Not exactly a beauty portrait from a studio - maybe even a face that only a mother could love, but she gives love without condition. Maggie
Not exactly a beauty portrait from a studio - maybe even a face that only a mother could love, but she gives love without condition. 
Tough Beginning with a Happy 'Tail' of an Ending
I was a foster home for the Baytown Humane Society (BHS) for a number of years. That is how I acquired my beloved Bella, short for Bellisima, a Rottweiler who thinks she is a nine pound lap poodle. However much as I love my Bella dog, today I want to write about another dog whose life would have, otherwise, had a far different ending than the happy tale that goes with the funny face posted on the web.
A few years ago the president of BHS called me to report that they had rescued a dog off Interstate 10 at Magnolia in Houston. The story that unfolded was horrifying, and it is another confirmation that dog fighting on any level needs to end in this country.
One busy morning, someone spotted a small dog sitting under the Magnolia Street underpass. She was not moving very much. First thoughts could have been that she was lost or was left by someone and was waiting for owners to return to save her. A call was placed to another humane group, but there was not much response to the pre-weekend call. I was told lame excuses were given among other facts unknown to me as to why they couldn’t do the rescue. This little dog remained all day in the heat with no water, in the same position, and not one single individual stopped to check on her. The original person who observed the little dog holding vigil under the overpass earlier that morning crossed the same path that afternoon and noticed she was still there. She appeared injured in some manner, because her movements, little though they were, seemed very slow. Disappointed that the humane group contacted earlier that morning made no effort to rescue the dog, the good-hearted ambassador contacted the president of BHS. BHS went directly to the scene. A request for assistance from the Sheriff’s department was made, just in case there was an issue with the injured animal.
Upon the arrival of her rescuers the dog seemed demur. The were uncertain as to whether her apparent gentle disposition was natural or if it was due to the damage and ensuing shock from her ordeal involving the highway traffic. Her condition revealed that she must have bounced out of the back of a pickup truck. Her left hip was shattered. Her front leg was opened to the bone, drawing another conclusion that she was struck by a vehicle after she fell out of the truck. Unfortunately, her obvious breeding was pit bull mix. [I say 'unfortunately' because a large majority of rescue organizations will not rescue pit bulls.] There were dozens of bite marks, both fresh and scarred over, all along her body to indicate that she was a bait pup upon which the other pit pups honed their biting aggression skills. There were more horrors to be revealed later, but the urgent decision to be made was, “Was she worth saving in the condition she was in?” and “Will there be a danger if they tried to adopt her out if they did save her?” The dark question hanging in the balance was, "Should we just put her down?"
She was very nearly put to sleep because of all the questions floating in the air, but the president of BHS had a big heart and a trusting soul. She knew some of these were questions that only time could answer. The decision was made to take the chance and they rushed her to the clinic that served BHS. Surgery was done on the hip with full knowledge that shattering in six places would leave lifelong damage with possible disabilities. The front leg was repaired and sewn shut. Her smaller injuries were tended to, and the call was placed to me for a possible foster spot.
I did not hesitate. As soon as I heard her story I said yes. My heart absolutely ached over her circumstances. Since she appeared to be a medium sized dog with unknown future growth, I was the home of choice. The president of BHS was well aware of my affinity for large animals, which gives me a confidence that can overcome their fears. With a large, fenced back yard I had room for them to grow and recuperate. Regardless of an incoming dog’s temperament, with Bella in the picture, we could bring any animal in to our home. No matter their past experiences, Bella's behavior set the example and pace. If new dogs arrived snapping and growling, Bella just looked at them through the fence, backed up to make room, sat down and looked at them as if to say, “Whoa, buddy. You are alive and you are gonna like it here. Stop the barking and come on in.”
The new arrival was named Maggie by BHS - short for the Magnolia Street overpass from which she was rescued. We had a tough couple of first nights. Maggie was a stalwart little nut. She did not whimper once to indicate pain. She seemed to be afraid to make any sound at all. Her ragged breathing was the only clue she gave to her suffering. I tried to console her, but she was confused by the attention. If I lifted my hand, she shrank back and sat still, as if waiting for the inevitable strike.
I made myself be extremely patient and moved with caution. It took a bit, but I finally got her to settle on a soft, padded bed. Petting her was still foreign to her. I was desperate to get her to the point of trusting me. If I wasn’t successful, then she would not qualify for adoption and, BHS’s stance on whether they should have saved her life would have been in even more question.
