Flo Waxman

@RealTraderJill @margibby How about just try to be nice. Give the nasty language to yourself and act like that person is your mother or grandmother. Yes, someday it will be you. How will you feel then

Wise words from this young woman! “Twice this week, I have watched an elderly individual, fade into the busy life in which we all live. One man just needed Panadol for his wife but the shop assistant simply said it’s in aisle ‘6’. But he struggled to navigate the supermarket and as I watched him go in the wrong direction, I left all my groceries and took him where he needed to go.” “Today, I watched an elderly man struggle in the heat, who had obviously had a fall with a huge scrape and blood on his leg. He walked past people in the cafe, while he slowly made his way to his car. Not one person stopped. Or looked. Or acknowledged him. I took him to his car and checked he was ok. He told me he had a fall and wasn’t sure how the air con worked in his car so he just didn’t use it. I sat with him, until his air con kicked in and heard him talk about the old frail body that he is in, that fails him now, every single day.” “When you see an elderly person walking down the street, searching in the supermarket or struggling to their car, take a minute out of your busy schedule and ask them if they need a hand. Think about your grand parents and your parents and how pissed you would be if someone didn’t stop to help them. But more, think of them as you.” “Once upon a time they were you. They were busy, they had work, they had children, they were able. Today, they are just in an older body that is not going as fast as it used to and this busy life is confusing. They deserve our utmost respect and consideration. One day it will be you, it will be us. I wish more people gave a shit about them and acknowledged them for their admirable existence and jeez I hope someday, not that far away, someone does it for me.” Thanks to the author, Adele Renee. ♥️

“The shelter scheduled him to die at 8 a.m. At 7:46, a little girl walked through the front door carrying a piggy bank in both hands and whispered, ‘I came for the dog nobody picked.’” It happened on a freezing Thursday morning in December 2022 at a small county animal shelter tucked into the hills of rural Arkansas near the Ozark National Forest. The dog was listed in the records as Kennel 14. No real name. Just a number. A twelve-year-old mixed-breed mutt with patchy tan fur, white paws, and the tired face of an animal who had spent most of his life surviving instead of belonging. Nobody knew exactly what breeds made him up. Part shepherd. Part hound. Part terrier maybe. Whatever he was, age and hardship had worn him thin. He had arrived at the shelter 147 days earlier after county officers found him lying beneath an abandoned trailer during a summer heat wave. He was barely alive. Covered in ticks. Missing fur along his hips from untreated skin infections. Several ribs visible through his coat. One rear leg healed crooked from an old fracture that had never properly set. The shelter veterinarian estimated he’d spent years outdoors. Probably longer than anyone realized. His intake report listed multiple medical concerns. Advanced arthritis. Heart murmur. Partial hearing loss. Clouding in both eyes. And severe dental disease that eventually required most of his teeth to be removed. But the saddest part wasn’t his body. It was his behavior. Every morning, Kennel 14 sat at the very front corner of his enclosure facing the main hallway. Not barking. Not pacing. Just watching. Staff members noticed it almost immediately. Whenever footsteps echoed through the building, his ears would perk slightly and his tail would give one hopeful thump against the concrete floor. Then people would pass by. Families wanted puppies. Younger dogs. Healthy dogs. Perfect dogs. Nobody stopped for the old mutt. Not once in 147 days. Still, every morning he sat there waiting anyway. The shelter staff extended his hold again and again. Ten different times his euthanasia paperwork had been postponed. Ten different mornings somebody quietly moved his file to the following week because nobody could quite bring themselves to sign the final approval. But winter overcrowding hit hard that year. Dozens of abandoned holiday puppies. Owner surrenders. Neglect cases. Every kennel filled beyond capacity. Hard decisions started happening daily. And by the second week of December, Kennel 14’s name reached the top of the list. Scheduled time: 8:00 a.m. The staff hated it. But there simply wasn’t space anymore. At 7:46 that morning, the front door opened. A little girl stepped inside wearing mismatched boots and a puffy winter coat over cartoon pajamas. She couldn’t have been older than six. Her blond hair looked hurriedly brushed by someone too tired to finish the job. Both hands clutched a faded blue piggy bank covered in scratches and chipped paint. Behind her stood her grandfather, an older man in denim overalls and work boots dusted with feed-store dirt. The front desk volunteer recognized him immediately from the church food pantry down the road. The little girl walked straight to the counter on tiptoe and lifted the piggy bank as high as she could. “I’m here for the dog nobody wants,” she said softly. The volunteer froze. Behind the child, her grandfather rubbed at his eyes and gave a tired nod. “She saw him last week,” he explained quietly. “Hasn’t stopped talking about him since.” The volunteer crouched down. “Which dog are you talking about, sweetheart?” Without hesitation, the little girl pointed toward the kennel hallway. “The old one with the floppy ear,” she said. “The sad one.” The shelter went silent. Everyone knew exactly which dog she meant. They walked her into the kennel room slowly. Kennel 14 was exactly where he always was. Sitting at the front of the enclosure. Watching the door. Waiting. The little girl knelt in front of the kennel without saying a word. She didn’t squeal. Didn’t stick her fingers through the bars. Didn’t try forcing affection. She simply sat there quietly looking at him. The old dog stared back at her for several long seconds. Then something happened that none of the employees had ever seen before. The dog stood up immediately. Painfully. Slowly. His stiff legs trembled beneath him as he walked to the kennel door. Then he leaned his entire body gently against it and closed his eyes. One shelter worker later admitted she had to leave the room because she started crying too hard to breathe. The little girl looked up at her grandfather and whispered, “He thought nobody was coming.” The piggy bank contained thirty-two dollars and seventeen cents. Mostly pennies. Nickels. Dimes. A few crumpled one-dollar bills folded into tiny squares. The adoption fee was eighty dollars. The shelter manager waived the rest before the grandfather could even reach for his wallet. Nobody in that building was going to let that child leave without the dog. When they opened the kennel door, the old mixed-breed dog walked directly toward the girl and pressed his graying face into her chest. Very gently. Like he already knew. The staff helped carry him outside because arthritis made the stairs difficult. The little girl held him the entire way to the truck. He was too large for her arms. One paw dangled awkwardly over her elbow while his head rested beneath her chin. But for the first time in nearly five months… his tail never stopped wagging. She named him Rusty before they even left the parking lot. Later, her grandfather explained where the piggy bank money came from. Birthday money. Lost-tooth money. Coins she found in couch cushions and grocery store parking lots. She’d been saving for almost two years to buy herself a bicycle. The night before, when her grandfather asked if she was sure she wanted to spend it all on an old shelter dog, she answered with words that the shelter eventually wrote onto a paper sign near the donation jar in the lobby. “He waited longer than I did. That means he needs it more.” Within weeks, Rusty began changing. The veterinary clinic treated his infections. His skin healed. He gained weight slowly. His fur started growing back thicker around his shoulders and neck. But the biggest change wasn’t physical. It was emotional. For 147 days at the shelter, Rusty watched doors because he was afraid nobody would come back for him. Now he followed that little girl everywhere instead. To the mailbox. To the school bus stop. To the kitchen table during homework. Every night he slept curled beside her bed despite the pain in his joints. And every morning he waited by the front door five minutes before she came home from school. As if he never wanted to risk losing sight of the person who finally chose him. The little girl is nine now. Rusty is older. Slower. His muzzle almost completely white. Some nights she has to help lift him onto the couch because his back legs shake too badly. But she still does it every single night without complaining. The piggy bank still sits on her bedroom shelf. Empty. Untouched since that morning. Last year, her teacher asked the class to write one paragraph about someone they believed deserved a second chance. She wrote: “Everybody walked past my dog because he was old and broken. But he kept waiting anyway. I think that means he was brave.”

They chained her to a tree and drove away. No food. No water. Just a rusty chain and an empty bowl. She waited 3 days in that field. Still watching that empty path. Still believing someone was coming back. When we found her she could barely lift her head — but she still tried to wag her tail. We cut that chain. Held her right there in that field. And brought her home. She’s safe now. She’s loved. And she will never be chained again. Share this if it touched your heart ❤️

@AZ_Brittney @bloggerjdr Actions have consequences. Vote blue from here on in. Talk to your friends and relatives.

A three-time Trump voter says Trump is a liar and the most corrupt president we’ve ever had. What do you say to MAGA who voted for Trump and now regret it?

I had to bury Rusty today. I built a box, sealed it, and painted it, laid his favorite blanket in it and fold it over the top of him, and then put the top on it and seal it. Someday on here maybe I’ll tell the whole story about him. But not today.

@Kristinartz They sure do

@Murk441 Why not

Would you let them?

@Hania16836 Yes

@AiraMalik23 Let it stay

sweet dreams

@saniyafatma1278 Yes

@cutiieepie6 They are cute and interesting. Leave them up for awhile.

