath to see whether Susan will stir. In the end, I'm forced to choose between hearing the play-by-play and disturbing the precious repose of my darling wife.
That's got to be worth a point, or two.
For me, the choice is clear.
There may or may not be points inherent in that last statement.
On those rare occasions when the remote lands in my hand as we watch television in the living room, I'll just press the mute button during commercials. Most commercials already insult my intelligence; I'd rather not be deafened on top of being force-fed their cheesey propaganda.
The CRTC has been asking for advice on what to do about loud commercials. Tuesday of this week was the deadline for submissions. In two months, the commission received 7,293 written submissions, ten times the number of complaints it had received about television commercials in the last three years combined! Some people claim the problem will get worse before it gets better because in September, Canada will complete its transition to digital signals; digital allows for a greater range of sound than analog.
The US has a law in place requiring broadcasters and distributors, such as cable and satellite carriers, to comply with set volume standards by the end of this year. Canada is working on a solution. The CRTC wonders whether the problem can be fixed voluntarily, or whether it will be forced to crack down, which is what happened in the US.
People are sick of being blasted by advertisers.
Besides, Susan needs her rest.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Kiji-Crazy Like A Fox
It's complete craziness!
Tristan announces he wants an iPhone 4.
Apparently, he's wanted one for a long time but I have not been paying attention.
OK.
He plans to use part of his savings to make the purchase.
Naturally, his mother is part of the swindling; she has apparently agreed to buy his iPod Touch, thereby providing him with more helpful cash.
Sigh.
The Apple doesn't fall from the tree.
He goes on kijiji and finds a bunch of iPhone 4's.
I call a couple of sellers on his behalf, but most have already been sold.
Tristan finds another one today and sends an e-mail.
The seller agrees to hold it for Tristan because he was the first one to express interest.
I call and get directions.
We have the guy's phone number, his address and, as we stand on his Terrebonne doorstep finalizing the transaction, his children are walking in and out of the house.
He's a complete strangers to us, as are we to him!
He exposes his home and family to strangers???
Well, in our case, he exposes his home and family to crazed consumers???
The concept is lunacy.
Whacked.
Then again, Tristan walks away with the 32 gig version for $300 cheaper than in a store.
Tristan announces he wants an iPhone 4.
Apparently, he's wanted one for a long time but I have not been paying attention.
OK.
He plans to use part of his savings to make the purchase.
Naturally, his mother is part of the swindling; she has apparently agreed to buy his iPod Touch, thereby providing him with more helpful cash.
Sigh.
The Apple doesn't fall from the tree.
He goes on kijiji and finds a bunch of iPhone 4's.
I call a couple of sellers on his behalf, but most have already been sold.
Tristan finds another one today and sends an e-mail.
The seller agrees to hold it for Tristan because he was the first one to express interest.
I call and get directions.
We have the guy's phone number, his address and, as we stand on his Terrebonne doorstep finalizing the transaction, his children are walking in and out of the house.
He's a complete strangers to us, as are we to him!
He exposes his home and family to strangers???
Well, in our case, he exposes his home and family to crazed consumers???
The concept is lunacy.
Whacked.
Then again, Tristan walks away with the 32 gig version for $300 cheaper than in a store.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Shopping Savvy Turns Profit
You won't find a deal like this in any store flier; how about $38 for $60 worth of iTunes cards!
The flier advertised $48 for four $15 iTunes cards. I headed over to the sale and purchased the package of four cards last Saturday, but didn't noticed the cashier charged me $55.
Days later, Susan happened to see the bill on our kitchen counter and noticed I had been overcharged. We headed to the chain's downtown store to ask for the $7 I had been overcharged. We were told we had to go to the store where the purchase had been made. Susan reminded me of the widespread and rarely honored price policy which entitles a shopper to an additional $10 in the event of an overcharge.
We finally had a chance to drive to the original store today to ask for the $7 difference, plus the $10 to which the price policy entitled us. I was all set to bicker and bite and was getting pumped to blog about the unpleasant ordeal.
They listened to my explanantion, checked the flier, which Susan had kept, checked the bill and calmly handed me $17.
Credit where credit's due; thanks to the Unit 31 Future Shop!
Mostly, thanks to MDG, Susan!
With my $60 dollars worth of iTunes cards, bought for $38, I indulged my podaholic cravings with the purchase of tracks by Deadmau5 and John Legend.
The flier advertised $48 for four $15 iTunes cards. I headed over to the sale and purchased the package of four cards last Saturday, but didn't noticed the cashier charged me $55.
Days later, Susan happened to see the bill on our kitchen counter and noticed I had been overcharged. We headed to the chain's downtown store to ask for the $7 I had been overcharged. We were told we had to go to the store where the purchase had been made. Susan reminded me of the widespread and rarely honored price policy which entitles a shopper to an additional $10 in the event of an overcharge.
