If you think that not recycling is acceptable, take a look at this video. Perhaps it will change your mind. That is all.
Fellow mammals rejoice: one of our own is no longer suffering from a terrible case of mistaken identity.
How would you feel if someone always thought that you were, well, someone else? Poor olinguito; that's exactly what has happened to this species. And now a whole bunch of humans are suffering from embarrassment--or at least I am on their behalf because this animal is so.darn.cute. How can we humans redeem ourselves?
See? So.darn.cute. How did we not know that it was an olinguito? Based on its cuteness alone, we should have known for years. Seriously, I don't know how we are going to apologize to these guys. Should we track down all of 'em and give 'em a lifetime supply of fruit? Should we phone Bob Barker and tell him that we got our pets spayed and neutered, thank you very much, but what about the olinguito?!
If I could, I'd adopt an olinguito, and I would put a sign on my front porch. A big sign. A big, big sign that would read: An OLINGUITO named QUITO lives here! Say it with me now: OLINGUITO!
As for now, I see no adoption options for this furry creature, no matter how much I Google "super cute olinguito adoptions, pretty please!" And hey, you've got to admit that Quito would be a great name for my pet olinguito (just had to bold, underline and italicize the correct name in case any of them are reading!).
Today is my dog Lollipop's 16th birthday. It's the second birthday she is celebrating in Heaven.
I miss Lolli every single day. She taught me so much about how to love--but not just how to love: how to love unconditionally. The friendship that we had was unparalleled. It can never be duplicated.
It's been over a year now since we had to part, but I feel her presence around me every single day. She may no longer walk at my feet, but I certainly feel her little paw prints all over my heart.
Happy 16th birthday, Lollipop. <3
While researching tea during my lunch break earlier this afternoon, I came across the term "monkey-picked." Ladies and gentlemen, you can't just come across a term like that without researching it further.
Sidenote: There is an ADORABLE monkey picture coming your way very soon.
Here is what I learned: the term is commonly used to define high quality tea. When a tea company claims that they are selling you "monkey-picked" tea, you can bet that you are purchasing the best of the best tea leaves.
But the origin of the term . . . here is where the real monkeys enter the picture. Harvesting tea leaves was no easy task, especially once the demand for tea increased. That's when, apparently, monkeys became quite useful.
Various legends surround monkey-picking; one legend states that Buddhist monks trained monkeys to pick the leaves from tea trees that they deemed inaccessible. Another legend claims that the monks would throw stones at the monkeys in an effort to make them fall to the ground, thus breaking the branches containing the best of the best tea leaves on their way. What I consider the funniest legend--and perhaps the easiest to picture--involves villagers taunting the monkeys so much that the monkeys would get mad and retaliate by throwing handfuls of tea leaves at them.
Some people say that these legends are all bogus, but you know what? I wouldn't be mad if this little guy picked my tea leaves by hand. I guess the only problem would be trying to find a way to tip him.
Last night I got to cuddle with a cute little guinea pig named Pixie, who belongs to my cousin April.
Despite having no prior guinea pig cuddling experience, Pixie and I hit it off while I watched "Let's Make a Deal."
But first, we had to make eye contact. Establish our friendship, you know.
Step number two: I had to ask Pixie if we could be friends. In true "Matilda" fashion, I was big and she was small.
Pixie, my new friend, allowed me to take a few photos of her while she sat on my stomach and tried chewing on one of my fingernails. What a doll.
And her feet! Oh my, were they cute.
One thing I didn't know about guinea pigs: they're very vocal. Pixie was purring like a cat and squealing like a little mouse while I was petting her. So, I decided to do a little research on guinea pigs this morning. I pulled this helpful paragraph detailing guinea pig sounds straight from Wikipedia:
Thanks, Wikipedia, for teaching me that guinea pigs make all kinds of cute sounds, some of which are classified using neat words ("RUMBLESTRUTTING!"). And thank you, April, for sharing one of your guinea pigs with me. Next time I'll have to set aside some cuddle time with Lola! :)
Count it. There's $100 there. That was $100 that I could have used to make a car, student loan, cell phone bill, or insurance payment. Instead, it went to the Humane Society of Somerset County. And I'm proud of that.
Today marks nine months since I lost my best friend. Lollipop was my pride and joy; that adorable little dachshund was more like my child than my dog. She changed my life for the better. I loved her then and I love her now; death certainly has not seperated us.
These past nine months haven't been easy. I dream about her often and sometimes still cry on my way home from work, thinking about how much I miss her and the beautiful bond we shared. Alas, I continue to take one day at a time--it's much easier that way.
After Lolli passed away in June, I began to put what money I could aside from each of my paychecks. This evening, I finally had the opportunity to present this money to Sally Urban, president of the Somerset County Humane Society. It was an honor. I hope that Sally and her staff stretch every dollar and buy whatever the Humane Society needs during these cold winter months.
I'm not yet ready to get another dog, so I think this was the next best way to help animals in need. And I'm grateful that I had the opportunity to donate this money in Lolli's memory. I truly wouldn't have had it any other way.
I was determined to arrive at work on time this morning after yesterday's flat tire fiasco.
I pulled out of my driveway at 8:03 a.m., drove a few feet down the road, and immediately noticed a dark-colored "lump" sitting in the middle of the opposite lane. I slowed down to see what the "lump" was, and almost got teary-eyed when I saw that it was a baby Hedwig. Hedwig = what I choose to call owls. Hedwig = the name of Harry Potter's owl.