My 10-year-old daughter worked hard on these paintings and proudly hung them up, but her dad said they don’t look good and told her to remove them. She’s really upset… what do you think?

@MissyBBBobtail I know what mine wants- some kibble, a treat

My cat meows at nothing and then looks at me like I'm supposed to handle it.

She spent the whole night curled up in the snow beside an old broken house… hoping someone would stop for her. ❄️🐾 People passed by. Some looked. Most didn’t. Her tiny body was shaking from the cold, and snow slowly covered her fur like she was disappearing into the winter itself. But even then, she didn’t run away. She just stayed there quietly, with tired eyes full of sadness, waiting for a little kindness. When I saw her, she looked so small and defeated that my heart broke instantly. I walked closer, and instead of running, she slowly lowered her head like she had already given up on being loved. So I wrapped her in my jacket and carried her home. That night, she slept for hours near the heater without moving once. It felt like her body was finally resting after fighting the cold alone for so long. And for the first time, she looked peaceful. Now every morning she waits for me at the door, follows me everywhere, and curls up beside me like she’s afraid to be abandoned again. 🥺❤️ Sometimes, the world becomes too cold for little souls like hers. But one warm heart can change everything. #RescueCat #SadCatStory #CatLover #WinterRescue #AdoptDontShop #AnimalLove

