This was posted on another forum I frequent:

THE THREE MOST AGGRESSIVE DOG BREEDS
Mutts, a blog by John Woestendiek of The Baltimore Sun

Attention, America, or at least all you state and local politicians who are banning or considering banning ownership of pit bulls, Rottweilers and other big, scary dogs: In the midst of your rush to pass breed specific legislation, a new study has shown that the most aggressive dog breed in the world is ... Yes, the Dachshund, the wiener dog, better known in some countries as the sausage dog.

This vicious beast, despite enjoying a good reputation, is at the very top of a list of 33 dog breeds that were rated for their aggression in a study that analyzed the behavior of thousands of dogs. One in five Dachshunds have bitten or tried to bite strangers; about one in five have attacked other dogs, and one in 12 have snapped at their owners, according to the study, which was reported in the London Telegraph. Before all you Dachshund owners start experiencing the same fears as pit bull owners, and begin contemplating how to hide your pet from authorities (a large bun, perhaps?), it should be pointed out that, as a small dog, a dachshund won't inflict the same amount of damage as a large one, or the same amount of headlines. So you're probably safe.

Now that we're all relaxed we can move on to No. 2 on the most aggressive list .... German Shepherd, maybe? Perhaps the Chow Chow, or Doberman. Nope. It's the Chihuahua. Look out, Paris Hilton. Chihuahuas, even smaller than Dachshunds, and the fashion accessory of choice for Paris Hilton and other celebrities, were the second most hostile breed. According to the study, they are fairly regularly snapping or attempting to bite strangers, family and other dogs.

In third place was another small dog ... the breed that captured our heart in the television show, Frazier -- the Jack Russell terrier. The study shows beyond any doubt: Small dogs are not to be trusted. Just kidding, of course. But that is precisely the sort of generalization those passing laws against pit bulls are making. (Then again, they are probably small politicians, who really can't be trusted.)

There may, however, actually be some basis behind my theory that small dogs often display a bit of a Napoleon complex -- at least judging from the number that yap and snap at my big dog. Dr. James Serpell, a University of Pennsylvania researcher who worked on the study, said smaller breeds might be more genetically predisposed towards aggressive behavior than larger dogs. "Reported levels of aggression in some cases are concerning, with rates of bites or bite attempts rising as high as 20 per cent toward strangers and 30 per cent toward unfamiliar dogs," he added.

Most research into canine aggression up to now has focused on dog bites, but researchers said that data (pit bulls aren't at the top of that list either) is misleading. Most dog bites aren't reported, and because the bites of big dogs are more likely to get reported, they are generally viewed as more aggressive. The study, published this week in the journal Applied Animal Behaviour Science, involved researchers from the University of Pennsylvania questioning 6,000 dog owners. Breeds scoring low for aggression included Basset hounds, golden retrievers, Labradors, Siberian huskies. The Rottweiler, pit bull and Rhodesian ridgeback scored average or below average marks for hostility towards strangers. Greyhounds rated the most docile.

The study also showed that "temperament testing" isn't all it's cracked up to be. Owners of 67 dogs temperament tested and subsequently adopted from one shelter were interviewed by telephone within 13 months of adoption. The interviews included questions about jumping up, house soiling, separation-related behavior, barking and aggressive behavior. In evaluating dogs that passed the temperament test used by the shelter, it was found that 40.9% exhibited lunging, growling, snapping, and/or biting after adoption. When barking was included, this percentage rose to 71.2%. "Our results indicated that there are certain types of aggressive tendencies (territorial, predatory, and intra-specific aggression) that are not reliably exhibited during temperament testing using this particular evaluation process," the researchers said The researchers said temperament tests often fail to identify certain types of aggression.

And now for my point of view:

****All I have to say is, AMEN! Finally, some accurate statistics. I can't tell you how many times little yappy dogs on the end of unretracted retractable leashes have come snarling and aggressively barking their heads off at my two bigger dogs who just sit there and look at them. And, don't get me started on the small-dog owners who think that, just because they have a chihuahua they don't have to have them on a leash when they go outside so when they run up and bite my dog, they better not be upset when their precious poochie gets bit back by a much bigger mouth.