We finally had a chance to drive to the original store today to ask for the $7 difference, plus the $10 to which the price policy entitled us. I was all set to bicker and bite and was getting pumped to blog about the unpleasant ordeal.
They listened to my explanantion, checked the flier, which Susan had kept, checked the bill and calmly handed me $17.
Credit where credit's due; thanks to the Unit 31 Future Shop!
Mostly, thanks to MDG, Susan!
With my $60 dollars worth of iTunes cards, bought for $38, I indulged my podaholic cravings with the purchase of tracks by Deadmau5 and John Legend.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
One Giant Step for Moosekind
When Susan got up at 5 o'clock this morning to give Moose her insulin injection, she mentioned the moon was big and bright in our backyard. I got up to see. Last night, Tristan and I were on the back deck, looking at the moon through binoculars. Earth's satellite was just just over 221,000 miles away, the closest it's been to our planet since March 1993. Its proximity made it 14 per cent bigger and 30 per cent brighter. I couldn't really see the difference. To me, it looked just as impressive as it always does when it's full on a clear night.
I remembered standing at the far end of our backyard with Tristan in my arms, looking up at the Hyakutake comet in 1996.
My sister-in-law and niece were here for a few days. They left this morning. Last night, my niece won at Scrabble. I cannot win one game! I did manage to beat Tristan and that's something, since he managed to beat the nephew who, too consistently, beats me. Of course, the nephew in question relies on his mental stash of chintsy two-letter words.
There are a lot of two-letter words that are perfectly reasonable, such as "to","my","as","at","of","it","go" and so on. If he used words like those, I wouldn't be compelled to challenge them. Instead, he's smugly snapping down words like "wo", "li", "za", "qi" and "na"! I'm left with no choice but to challenge his ridiculous vocabulary, which means I repeatedly miss my turn. As the game goes on, I sit there, gathering dust! He's also pretty good with hooks, adding letters to words to make new words, thereby greedily gobbling up piles of points!
If only he could win using words spoken by real human beings!
Huh? How about it, Ryan?
We went on a shopping trip this weekend so the niece could purchase some fashionable items of clothing. Tristan and I dashed ahead of Susan, Lana and Kayla as we were all walking back to the car in the shopping centre parking lot. Hiding behind a nearby vehicle, I used the remote to unlock the door. When the ladies tried to open the door, I would lock it again. Then, for variety, I would occasionally honk the horn. Tristan and I giggled our brains out!
I had foolishly forgotten Moose would soon need her insulin injection and we should have been heading back home to make sure she got it within the prescribed twelve hour cycle. By the time we decided the prank had gone on long enough, Susan was ready to send me to the moon! As close as it was to Earth yesterday, she probably would have been able to physically propel me right to the lunar surface.
I remembered standing at the far end of our backyard with Tristan in my arms, looking up at the Hyakutake comet in 1996.
My sister-in-law and niece were here for a few days. They left this morning. Last night, my niece won at Scrabble. I cannot win one game! I did manage to beat Tristan and that's something, since he managed to beat the nephew who, too consistently, beats me. Of course, the nephew in question relies on his mental stash of chintsy two-letter words.
There are a lot of two-letter words that are perfectly reasonable, such as "to","my","as","at","of","it","go" and so on. If he used words like those, I wouldn't be compelled to challenge them. Instead, he's smugly snapping down words like "wo", "li", "za", "qi" and "na"! I'm left with no choice but to challenge his ridiculous vocabulary, which means I repeatedly miss my turn. As the game goes on, I sit there, gathering dust! He's also pretty good with hooks, adding letters to words to make new words, thereby greedily gobbling up piles of points!
If only he could win using words spoken by real human beings!
Huh? How about it, Ryan?
We went on a shopping trip this weekend so the niece could purchase some fashionable items of clothing. Tristan and I dashed ahead of Susan, Lana and Kayla as we were all walking back to the car in the shopping centre parking lot. Hiding behind a nearby vehicle, I used the remote to unlock the door. When the ladies tried to open the door, I would lock it again. Then, for variety, I would occasionally honk the horn. Tristan and I giggled our brains out!
I had foolishly forgotten Moose would soon need her insulin injection and we should have been heading back home to make sure she got it within the prescribed twelve hour cycle. By the time we decided the prank had gone on long enough, Susan was ready to send me to the moon! As close as it was to Earth yesterday, she probably would have been able to physically propel me right to the lunar surface.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Beware the Beauty Show
When I say it's a special place, consider me guilty of grossly understating the facts. Once a year, the Allied Beauty Association show rolls into Montreal. All year, Susan eagerly looks forward to its arrival. All year, I eagerly struggle to repress my memory of the previous year's show. As it turns out, I've already begun, with the help of a dedicated therapist, trying to repress my memory of this year's spree! We were there Sunday and I'm, only now, starting to feel comfortable enough to talk about it.
