Good dog

Tissue warning now:

Omar Eduardo Rivera, who is blind, worked as a computer technician on the 71st floor of the World Trade Center until September 11, 2001. On that fateful morning, Rivera was at his job with Dorado, his four year old Labrador Retriever. When the two hijacked airliners smashed into the twin towers, Rivera had to make a loving and humane choice.

"I stood up and I could hear how pieces of glass were flying around and falling. I could feel the smoke filling up my lungs and the heat was just unbearable," he says.

"Not having any sight I knew I wouldn't be able to run down the stairs and through all the obstacles like other people. I was resigned to dying and decided to free Dorado to give him a chance of escape. It wasn't fair that we should both die in that hell.

"I thought I was lost forever. The noise and the heat were terrifying, but I had to give Dorado the chance of escape. So I unclipped his lead, ruffled his head, gave him a nudge and ordered Dorado to go."

Dorado was swept away by the crowds of people fleeing the chaotic inferno. But in the hellish searing pandemonium, the dog fought his way back to his master. Having accepted that he would die, Rivera felt the animal at his side. Then through dark stairwells in a descent that stretched out over an hour, with terrified people shoving past them, Dorado guided his charge to safety.

H/t: Xavier

So long, my couch potato pal...

We lost one of the star attractions to our zoo yesterday. Popsicle, our larger than life kitty, was put to rest. He had a major buildup of fluid around his heart that was crushing his lungs, most likely attributed to some manner of heart disease or even a return of cancer. Either way, he was facing only a few months at best, most likely just miserable days.

He was the quintessential lap-and-a-half cat, so large that regardless the size of your thunder thighs, he'd still end up spilling his caboose out of your lap. His purring motor would cause a Hemi to throw a valve, and could often be heard from a couple of rooms away. In his prime he tipped the scales at 22 lbs., and he knew it - instead of running from the dog, he tossed out an anchor and would open up a wide-mouth can of cotton-swab whoopass (read: no claws) on any part of Jesse the Longnosed Slobbery Tyrant that got within striking distance.

As you might expect, the highlight of his day was eating. A vet at one time told us he did have a thyroid condition (no, really, he did!), but even once that cleared up he could out-eat my pregnant wife me every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Most days he would shove his brother to the side to help him finish his portion, before returning to his bowl to finish his own.

Finally, he was our million dollar cat, figuratively and almost quite literally:

• Four trips to the vet opthamologist for a lacerated cornea from fighting with his brother.
• A couple nights stay at the vet's office where they gave him two enemas and he still didn't poop til they gave him a third one and sent him home with us!
• A thyroid condition that increased his appetite and decreased his fur.
• A cancerous lump on the back of his neck. Made him look like a camel.
• Unknown amounts of presents.
• Repeated attempts by me to turn him in to Mr. Bigglesworth.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'll miss him.

From Our zoo

Oblivions III: The Blue Fool Group

You're stopping by the grocery store or grabbing a bite to eat at your local choke-n-puke and you come upon a person talking out loud. Noticing that nobody else is around you, you start to think this person is talking to you - and suddenly you realize that you really weren't paying attention. How rude.

So you make eye contact, raise your eyebrows, nod your head, turn an ear, maybe even utter a "Sorry, didn't hear you," or "Say again."

And then you see it - the trance-inducing blue circle emanating from some sort of ear bud either burrowed into the ear canal like a mole in a pea patch or looped around the ear like a monkey looking for a banana. These little wireless pieces of techno-gadgetry, named after a Danish King, are a sure sign that you've met the newest member of the Oblivions - the Blue Fool Group.

Like their close relatives the Obliviots (fourth cousins by marriage, removed as many times as physically possible), the Blue Fools aren't completely Oblivions. Most have the ability, when not chained to the collective hive, to function in society in a normal fashion. They just get jacked up when they jack in, unable to sense that people around them could care two beans about the deal following through, Aunt Myrtle's girdle, or how your best friend's girlfriend was seen swapping spit with the lawnmower man last Friday night.

While I admit they're quite the handy little dooflotchies, do you really want that much of your personal business blabbed about the market/restaurant/mall? Even if you do, be warned that on any given day, I might do this to you: