OFFSEASON OFF-TOPIC Thread

Dog take #78 ...

So this guy on X weighs on his dag. Prepare for a two-hanky read, boyos... meet Sergeant...



Today is my dog's last day, and he is just sitting there, staring at me with those soft, tired eyes.

He’s on the couch where he always sits. My spot, technically. But about nine years ago, I stopped arguing with a seventy-pound blue-gray Pit Bull about furniture rights… and it became his command post.

His name is Sergeant.
I named him that because I couldn’t let go of the Army—even after the Army had let go of me.

Tomorrow morning at exactly 10:00 AM, Dr. Rivera is coming to our house. I’m going to sit on the floor, hold his heavy head in my lap, and help him fall asleep for the last time. And then, the only living thing that ever truly saved my life will be gone.

Sergeant didn’t just come into my life. He broke into it on the worst night I ever had.

I came home from Afghanistan in 2014. Two tours. Thirty-one years old. From the outside, I looked fine. I had all my limbs. I had a job.
But inside, I was already dead.

By early 2015, I had completely shut down. I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating. I stopped answering my phone. I sat on this same couch—blackout curtains drawn, lights off—trying to drown out the memories that wouldn’t stay quiet.
My family tried to help. Friends tried. The VA tried.
I pushed them all away. I was ready to check out.

Then one night, I heard scratching at my back door.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

It stopped. Started again. Stopped.
It went on for two hours. I didn't open the door to welcome him. I opened it to make him leave.

But when I swung the door open, there he was—a beat-up blue-gray Pit Bull with scars on his face, one ear torn, and ribs showing through his coat. He looked like he’d survived his own battlefield.

He didn’t hesitate. He walked past me like he already lived there, jumped up on this couch, circled twice, and laid down with a heavy groan.
Then he looked at me like, “Took you long enough.”

I didn’t want a dog. I didn’t want anything.
But Sergeant didn’t care what I wanted.

He needed food—so I had to go to the store.
He needed walks—so I had to open the blackout curtains and step into the sunlight.
He needed a vet—so I had to make a phone call and show up somewhere at a set time.

He didn’t save me in one dramatic movie moment.
He saved me with small, stubborn, everyday needs.

The date I had secretly chosen for myself came and went. I was too busy figuring out what brand of kibble wouldn’t upset a Pit Bull with a sensitive stomach.

That’s how healing really happens.
Not with fireworks.
With responsibility. With a dog who refuses to let you rot because he needs dinner.

For nine years, this blue-gray shadow has been beside me.
Through three apartments. Two jobs. One incredible woman who somehow chose both of us. And the birth of my daughter—now four—who believes Sergeant is her personal bodyguard.

Last month, we found the tumor. Aggressive. Inoperable.
So we’ve been living differently. Shorter walks. Extra treats. Long nights on the couch with my hand resting on his flank, feeling him breathe.

My daughter gives him her stuffed animals so he’s “not lonely when he naps.” He lets them pile up around him like a fortress and doesn’t move a single one.

He’s tired now. I can see it.
The same eyes that looked at me nine years ago and decided I was worth saving are heavy.

Tomorrow, I have to be brave for him.
I have to hold him steady. Tell him he’s the best soldier. And let him rest.

Goodnight, Sergeant.
Thank you for scratching at my door.

Thank you for needing dinner.

Thank you for choosing me when I hadn’t chosen myself.

I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that.

By born legend

 

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning...it smells like...victory".
RIP Robert Duvall...you were one of the best there ever was...actors everywhere stand on your shoulders.
95...not a bad run, Col. Kilgore. The Kraut/ Mick guy we could always depend on to deliver...
A true giant sleeps now..

 

I read this post right after the news about Duvall...the combo for this old guy wasn't a two hanky job, but sure was enough for a tear rolling down my cheek.
At least one good thing about being old...I don't give a shit about trying to hold back tears when tney come...like I used to.
Guess that's something

 

Duvall told one of the best jokes I ever heard on some talk show...maybe Johnny Carson.
It was at the height of the anti- French feelings when they wouldn't let us fly over tneir air space to prosecute Desert Storm or whatever wat.
So the host asks him if he is of French ethnicity because of his name, and he says "hell no! Are you kidding ? No way! Those people watched tne Germans march right in- and what did they do? " He takes out his handerchief and folds it over his wrist, waiter-style, and says in a French accent, " Table for eighty thousand? "
I told the joke for days....

 

Bzoo......batten down the hatches....again.

 

Seriously... I'm 750 miles SW of that storm & we've had flurries from it since midnight.

 

Thanks...yeah it's getting fucking flat out annoying now. Very wearing and draining...mostly mentally.
Gotta tell you, the almanac was spot on with the winter forecast this year.

 

The shit now which is frozen solid is a far cry from " in the meadow we will build a snowman"..a long way, boyos.

 

Unfuckingbelievably, the forecast is for snow tomorrow, followed by another type of preciptation event a couple of days later. Why not ?
"Crucify him on the Tree of Woe"
-------------Thulsa Doom

 

I know this film is a lot of barbarian hokey, but I loved it and think it was great.
Certainly Arnold crowning achievement.
I definitely, in Oct./ Nov. , want to hear the lamentations of their women...from 29 other teams.
And see them driven before us...and crushed as enemies.
No more Mr. Nice Guys.

 

I remember seeing that in theaters while in high school. I'd read the original stories by Robert E. Howard. I didn't expect much but John Milius wasn't about to fuck about. He made it right.

 

Solid actor & genuine badass Bobby J Brown (The Wire) dies in a barn fire at 62 ....



Gotta be the last way anyone thinks they'd ever go .... damn shame.