Several trips to the vet indicated she was healing nicely, but would have lifetime damage to the hip. The more active she became, the more her personality came to light. This dog may have been a fighter for her own life, but this was no ‘fighting’ dog. She followed Bella’s every lead. Maggie imitated everything Bella did. Those two clowns raced about the yard and played like gladiators. Bella’s favorite activity was to leap up on top of the picnic table and oversee the world, then spring down and zoom across the lawn. That flattened, injured hip didn’t stop Maggie from doing the same thing. I held my breath the first time I saw Maggie fly off that picnic table behind Bella. She hit the ground with a thud. I ran across the yard to check on her, but Maggie was gone in a flash and back to Gladiator Play with full force.
Following Bella’s example, it was easy to house-train Maggie. She did everything she was told without question. When we were training on how to take treats nicely, she took one look at Bella and did exactly as Bella did. I had no fear of losing a finger as long as I kept her attention. She didn’t trust strangers at all, but I soon realized how much she was trying to bond to me. This can be difficult for a foster parent.
While I was doing everything in my power to get her to trust me and learn that humans can be good, her first eleven months of her life left a deep impression on her that presented an uphill battle. I found that out the first time I grabbed a fly swatter to kill an invading bug. Maggie went back to her original position of head down, body frozen and quivering - waiting for the blows. My heart dropped like a stone. I ran to her, wrapped her in my arms and pulled her stiff body up onto my lap as I rocked her to and fro. I tried to rub her belly and cooed words of affection, but all these actions were new experiences. She remained stiff. I held her and held her and held her. She finally relaxed a little. Then the tail thumped. Then it thumped again. I continued to sweet talk her. Nine weeks after harboring her, I had my first positive response of affection. She seemed surprised by the actions of her own tail. I kept up the ‘honey girls’ and ‘sweetie pies’ as the tail continued to wag. I knew in my heart that this could be a loving dog given half a chance, but she still had a lot of nurturing to go through.
Her picture remained posted on the BHS web site for many months. There were no calls. Her nose and the shape of her head were clear marks of a pit mix. Our region of the country has such a dreadful reputation. We knew it would be a long ordeal to overcome and find a home for Maggie. The months fostering Maggie stretched to well beyond the normal time for dogs in the foster system. Mag had become an absolute gem and attached herself to me as if she were my conscience. Her presence at my side, and her curiosity for anything and everything going on, soon netted her the nickname "Supervisor Number Nine." It mattered not if it was laundry, cooking, moving things around in a room - Supervisor Number Nine had to oversee all actvity in the house. All through this, Bella was understanding and patient. The girls had become close friends. The older dog, Gretchen, was also tolerant and understanding, giving Maggie more dog friends than she ever realized could be possible. Where the world had been set against Maggie before, our world had molded around her to wrap her in love and affection.
The more I was able to get Maggie to have faith in me, the more I discovered about her dreadful past. I knew that she was a bait puppy by the numerous scars on her body. Those scars were soon becoming part of a distant world as she put on weight. Her coat filled out and started to gleam a mahogany red brown with white splotches. The gash on her leg was long gone. All she had to show for her terrible beginning was that funky, flat hip, which didn’t stop her from bounding up on the couch beside me or up on the bed to oust Bella from a section of the mattress. She soon learned the phrase, “Come Cuddle!” and would leap up onto my lap and stretch out for a session of good lovin’. I thought her original story was banished to another time, another place. I was wrong. There was more to learn about my Maggie gal. I only thought I knew the abominations she had experienced, and abomination is the perfect word to describe what I discovered.
One night we were cuddling on the couch watching a movie. Baring her belly for me to scratch was now a ritual that had to be followed. No more flinching for this girl. She would toss from side to side and bump my hand with her head. When I slowed down, she would do anything to get my attention. On this occasion, she grabbed my hand in her mouth as if to tug it toward her again. I noticed how gentle her mouth was - surprisingly so. However, I noted that her teeth felt odd. It took me a few minutes to get her to be still and cooperate, but I managed to get her to play smiley with me and let me really look into her mouth. I sucked my breath in when I realized the full extent of what it meant to be the docile bait puppy in the pit. It meant that the dog had to have no way to really defend itself by using the power to latch onto an opponent with their jaws. Several of Maggie’s main teeth had been ripped from her mouth while she was just a puppy. There were huge gaps in her jaw line. My blood ran absolutely cold with the knowledge that this must have been done as cruelly as possible - with pliers and no anesthetics. In my mind, I could see her callous masters throwing her back in the pit still bleeding and whimpering in pain.