May I just say here that beauty takes a beating at the beauty show! The hairstyles worn by visitors to the show are, in both color and form, downright frightening! The hairdos jut, jab, blind and dazzle. Many of the hairstyles had me wondering whether the creatures wearing them had managed to find parking on the busy city streets for their spaceships.
As a feature reporter looking for visual ways to cover the event, I've been on-camera with strands of foil in my hair as stylists added "low lights". One year, a team of beauty professionals at the ABA show worked tirelessly to transform me, over the course of one morning's live reports, into a metrosexual. Sadly, by that afternoon, the sophistication had come completely unravelled. Evidently, it never returned.
At one point in Sunday's precarious mission, Susan had bought so much Bed Head product that she was reluctant to go back into the booth to buy more. The dreaded test came; she called my number and, swallowing nervously, I took two steps foward and, innocently and ever-sweetly, agreed to the task.
Fool.
It turns out I botched the assignment by purchasing conditioner instead of shampoo! The sizeable error was only detected at home. In fairness to my piddly competence, was I warned not to buy conditioner? Was I told that both conditioner and shampoo were being sold? Was I told to make sure I did not pick up the identical bottle of conditioner by mistake? When she slapped the cash into my hand, I was offered no instruction whatsoever. I was forced to rely on my modest smattering of reflexes and wits. So much for those.
Repress.
Repress.
At the beauty show I, inevitably, end-up pushing the wheelbarrow through the aisles behind beaming Susan as she excitedly chooses products from the various shelves, racks, tabletops and bins. Skipping merrily through the aisles with dollar bills flittering from her purse, her exclamations and interjections provide fair warning that products are about to be tossed and flung into the wheelbarrow with a plop, crash or thud.
Don't get me wrong, the beauty show is thoroughly educational and, for future reference, beauty is only bin deep.
May I just say here that beauty takes a beating at the beauty show! The hairstyles worn by visitors to the show are, in both color and form, downright frightening! The hairdos jut, jab, blind and dazzle. Many of the hairstyles had me wondering whether the creatures wearing them had managed to find parking on the busy city streets for their spaceships.
As a feature reporter looking for visual ways to cover the event, I've been on-camera with strands of foil in my hair as stylists added "low lights". One year, a team of beauty professionals at the ABA show worked tirelessly to transform me, over the course of one morning's live reports, into a metrosexual. Sadly, by that afternoon, the sophistication had come completely unravelled. Evidently, it never returned.
At one point in Sunday's precarious mission, Susan had bought so much Bed Head product that she was reluctant to go back into the booth to buy more. The dreaded test came; she called my number and, swallowing nervously, I took two steps foward and, innocently and ever-sweetly, agreed to the task.
Fool.
It turns out I botched the assignment by purchasing conditioner instead of shampoo! The sizeable error was only detected at home. In fairness to my piddly competence, was I warned not to buy conditioner? Was I told that both conditioner and shampoo were being sold? Was I told to make sure I did not pick up the identical bottle of conditioner by mistake? When she slapped the cash into my hand, I was offered no instruction whatsoever. I was forced to rely on my modest smattering of reflexes and wits. So much for those.
Repress.
Repress.
At the beauty show I, inevitably, end-up pushing the wheelbarrow through the aisles behind beaming Susan as she excitedly chooses products from the various shelves, racks, tabletops and bins. Skipping merrily through the aisles with dollar bills flittering from her purse, her exclamations and interjections provide fair warning that products are about to be tossed and flung into the wheelbarrow with a plop, crash or thud.
Don't get me wrong, the beauty show is thoroughly educational and, for future reference, beauty is only bin deep.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Failed Role Models Ride It Out
The reality in our messed-up world is that notoriety outshines integrity.
That's lousy news for people who genuinely try to be good because, as it turns out, screw-ups reap far juicier rewards. Whether you're a professional golf superstar or the President of the United States, there's no need to strive for good because, first, all will be forgotten and then, all will be forgiven.
Just ride it out.
There's no need for ordinary people to hold themselves up to a higher standard because in our society, sleazeballs like Tiger Woods and Bill Clinton are the role models who set the standard. Not even Michael Jordan is perfect! The excuse is entirely convenient; no one has to be a role model, not Tiger Woods to fans and not fathers to sons.
You ought to be accountable for your actions and choices. Regardless of fame and fortune, full price ought to be paid for transgressions, otherwise, what's the point of choosing good, being decent, aiming high and making reasonable, responsible choices in life?