I have met a lot of dogs in my years in animal rescue. Although I know they exist, I have never met a well-bred, PET pitt bull that wasn't as sweet as a kitten. Every Rottweiler I have known would rather curl up and cuddle than charge and attack.

Politicians and irrational law-makers need to wake up and smell the poo piles. Don't ban breeds, ban irresponsible dog owners.

Domestic Bliss

I am a strong, independent woman. I shun the "traditional" roles and believe women aren't the cooks and the cleaners and we shouldn't be "expected" to take care of our man.

At least, that's how I used to feel.

Don't get me wrong. I still believe all that, but something very strange has happened to me since I moved to San Antonio.

As I was walking up to my apartment this evening after work, I found myself thinking about what I was going to make for dinner. Tacos? Fettuccine? Spaghetti Pie? As I went to put my key into the lock, I froze and momentarily forgot who I was. Could I be the same person who not so long ago cowered in fear at the thought of a pot and a pan on the stove?

I giggled to myself as I realized that I have come to actually enjoy the domestic side of life. I don't believe that cooking and cleaning and taking care of "my man" makes me a weaker woman. On the contrary, I feel more confident, independent and secure than ever before. There's a huge feeling of satisfaction in holding down a 40-hour (or more) work week, making dinner 5-6 nights of the week and keeping a relatively clean house (I mean, come on - a leopard can't completely change her spots overnight, you know?). At least I can feel confident that, if someone showed up unannounced, I wouldn't be embarrassed to invite them into my apartment.

So, yes. I am a strong, independent, confident woman who has embraced the traditional roles. And, if you really think about it, who was really in charge in the traditional 50s household? Was it Ward or June Cleaver? . . . I rest my case.

I need your help finishing this story I started a couple of years ago. I just came across it again and it made me smile, but I can't remember where I was going with the story.
Do me a favor and read it, comment on it, and suggest a direction. If I use your idea and it, by some chance, gets published one day, I'll give you credit in the book and invite you to all the book signings!! Ah, fantasy....

This is the story of Muriel, the spinster seamstress whose heartache over her unrequited love for the butcher's son was second only to her disappointment at never being able to summon the courage to join the traveling circus that visited once a year.

Secretly, she would practice balancing objects in her empty parlor. For, while others would come to call, she only had eyes for the butcher's son, Pierre. Muriel's parlor window faced the display window of Pierre's father's store. As Muriel balanced furniture, sewing notions and even her pet cat, Lulu, she watched Pierre learning to slice mutton and stuff sausage.

She saw him grow from a scrawny boy into a muscular, broad-shouldered man. Alas! Muriel was a vegetarian and never found reason to speak to Pierre, and Pierre had little need for fancy clothes as his days were spent among the blood and juices of dead animals. Butchers were rarely invited to the parties and balls of the social elite.

So, Muriel grew older and more alone, but her skill at balancing the most precarious combination of objects was refined year by year. And, each year, she snuck out to watch the circus as it came to town. She marveled at the costumes then went back to her shop and recreated each one, ordering sequins and metallic thread from Paris and colorful, airy fabric from India. At night, she would try on her costumes and dance around, pretending she was "Miraculous Muriel the Balancing Girl" who was married to "Pierre the Invincible," the strong man and lion tamer for her own private circus.

She would stack chairs, plates, pillows, spools of thread, knitting needles and candlesticks. She taught herself to juggle balls of yarn, miscellaneous fruit, silverware and tea cups. She bowed to the imaginary crowd and graciously thanked them for the thunderous applause. Then, after a celebratory party at the most glamorous home in town, where the acrobats swung from the chandelier and the ring master made a drunken fool of himself by singing bawdy pirate ballads, she and Pierre would sneak home and fall into a passionate embrace. Of course, in reality, Muriel would end up getting drunk off dandelion wine and fall into a passionate embrace with an embroidered pillow of Venezuela given to her last fall by the widow McMurtry after Muriel fixed a tear in her favorite riding pants minutes before she was to open the annual fox hunt.

Then, one summer, as the circus came to town, Muriel unexpectedly found herself face to face with Pierre...

Walking into her parlor, wearing a new dress that was a tasteful representation of the outfit worn by the equestrienne acrobat from last year's circus, Muriel casually juggled two milk bottles and a slightly rotten kumquat. She pirouetted and plied as she juggled, never missing a catch until she spun forward to see Pierre standing in her parlor with a bemused look on his face.

Caught by surprise, Muriel dropped the bottles and the kumquat bounced ungracefully off her head. Pierre shifted the hat he had been holding in his hands underneath his arm and clapped wildly while exclaiming, "That was wonderful! Where did you learn that?"

Muriel blushed a deep crimson red that clashed brightly with her purple gown. She stared at the broken pieces of glass on the floor and spoke to the squashed kumquat at her feet. "I'm... I'm sorry," she breathed. "I didn't know anyone was there. I thought I had locked the door."

Pierre took a hesitant step forward. "Oh don't be sorry. I rather enjoyed it. If I had known you had such talents I wouldn't wait so eagerly for the circus to come to town each year! Why, all I would have to do is walk across the street!"

Muriel looked up. "You wait for the circus to come to town?," She asked incredulously, finding it hard to believe someone else in her sleepy little town could appreciate the beauty and artistry of the circus like she did."

Oh, now you're making fun of me, I'm afraid," said Pierre. "I know, it seems childish, but I've always loved the circus. I can't outgrow it," he continued, then added under his breath, "no matter how much it irritates my father."

Muriel caught his eye and smiled."Oh, I love the circus, too!," she exclaimed. "Well, obviously..." she laughed as she pointed at the broken milk bottles on the floor and began picking up the pieces.

Pierre set his hat aside and bent down to help her. He puffed up his chest and assumed a deep, booming voice, "What need does a butcher have to swing from a trapeze or walk a tight rope? That doesn't get the sausage stuffed any faster! You can't feed your children with fairy tales and calliope music now, can you?"

Muriel laughed along with Pierre at the mockery of the old butcher. Suddenly, she realized Pierre had not told her why he suddenly showed up in her parlor after so many years of living next door."So," she said, "is there something I can help you with?"

"Actually, there is. And, I can see now, you are more than qualified to assist me. But, you must promise to keep this project a secret. Can you keep a secret?"

Muriel thought to herself, Oh Pierre, if you only knew the secrets I have kept over the years. Instead, she said out loud, "Yes. It comes with the business sometimes."

"Well, then," replied Pierre. "Would it be impolite of me to ask for a cup of tea so we could sit down and talk properly?"

Muriel's heart was fluttering so madly in her chest she swore it would fly up her throat and leap out her mouth any minute. She tried to remain calm and business like. "Of course," she said and walked swiftly to the kitchen. Once out of sight, however, she felt as if she had been holding her breath for the last fifteen minutes and let out a gasp of air. She fell against the wall and panted, trying to regain her composure. Her heart was pounding so hard she could see the organza fluttering on her chest. She grabbed the teapot and, with shaking hands, tried desperately to find two teacups that matched, as most of her sets had been sacrificed to the rigors of juggling practice. Finally, she settled on two cups with similar patterns, allowing herself to believe that men rarely noticed these things anyway.

Muriel placed the teapot, cups, spoons, milk, and honey pot on a silver tray that had been handed down to her from her great aunt Florence. The sugar bowl caught her eye and, thinking Pierre might have a sweet tooth, she stacked that on top of the cups. She spotted some tea cookies a client had given her and stacked those on top of the sugar bowl. Remembering that the only place to sit in the parlor was on the loveseat, she grabbed an extra chair and, turning it upside down, balanced the tray of goodies on the legs. She straightened her dress, smoothed her hair back into place, bit her lips to give them some color, picked up the chair and walked out of the kitchen and straight into Lulu who had found a particularly nice patch of fading sunlight to lounge in and had no intention of moving for anyone.

Muriel tripped and the silver tray tipped, Muriel spun around, shifted her weight, swooped to the left, dipped and bobbed, then spun around again. She dropped the chair on the top of her foot, grabbed the tray and kicked the chair up so it flipped right side over and landed opposite Pierre who sat on the couch with a look of incredulity and amazement on his face. "Do you take milk or honey in your tea?" asked Muriel casually. "Maybe a little sugar?"

"Amazing!..." exclaimed Pierre.Muriel poured him a cup of tea and he took it as if in a daze, staring at her the whole time. "I am beginning to feel now that the task I need your help with may be beneath you..." he said.

Growing Pains

I have outgrown my current environment.

There was a time when I craved small-town life. Indeed, I have flourished in this sleepy, sometimes slow-to-progress South Louisiana barely-a-city.

When I first moved here 12 years ago from Houston, the slower pace and less crowded streets were a welcome change. I found quickly that it was easy to immerse myself into the community. The people were welcoming and as curious about me as I was about them.

I became involved in the local theatre and was instrumental in reorganizing the local humane society and making it a productive and essential part of the parish again. Because of my passion for the latter, I found myself in front of the parish council pleading for improvements to the shelter and encouraging them to initiate new procedures.

Soon, strangers started recognizing me. Whether they had seen me in a play or at a humane society event or on the local tv station following a televised parish council meeting, I was slowly obtaining a certain local notoreity.

As an attention-hound, I loved it. I stayed busy, was proud of the non-profit work I was doing, had fun with the theatre and met a lot of really great people.

But, as Robert Frost once said, "nothing gold can stay." (sorry, I've watched "The Outsiders" a few too many times, I guess). Things change and so do people. I switched careers, my married life fell apart, changed partners and responsibilities, drifted away from the Humane Society due to differences of opinions and haven't had much time for the theatre.

I guess, more than anything, I'm tired of being a big fish in a small pond. I know I can make a difference here. It's easy drawing a small community together. It's satisfying, but no longer challenging.

Compare my growing pains, if you will, to moulting in a bird. It's time for me to shed a few feathers and replace them with something new; to pluck the used and broken plumage and grow stronger, better wings.

I'd like to see what kind of waves I could make in a bigger city. Plans are in the works to move on. Stay tuned...

The Decline of Education

I am increasingly concerned about what they are not teaching our children these days.

I work with a lot of college-age students and have worked with high school students in the not-so-distant past. I see children of all ages in my store every day. For the most part, my employees are very intelligent, learn quickly and are wonderful people who will be very successful in whatever they choose to do.

However, there have been times when I have been concerned for their future.

We use a digital scale at Starbucks to weigh our coffee. On several occasions I've asked an employee to weigh out a half pound of coffee. They've looked at me and asked, "what's a half pound on the scale?" (meaning the decimal equivalent to half a pound).

I've had to bite my tongue, take a breath and say, "what's half of one?" They actually have to think about it for a minute, or I may have to probe them a little more before they can come up with the answer.

And, God forbid the register should freak out and not tell them how much change to give the customer. Nearly all of them will panic and call for me. "Their total was $6.71 and they gave me a $20, but the register flipped back to the order screen without telling me how much change to give them. What do I do?"

"Just count back up to $20," I say. However, this phrase must sound a lot like Chinese because they simply can't comprehend what I'm saying.

I don't blame them. I blame the school system. I remember in elementary school they had a specific class on how to open a bank account, fill out a check, make change, etc. These days, they take their test with calculators, do all their research on computers instead of setting foot in a library, and make their moms type their papers for them (or actually write them). It's no wonder they can't function without the aid of an electronic device.

Don't get me wrong, technology is wonderful. I use it myself every day to stay in touch, get more info. on things I'd like to know about, entertain my right brain, and get things off my mind. But you can never replace the hand to hand connection with people. Computers break, electricity goes out, cell phones don't work everywhere. It's important to keep up with the times, but first we have to teach our kids to master the basics.

And, please, parents tell your kids before they go to a job interview that ripped blue jeans and a dirty t-shirt is NOT appropriate attire. You would not believe the outfits people show up in for an interview: short-shorts and tank tops, baggy "drooper" jeans, flip flops, etc.

My favorite was the guy who gave a wonderful interview, but showed up in jeans and a t-shirt that said "Hard work won't kill me, but I don't want to take that chance." He didn't get the job.

There is No Equality in Division

While watching an excellent documentary called "Meeting David Wilson" this afternoon (and more on that later), MSNBC aired several commercials sponsored by Proctor & Gamble titled "My black is beautiful".