I looked at the calendar. It had been thirteen months since Maggie had been found on I10. Her age was estimated at eleven months old at rescue, making her now two years old and no longer a puppy who would be the apple of a family’s eye. I picked up the phone, and, with a catch in my throat and a trembling voice, I informed BHS that I was taking her out of foster care and adopting her myself. No one could love this funky little dog as much as I did at that moment. She had captivated my heart and worked her way into my soul. I could never make up to her what she had endured at the hands of others, but I could certainly make life different and wonderful from that day forward.
A few years ago the president of BHS called me to report that they had rescued a dog off Interstate 10 at Magnolia in Houston. The story that unfolded was horrifying, and it is another confirmation that dog fighting on any level needs to end in this country.
One busy morning, someone spotted a small dog sitting under the Magnolia Street underpass. She was not moving very much. First thoughts could have been that she was lost or was left by someone and was waiting for owners to return to save her. A call was placed to another humane group, but there was not much response to the pre-weekend call. I was told lame excuses were given among other facts unknown to me as to why they couldn’t do the rescue. This little dog remained all day in the heat with no water, in the same position, and not one single individual stopped to check on her. The original person who observed the little dog holding vigil under the overpass earlier that morning crossed the same path that afternoon and noticed she was still there. She appeared injured in some manner, because her movements, little though they were, seemed very slow. Disappointed that the humane group contacted earlier that morning made no effort to rescue the dog, the good-hearted ambassador contacted the president of BHS. BHS went directly to the scene. A request for assistance from the Sheriff’s department was made, just in case there was an issue with the injured animal.
Upon the arrival of her rescuers the dog seemed demur. The were uncertain as to whether her apparent gentle disposition was natural or if it was due to the damage and ensuing shock from her ordeal involving the highway traffic. Her condition revealed that she must have bounced out of the back of a pickup truck. Her left hip was shattered. Her front leg was opened to the bone, drawing another conclusion that she was struck by a vehicle after she fell out of the truck. Unfortunately, her obvious breeding was pit bull mix. [I say 'unfortunately' because a large majority of rescue organizations will not rescue pit bulls.] There were dozens of bite marks, both fresh and scarred over, all along her body to indicate that she was a bait pup upon which the other pit pups honed their biting aggression skills. There were more horrors to be revealed later, but the urgent decision to be made was, “Was she worth saving in the condition she was in?” and “Will there be a danger if they tried to adopt her out if they did save her?” The dark question hanging in the balance was, "Should we just put her down?"
She was very nearly put to sleep because of all the questions floating in the air, but the president of BHS had a big heart and a trusting soul. She knew some of these were questions that only time could answer. The decision was made to take the chance and they rushed her to the clinic that served BHS. Surgery was done on the hip with full knowledge that shattering in six places would leave lifelong damage with possible disabilities. The front leg was repaired and sewn shut. Her smaller injuries were tended to, and the call was placed to me for a possible foster spot.
I did not hesitate. As soon as I heard her story I said yes. My heart absolutely ached over her circumstances. Since she appeared to be a medium sized dog with unknown future growth, I was the home of choice. The president of BHS was well aware of my affinity for large animals, which gives me a confidence that can overcome their fears. With a large, fenced back yard I had room for them to grow and recuperate. Regardless of an incoming dog’s temperament, with Bella in the picture, we could bring any animal in to our home. No matter their past experiences, Bella's behavior set the example and pace. If new dogs arrived snapping and growling, Bella just looked at them through the fence, backed up to make room, sat down and looked at them as if to say, “Whoa, buddy. You are alive and you are gonna like it here. Stop the barking and come on in.”
The new arrival was named Maggie by BHS - short for the Magnolia Street overpass from which she was rescued. We had a tough couple of first nights. Maggie was a stalwart little nut. She did not whimper once to indicate pain. She seemed to be afraid to make any sound at all. Her ragged breathing was the only clue she gave to her suffering. I tried to console her, but she was confused by the attention. If I lifted my hand, she shrank back and sat still, as if waiting for the inevitable strike.
I made myself be extremely patient and moved with caution. It took a bit, but I finally got her to settle on a soft, padded bed. Petting her was still foreign to her. I was desperate to get her to the point of trusting me. If I wasn’t successful, then she would not qualify for adoption and, BHS’s stance on whether they should have saved her life would have been in even more question.