I was on the verge of tears because this little Hedwig was adorably innocent. Just standing there, sleeping. Middle of the road. 8:04 a.m.
I was absolutely terrified when I saw a car coming toward the owl. I prayed to God that the driver wouldn't hit it. I waved and honked so the driver would slow down or swerve or something. But the driver didn't do anything--just drove in a perfectly straight line, which meant that no tire even came close to Hedwig's body. Phew. I watched Hedwig's little feathers react to the sudden rush of wind. Gosh . . . I wouldn't have been able to go to work if the owl got hit. I would have turned my car around and cried and cried and cried.
Since there were no more cars approaching from either direction, I quickly grabbed my camera out of my purse, jumped out of my car, and took a photo, which I am delighted to share with you:
So that's the little baby Hedwig. Cute, huh? I love his/her(?) ears. And look at that beak! Oh man. I want one. What a beautiful creature. So cute and mysterious.
The bad news was that it was 8:09 a.m. and I still needed to get to work on time. What do to? What to do? What to do? I honked my horn. Nothing. Should I find a stick in the woods and poke him? No. I didn't want to wake him.
I called my dad, who happened to be at home rather than work, thanks to an early morning hunting trip.
"Dad, there's an owl on the road," I said.
"Oh. I know. He's been there since early this morning."
"Can you please walk down here and escort him off the road? Please. I'm so worried. Please."
"Yeah. I have to pack my lunch first."
"No, Dad. Please. Sometimes people can be cruel . . ."
"Fine. I'll walk down now."
Here's the part that I feel kinda awful about. When I hung up the phone, I drove away. I wish with all my heart that I wouldn't have, that I would have just stayed with the little Hedwig until I knew that he was safe.
I called my dad back about five minutes later.
"Dad, did you get the owl off the road?" I asked.
I could feel my eyes start to swell with tears. I knew I would never forgive myself if something bad happened.
"Yeah. Took a shovel down and he flew into the woods."
"Are you sure? Do you promise me you did that?"
"I wouldn't lie to you," he said. "I gotta go. I gotta get to work."
"Okay. Thanks. See you later."
So that's the whole story. Apparently Hedwig is safe and sound somewhere in the woods. I'll probably never see him again, but I'm glad that we met (even though his eyes were closed the whole time). How lovely it is to be surprised and intrigued by nature, especially when you least expect it.
Happy sleeping and safe journeys to you, little buddy.
Mrs. Harte - Grade 6
October 19, 2012
I just want to briefly tell you about my farm. I can either give you the short vershun or the long vershun about my farm but I think I'll give you the short vershun because I'm not good at writing papers.
Also, this is a tough draft. Oooooops, I meant rough draft but I think they both mean the same thing :-P
I think it is stupid that people think that farms are just full of cows and pigs and horses and chickens. I'm here to tell you in this persuaysive paper that farms can be full of any animals you want them to be as long as your farm is a good place for the animals to live and as long as you take care of them. Also you might want to own at least one plaid shirt.
I think my house has a farm because we own a lot of animals. My brother Josh has a ferrett named Ferry, I have a cat named Scarecrow because Scarecrow loves birds and my dad has a fish that I think he forgot to name but with no offense to the fish. My mom stopped having pets because she said that they are too smelly. This is my farm: a ferrett a cat and a fish.
You only need three animals to have a farm. But guess what? I have more than 3 pets because sometimes we see deers in our yard and these deers come back a lot because my dad feeds them apples and corn. Deers can be good pets. Shy but good. We also once upon a time had a squirrewl or some kind of rat in our house because I remember mom was really mad that this in particular animal was hiding in a wall but I told her to calm down because any animal we have is a pet and a part of our farm.
To have a good farm, you should bathe your animals and feed them too. If you want, your farm can grow, like if you find a lost dog. If you find a lost dog, take him to your farm's lost and found. Step two is name that lost-but-now-found-animal Grace. Grace is short for Amazing Grace because of the lyric I once was lost but now I am found. On our farm Grace #1 is a spaniel type of dog and Grace #2 is like a lab mix or something. They are both really good outside dogs and we still have them on our farm so I wasn't lying when I said I live on a big farm.
In conclusion, I think I've reached the number of words we are supposed to have for this essay and I hope that you will consider owning a farm. But you probably already have a farm already if you own, say, a cat a ferrett and a fish.
P.S. People who don't own farms, like our neighbour lady, is a very lonely person.
I'm not convinced that this friendly animal wanted to be part of a petting zoo on a cold October day, but she was a good sport. As you can see, I was happy as can be to get my picture taken with her, and her fur was so soft that it made me feel instantly sleepy. I want to buy one now. Talk about staying warm at night.
I mean, lately I've been struggling with a freaky coldness issue. I've been sleeping under decently thick covers and two soft blankets, but it doesn't seem to be enough. This puzzles me because I am also making the extra effort to wear pajama pants to bed rather than shorts, which I consider to be more comfortable. I just don't ever remember going to bed and waking up at random intervals, thinking to myself how cold I was and what I could do to change that.
Now I know. Haha.
P.S. Not that this has anything to do with being cold night after night, but a few weeks ago I read a "fact" that stated that guys prefer when girls don't go to bed with their hair wet. Why? I mean, my pillow is my pillow and your pillow is your pillow. Just saying.
A deer friend of mine used to frolick through the woods behind my house. I don't think he ever made the dough, so he moved away. I was thinking about that deer friend of mine today, and I hope he's just fawn.
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .