Becca’s Cyber Home

OK, this is part rant, too. I don’t know about the prevailing rhetoric in other parts of the country, but in my area (one of the most conservative counties in Texas), my blood starts boiling when I hear people equate religion with patriotism. As if you have to be Christian to be patriotic. And as if you’re not a good Christian if you don’t blindly and rabidly support your politicians. And, of course, implied in that, is that if you’re not Christian, you’re also not a patriot.

My mom received an e-mail chain letter that set me off again. (I bet Nathan is rolling his eyes at me as I type. :))

A mother asked President Bush, “Why did my son have to die in Iraq?”
Another mother asked President Kennedy, “Why did my son have to die in Viet Nam?”
Another mother asked President Truman, “Why did my son have to die in Korea?
Another mother asked President F.D. Roosevelt, “Why did my son have to die at Iwo Jima?”
Another mother asked President W. Wilson, “Why did my son have to die on the battlefield of France?”
Yet another mother asked President Lincoln, “Why did my son have to die at Gettysburg?”
And yet another mother asked President G. Washington, “Why did my son have to die near Valley Forge?”
Then long, long ago, a mother asked…”Heavenly Father, why did my Son have to die on a cross outside of Jerusalem?”
The answers to all these are similar — “So that others may have life and dwell in peace, happiness and freedom.”
This was emailed to me with no author and I thought the magnitude and the simplicity were awesome …
Love to All
IF YOU DON’T STAND BEHIND OUR TROOPS, PLEASE, FEEL FREE…TO STAND IN FRONT OF THEM!!!

*sigh* Equating the death of Jesus to the various wars with the adage that it’s all so people “may have life and dwell in peace, happiness and freedom”? Sadly, the life of peace, happiness, and freedom touted in that message seems to be reserved only for people who think exactly like the perpetuators of that message. Love to all? Yeah, rightAlright, I’ll hop down off my soapbox (again).

One final thought. I saw a bumper sticker last weekend that really stood out (partly because it’s a pretty unusual sentiment for my local roadways): Why do we kill people who kill people to show them that killing people is wrong?

I always had a pet when I was growing up. I don’t remember a time when we didn’t have a dog as I was growing up. There was dear little Max, a white lhassa-poo, who had such a kind nature that he’d let two little girls dress him up in Cabbage Patch doll clothes. Since he was white, and old (so he wouldn’t move around too much), he was also our defacto sheep when my sister and I staged our own Christmas Story plays. Then there was JJ, the little puppy that we bought on a whim, without Daddy’s permission, so we named him after Daddy’s favorite mountain man, Jeremiah Johnson. That little puppy grew up into a big doggie, since he was a laborador mix. We found out the hard way he also had Chow in him, which made him bite a neighbor. We lost him to Animal Control the next day. To fill that hole, we found Sunny. Ah, little Sunny. We found her in death row at the pound. Dozens of dogs were barking and pushing at the fences, but Sunny was just sitting there wagging her tail at us. My sister and I said immediately that she was the one. So we took her home that day and she was our neurotic little protector for many years to come. Sunny had a love-hate relationship with many of our friends. She chased my best friend up into a chair, and I’m told Sunny had just as much affection for my sister’s best friend. Sunny was a terrier mix, so she thought she was a big dog. We called her our 15 pound ball of furry fury. Watch out for those ankles!

Then I went away to college and missed my pets terribly. Living in the dorm, it’s easy to put that out of your mind, but once I graduated and moved into my own place, I began to ache for that companionship again. After 20 years of always having dogs, it never occurred to me that I was anything but a dog person. We were living in a 3rd story apartment, so we felt it would be unfair to a puppy to keep him locked up all day. So I asked, begged, and cajoled until my hubby gave in to adopting a cat. Labor Day weekend of 2001, we visited the Humane Society and adopted Mandy. We’ve been cat people ever since.

It’s funny how our furry little companions become so much a part of our lives–they truly are part of the family. And thinking about them apparently makes me very sentimental because I sat down to write about how funny it is to watch them supervise our Roomba vaccuum. But now I’ve totally lost that train of thought. They aren’t quite sure what to make of this disc that wanders around the room bumping into things. It even seems to chase them sometimes! Mandy runs from it, Toby ignores it, but Rosco sticks around so he can keep his eye on it at all times. Like he’s guarding an unwanted intruder. Whaddya know? I just realized–I have three neurotic little protectors now! Haha!