The degree of disgust may vary, the repentance tends to lack conviction, but there's no shortage of names spewing infinitely from the bowels of society; Sheen, Clinton, Woods, Rose, Bertuzzi, Spitzer, Tillman, Schroeder, Heatley, Simpson, Giscard, Jordan, Berlusconi...
It's a veritable blur!
The reality in our messed-up world is that victims are forgotten long before criminals. I'm hoping dog-lovers have a longer memory than society as a whole.
A story on the wire today reported Michael Vick has signed a one-year contract with the Eagles. On February 15th, he was designated as the team's franchise player. He had his best season with career highs in yards passing, touchdown rushing, completion percentage and passer rating. He was voted Associated Press Player of the Year and, last month, was runner-up to Patriots quarterback Tom Brady as the NFL's Most Valuable Player.
He ran an interstate dogfighting ring and routinely tortured, strangled, drowned and electrocuted dogs. Most of the more than forty fighting and bait dogs seized from Vick have been permanently scarred, physically and psychologically.
It certainly sounds like Michael Vick is over it all. Life's good again. Forgetful and indifferent football fans pour on the accolades as Vick expresses hope he'll soon be allowed to own a dog, although he freely admits it's more for his children than for himself.
Is the ex-convict still a sociopath? While he may have learned the difference between legal and illegal, Vick would have to know the difference between right and wrong to be able to answer that question.
In reference to Vick, a Los Angeles Times article suggested cruelty to animals isn't something somebody does, it's something somebody is.
To dog-lovers, our animals are dear friends and family members.
Knowing what dogs have to give to their owners, seeing these delightful creatures abused on television programs or in real life, is a source of unspeakable turmoil to dog-lovers.
I've never been a "forgive and forget" guy. Stink stays with me. Your sizeable crimes are not forgotten and will not be forgiven.
History and nations will agree, the passage of time does not make war crimes any less grotesque, or the pain and suffering they caused any less real, or pertinent.
In my book, Michael Vick equals slime dog.
That's lousy news for people who genuinely try to be good because, as it turns out, screw-ups reap far juicier rewards. Whether you're a professional golf superstar or the President of the United States, there's no need to strive for good because, first, all will be forgotten and then, all will be forgiven.
Just ride it out.
There's no need for ordinary people to hold themselves up to a higher standard because in our society, sleazeballs like Tiger Woods and Bill Clinton are the role models who set the standard. Not even Michael Jordan is perfect! The excuse is entirely convenient; no one has to be a role model, not Tiger Woods to fans and not fathers to sons.
You ought to be accountable for your actions and choices. Regardless of fame and fortune, full price ought to be paid for transgressions, otherwise, what's the point of choosing good, being decent, aiming high and making reasonable, responsible choices in life?
The degree of disgust may vary, the repentance tends to lack conviction, but there's no shortage of names spewing infinitely from the bowels of society; Sheen, Clinton, Woods, Rose, Bertuzzi, Spitzer, Tillman, Schroeder, Heatley, Simpson, Giscard, Jordan, Berlusconi...
It's a veritable blur!
The reality in our messed-up world is that victims are forgotten long before criminals. I'm hoping dog-lovers have a longer memory than society as a whole.
A story on the wire today reported Michael Vick has signed a one-year contract with the Eagles. On February 15th, he was designated as the team's franchise player. He had his best season with career highs in yards passing, touchdown rushing, completion percentage and passer rating. He was voted Associated Press Player of the Year and, last month, was runner-up to Patriots quarterback Tom Brady as the NFL's Most Valuable Player.
He ran an interstate dogfighting ring and routinely tortured, strangled, drowned and electrocuted dogs. Most of the more than forty fighting and bait dogs seized from Vick have been permanently scarred, physically and psychologically.
It certainly sounds like Michael Vick is over it all. Life's good again. Forgetful and indifferent football fans pour on the accolades as Vick expresses hope he'll soon be allowed to own a dog, although he freely admits it's more for his children than for himself.
Is the ex-convict still a sociopath? While he may have learned the difference between legal and illegal, Vick would have to know the difference between right and wrong to be able to answer that question.
In reference to Vick, a Los Angeles Times article suggested cruelty to animals isn't something somebody does, it's something somebody is.
To dog-lovers, our animals are dear friends and family members.
Knowing what dogs have to give to their owners, seeing these delightful creatures abused on television programs or in real life, is a source of unspeakable turmoil to dog-lovers.
I've never been a "forgive and forget" guy. Stink stays with me. Your sizeable crimes are not forgotten and will not be forgiven.
History and nations will agree, the passage of time does not make war crimes any less grotesque, or the pain and suffering they caused any less real, or pertinent.
In my book, Michael Vick equals slime dog.
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