I understand the motivation behind these commercials. I truly understand the need to uplift the self-esteem of a culture that has been discriminated against in the past.

However, the time has come to embrace equality rather than reinforce differences. Don't get me wrong. I think it is important for everyone to appreciate and emulate their culture and history. However, we should not let that completely define us as individuals.

There will never be equality if we continue to divide. There should be no black colleges or white colleges. There was a time that was necessary, but that time is long past and the more we encourage these divisions the wider the gap will become again. It's time to let go of the past and stand on the feet of the present and the future, not hide behind the sins and trials of our forefathers.

Now, back to David Wilson. This documentary is about a young black man in New York who discovered, through researching his family history, that there is a white man in North Carolina, with ironically the same name, whose family used to own young David Wilson's family.

Young David takes a journey to meet white David. First, he stops to talk to a 97-year-old woman who knew young David's great-grandfather. He tells her about white David and asks her, "do you think he owes me anything?"

"Noooo," she says. "He don't owe you nothing, but respect and that's what you should ask of him."

"But I feel like his family profitted from the free labor of my family."

"But that's none of your business," she says. "That's in the past and it doesn't have anything to do with you."

On his way to North Carolina, David's friend asks him what he thinks white David will be like. "I think he'll be a tobacco-chewin', straw-eatin', shot-gun carryin', rockin' chair sittin', lemonade drinkin' redneck."

When young David finally meets white David, he discovers just how prejudiced, possibly even racist, he has been. White David is down-to-earth, respectful, humble, and generally pleased to meet his acquaintance.

Young David asked some hard questions of white David (who grew up in the 1940s and 50s in a segregated community). "Did it ever bother you that the young black kids you played with on your farm were not able to go to the same school?"

White David struggled to answer this question, but he answered it honestly, "It's sad to say, but I can't honestly say I thought about it that much."

White David shows young David around the now-deserted plantation where their families used to live and work. Afterwards, white David invites young David to his restaurant.

"After spending several hours with David, something unanticipated started to happen. I began to see less and less of a descendant of my family's former slave owners and more and more of a decent and kind-hearted human being."

What ultimately happens is that white David and black David discover they are more alike than different, ultimately fulfilling a well-known prophecy of one of the great Civil Right's leaders of all times, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.:

"I have a dream that one day...the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood."

This incredible communion of souls was not difficult, it merely required the willingness of two people from completely different backgrounds to open up a conversation. That conversation changed more than just the lives of two people, it affected the entire Wilson family - on both sides.

Think to yourself, what kind of change can you make with a conversation? Are you brave enough to take that first step? Can you forgive the past and embrace the future?

Can you start today?

Inspiration

"We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing. Action always generates inspiration. Inspiration seldom generates action."

Frank Tibolt

How many of us sit around waiting for the "right time" to do something? It's easy to put off what needs to be done or what should be done, but before you know it the "right time" passes us by.

I'm not preaching, merely observing - mostly from behind my own picture window. OK, I don't have a picture window, but if I did you'd see I definitely don't take the bull by the proverbial horns in every area of my life.

Take my living room - well, take any room in my house right now, but let's focus on the living room. I have 4 dog beds and a half dozen stuffed dog toys on one couch with a casually strewn denim jacket. Next to the couch is a rubbermaid container of stuff that needs sorting, my sewing machine waiting to be used and a 2 foot pile of material waiting to be sewn into more dog beds for an upcoming fundraiser.

The rug needs to be vacuumed, the floor needs to be swept and mopped, there are 2 boxes of books that need to be taken to the used book store for credit, a basket of linen that has been waiting to be sorted and stashed for several weeks now, and I have a grand total of six pairs of shoes in this one room.

Now, don't even get me started on the kitchen...

I guess what I need to learn is that my inspiration to begin something should not be a result of my lack of prior motivation that has resulted in a situation of which I am ashamed. I use excuses to put off what needs to be done: I'm too tired, I worked hard today and don't have the energy, I want to spend time with Aaron, the dogs will just mess it up again anyway...

If I can't keep my life organized behind my picture window, can I really make a difference to anyone else on the outside? It's time to let my actions inspire me daily to better my environment, better my health, better my relationships and create change.

Is that hokey? Maybe, but I feel better...and inspired.