Several trips to the vet indicated she was healing nicely, but would have lifetime damage to the hip. The more active she became, the more her personality came to light. This dog may have been a fighter for her own life, but this was no ‘fighting’ dog. She followed Bella’s every lead. Maggie imitated everything Bella did. Those two clowns raced about the yard and played like gladiators. Bella’s favorite activity was to leap up on top of the picnic table and oversee the world, then spring down and zoom across the lawn. That flattened, injured hip didn’t stop Maggie from doing the same thing. I held my breath the first time I saw Maggie fly off that picnic table behind Bella. She hit the ground with a thud. I ran across the yard to check on her, but Maggie was gone in a flash and back to Gladiator Play with full force.
Following Bella’s example, it was easy to house-train Maggie. She did everything she was told without question. When we were training on how to take treats nicely, she took one look at Bella and did exactly as Bella did. I had no fear of losing a finger as long as I kept her attention. She didn’t trust strangers at all, but I soon realized how much she was trying to bond to me. This can be difficult for a foster parent.
While I was doing everything in my power to get her to trust me and learn that humans can be good, her first eleven months of her life left a deep impression on her that presented an uphill battle. I found that out the first time I grabbed a fly swatter to kill an invading bug. Maggie went back to her original position of head down, body frozen and quivering - waiting for the blows. My heart dropped like a stone. I ran to her, wrapped her in my arms and pulled her stiff body up onto my lap as I rocked her to and fro. I tried to rub her belly and cooed words of affection, but all these actions were new experiences. She remained stiff. I held her and held her and held her. She finally relaxed a little. Then the tail thumped. Then it thumped again. I continued to sweet talk her. Nine weeks after harboring her, I had my first positive response of affection. She seemed surprised by the actions of her own tail. I kept up the ‘honey girls’ and ‘sweetie pies’ as the tail continued to wag. I knew in my heart that this could be a loving dog given half a chance, but she still had a lot of nurturing to go through.
Her picture remained posted on the BHS web site for many months. There were no calls. Her nose and the shape of her head were clear marks of a pit mix. Our region of the country has such a dreadful reputation. We knew it would be a long ordeal to overcome and find a home for Maggie. The months fostering Maggie stretched to well beyond the normal time for dogs in the foster system. Mag had become an absolute gem and attached herself to me as if she were my conscience. Her presence at my side, and her curiosity for anything and everything going on, soon netted her the nickname "Supervisor Number Nine." It mattered not if it was laundry, cooking, moving things around in a room - Supervisor Number Nine had to oversee all actvity in the house. All through this, Bella was understanding and patient. The girls had become close friends. The older dog, Gretchen, was also tolerant and understanding, giving Maggie more dog friends than she ever realized could be possible. Where the world had been set against Maggie before, our world had molded around her to wrap her in love and affection.
The more I was able to get Maggie to have faith in me, the more I discovered about her dreadful past. I knew that she was a bait puppy by the numerous scars on her body. Those scars were soon becoming part of a distant world as she put on weight. Her coat filled out and started to gleam a mahogany red brown with white splotches. The gash on her leg was long gone. All she had to show for her terrible beginning was that funky, flat hip, which didn’t stop her from bounding up on the couch beside me or up on the bed to oust Bella from a section of the mattress. She soon learned the phrase, “Come Cuddle!” and would leap up onto my lap and stretch out for a session of good lovin’. I thought her original story was banished to another time, another place. I was wrong. There was more to learn about my Maggie gal. I only thought I knew the abominations she had experienced, and abomination is the perfect word to describe what I discovered.
One night we were cuddling on the couch watching a movie. Baring her belly for me to scratch was now a ritual that had to be followed. No more flinching for this girl. She would toss from side to side and bump my hand with her head. When I slowed down, she would do anything to get my attention. On this occasion, she grabbed my hand in her mouth as if to tug it toward her again. I noticed how gentle her mouth was - surprisingly so. However, I noted that her teeth felt odd. It took me a few minutes to get her to be still and cooperate, but I managed to get her to play smiley with me and let me really look into her mouth. I sucked my breath in when I realized the full extent of what it meant to be the docile bait puppy in the pit. It meant that the dog had to have no way to really defend itself by using the power to latch onto an opponent with their jaws. Several of Maggie’s main teeth had been ripped from her mouth while she was just a puppy. There were huge gaps in her jaw line. My blood ran absolutely cold with the knowledge that this must have been done as cruelly as possible - with pliers and no anesthetics. In my mind, I could see her callous masters throwing her back in the pit still bleeding and whimpering in pain.
I looked at the calendar. It had been thirteen months since Maggie had been found on I10. Her age was estimated at eleven months old at rescue, making her now two years old and no longer a puppy who would be the apple of a family’s eye. I picked up the phone, and, with a catch in my throat and a trembling voice, I informed BHS that I was taking her out of foster care and adopting her myself. No one could love this funky little dog as much as I did at that moment. She had captivated my heart and worked her way into my soul. I could never make up to her what she had endured at the hands of others, but I could certainly make life different and wonderful from that day forward.