In December 2023, a family living in a remote farmhouse near the edge of the Yorkshire Dales loaded their belongings into a moving truck and relocated to a town in South Yorkshire nearly seventy kilometers away. The move stretched across two cold, overcast days. Neighbors watched couches and boxes disappear into the van while children climbed around the truck laughing as furniture was packed away. Before sunrise on a Wednesday morning, the family drove off for good. They left the dog behind. Several neighbors later confirmed it had been deliberate. According to more than one resident nearby, the family openly admitted they didn’t plan to take her because she was “too difficult” and “basically an outdoor dog anyway.” One neighbor even remembered the father joking that the dog would “find another farm sooner or later.” She had spent almost six years with them. A tan female pit bull with amber eyes and a white patch on her chest shaped vaguely like a crooked star. The children named her Honey as a puppy because of the warm color of her coat. During winter she slept indoors, during summer she stayed outside, and whenever the youngest son played in the yard, she followed close behind him everywhere. The morning after the family left, Honey was still sitting on the farmhouse porch. The neighbors assumed someone would eventually return for her. Nobody did. For the first week, people nearby left bowls of food and water outside the property gate. Honey barely touched either. Most days she stayed pressed near the front door, curled tightly against it despite the freezing temperatures. At night she slept beneath an old wooden bench on the porch. Every time a vehicle turned onto the lane, she stood immediately. Waiting. By the second week, she had grown noticeably thinner. Then one morning, she vanished. The neighbors searched nearby roads, fields, and ditches assuming she had either been struck by a car or wandered onto another property. Nobody found her. Eventually, people stopped looking. Large abandoned dogs in rural areas often disappear without explanation. Some are taken in. Some turn feral. Some simply don’t survive the winter. Life moved on. Then, fifty-two days later, during a severe cold spell in late January 2024, a woman living in a suburban neighborhood outside Sheffield stepped outside before work and discovered a dog lying against her front door. A tan pit bull. Almost motionless except for shallow breathing. At first she thought the animal was dead. Snow had gathered along the dog’s back overnight. Ice clung to her whiskers. Her paws were streaked with dried blood from pads worn raw and cracked open. Her ribs pressed visibly against her skin. One side of her face had swollen badly from what veterinarians later identified as an untreated infected tooth. And despite barely being conscious, the dog’s tail thumped weakly once when the woman spoke to her. The woman didn’t recognize the dog, but she immediately noticed the collar. A faded blue fabric collar with a metal identification tag. The dog was carried inside, wrapped in blankets, and a local rescue organization was contacted. Later that morning, a volunteer scanned the microchip. The registered address traced back to the farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales. Nearly seventy kilometers away by road. More than forty miles. The rescue volunteer contacted the phone number attached to the chip registration. The father answered. She explained that the dog had been discovered emaciated and injured outside an address directly connected to their current residence. She explained that the dog appeared to have traveled for weeks through freezing winter conditions and had somehow reached the family’s new neighborhood alive. There was silence for several moments. Then he said they didn’t want her anymore. The volunteer initially thought she had misunderstood him. She repeated the situation more clearly. He sighed and explained that the family had already told their children the dog had “run away during the move.” He said bringing her back now would “only create problems.” He asked whether the rescue could simply rehome her elsewhere. Then he hung up. The volunteer later admitted she sat in the clinic parking lot afterward crying too hard to drive. Because the dog had accomplished something almost impossible. Honey had never traveled farther than the surrounding farmland where she was raised. She had never been to Sheffield. The family had driven there along motorways. Yet somehow she tracked them across valleys, roads, villages, frozen moorland, and stretches of open countryside during the dead of winter. A local hiking club later estimated possible travel routes using terrain maps, rivers, and road access. The shortest likely journey measured approximately forty-two miles. Possibly more. Forty-two winter miles for an underfed dog with worsening injuries, almost no shelter, and little food. Veterinarians discovered a partially healed fracture in two toes on her rear paw, likely suffered during the journey. One front shoulder showed severe inflammation from compensating for the damaged leg over long distances. But the worst injuries were on her paws. The outer layers of tissue had worn away almost completely across sections of both front feet. The veterinarian later explained that during the final stretch of the journey, Honey had essentially been walking on exposed tissue beneath the pads. Every step caused pain. And she kept walking anyway. Nobody completely understands how dogs navigate distances like that. Scent alone cannot fully explain a journey across that scale through snow, traffic, and changing weather. But somehow she found the exact neighborhood. Not just the town. The exact street. She made it all the way to their door. And they rejected her anyway. The rescue staff later renamed her Journey. Not because of the miles. Because of what she carried emotionally through every single one of them. Journey’s recovery lasted nearly six months. When she arrived, she weighed just under thirty-four pounds. A healthy weight for her size should have been closer to fifty-five. Her body had already burned through nearly every fat reserve and started consuming muscle tissue simply to survive. Her infected tooth had to be removed. The broken toes healed slightly crooked, leaving her with a permanent limp most noticeable during cold weather. Scar tissue across her paw pads remained painfully sensitive even after months of treatment. The veterinarian said winter mornings would likely ache in those paws for the rest of her life. A permanent memory carried inside her body. Emotionally, the healing took longer. For several weeks in foster care, Journey refused to sleep deeply unless someone remained visible nearby. Whenever a person left the room, she followed immediately even when exhausted. At night she positioned herself directly beside doors. Always beside doors. As if she believed people disappeared through them forever. The rescue volunteer who made the phone call eventually adopted her permanently herself. She lived alone in a small stone cottage outside town with a fenced garden and a fireplace. No children yelling. No other animals. Just quiet. The volunteer later said something in Journey changed once the dog realized nobody there expected her to earn her place anymore. She stopped eating frantically. Stopped hiding food beneath blankets. Stopped waking up in panic whenever someone picked up car keys. Now she sleeps sprawled across the middle of the bed every night. Not curled tightly like she’s trying to occupy less space. Not pressed against walls. She sleeps stretched fully onto her back with her legs hanging awkwardly in every direction, snoring loudly enough to wake the house sometimes. Like a dog who finally believes there will still be room for her tomorrow morning. People hear this story and focus on the distance. Forty-two miles. Broken toes. Snowstorms. Frozen moorland. And yes, that part is extraordinary. But that isn’t really what the story is about. The story is that she accomplished something unimaginably difficult for people who had already decided she wasn’t worth keeping. The story is that she crossed half of northern England during winter because she loved them more than they loved her. And the real ending isn’t the rejection. It’s the second door. Because after forty-two miles of pain, hunger, cold, and loyalty leading nowhere, all it took was one woman opening her front door to change the rest of Journey’s life. Journey no longer tries following people when they leave the house. Now she watches calmly from the window. Certain. Peaceful. She already crossed winter once for people who didn’t want her. Now she lives with someone who would never ask her to prove her worth again.

@Eman5695 Blanca

@jonesbrendanm Met her come home to you. Sounds like much ado about nothing

It has now been one month since Lucy's collar slipped over her head. One month since she was loose in my yard for a few seconds. One month since nobody got hurt. One month since nothing happened. It has also been one month since the police were called. One month since animal control issued me a court summons. One month since they took my dog, the dog I bonded with in war ten years ago. One month since my world turned into a living hell. It has been one month since nothing happened. And it has been one month since everything happened, in response to nothing. She has spent one month in jail. Over nothing. Away from everything. One month away from her fields. Away from Lex. Away from the kids. Away from @Herb_Minstrel and me. Let her come home. It's been long enough. It's time. It's damn time. #SaveLucy I have nothing more to say. @LoneStarChica @catturd2