The Mist
poised upon the waters
cast in time ‘til sunlight’s break
misted lake with lone boat rocking
i stand breathless in its wake
bear witness to the wonders
of earth at first light’s dawn
be cautious of its mighty spell
for man is merely nature’s pawn
threads of light soon arrive
to banish the somber scene
tendrils of gold will soon kiss
this place so muted, serene
lured by mystic beauty
i chance to dream and wander
transfixed in dusky silence
lost to the world I ponder
on the verge of lake and sky
alone with thoughts of yore
i contemplate upon love lost
across on distant shore
cast in time ‘til sunlight’s break
misted lake with lone boat rocking
i stand breathless in its wake
bear witness to the wonders
of earth at first light’s dawn
be cautious of its mighty spell
for man is merely nature’s pawn
threads of light soon arrive
to banish the somber scene
tendrils of gold will soon kiss
this place so muted, serene
lured by mystic beauty
i chance to dream and wander
transfixed in dusky silence
lost to the world I ponder
on the verge of lake and sky
alone with thoughts of yore
i contemplate upon love lost
across on distant shore
Pv 2 Patricia Juneau
All too soon, she grew from a child to a woman in charge of her own destiny. The image you see posted is not the image of my head and heart. My eyes see a little girl with bright red hair, arms folded across her chest. Defiant. Determined. Holding out to win a battle of wits as I worked hard to cajole her into doing what she was told to do. She was only three at the time, which puts the date about fifteen years ago, but that day remains carved into my memory as if it were yesterday.
I write often of my sister and have briefly mentioned her two daughters. Back when we were younger, if you didn’t know us and happened upon us in the mall with our children gathered around us, you couldn’t be blamed for assuming that Alicia’s two girls belonged to me and that my daughter belonged to Alicia. Alicia has dark hair and eyes with a complexion that leans toward warmer in tone. My daughter, being half Hispanic, has the same dark coloring. However, the genes traveled odd paths and Alicia ended up with a redheaded daughter and a blonde daughter. Both of her girls also have personality traits that resemble mine. This would not have been a good thing if they had actually been my daughters. God knew what he was doing. He gave me Alicia’s true daughter knowing that, if I had a child just like myself, I would have ended up in a loony bin crazy with frustration.
We were scheduled to go to lunch one cold, stormy day. Patricia was dressed in a denim outfit and was wearing delightful little matching denim boots. While the outfit was okay, the boots would have been soaked in minutes, so she was told to go change her footwear. Her eyes locked with her mother’s and she said, “No.” That started the round of yes you will, no I won’t, please, no, please, no, I said now before I count to three…….we’ve all been there. Patricia turned and headed for her room. Aunt Cheryl, with all her ‘I know how to get around this redhead wisdom’ followed the tike to the bedroom. I tried to reason with her. I gave great explanations to her. I offered to help find shoes that would protect her feet from the cold. She was matching and not budging. She stoically crossed her arms, turned her three-year-old back to me and clearly enunciating each word said, “Leave My Room.” I said, “Fine. I will leave your room, and I will leave you here while we go to lunch.” I walked out. (Actually, I was more graphic than that and told her I would leave her donkey’s rear end at home, but I didn’t tell her mother that part.)
I told my sister to get in the car. I made it appear that we were really going to leave without Patricia. Older sister, Rebecca, was fretting in the back seat, but tears would not sway me. I was bent on proving which one of the two of us could be more obstinate. Not only was I not going to yield to another redhead, I wasn’t going to let a three year old get the better of me.
The car was started and put in motion. We didn’t go four feet before that little red head was in the garage with brown leather boots on her feet. I will give her credit. She didn’t say a word. She gave the appearance that the change in footgear was not due to anyone else’s desires or wishes. She did not acknowledge any remarks from anyone regarding the shoes, nor did she make eye contact with any of us who had offended her fashion sensibility.
That tenacity served her well a decade and a half later when she made the decision to join the National Guard, giving up weekends most seniors in high school spend sleeping or hanging out with friends. Instead of shopping or primping for dates, she was running miles in the heat. Patricia graduated high school early and went straight to boot camp for the U. S. Army. The beret she donned at the end of those grueling eight weeks of boot camp was earned via hard work, determination and perseverance. I have no doubt she will succeed in her quest to work with the Apache helicopter, or anything else she sets her mind to.
I write often of my sister and have briefly mentioned her two daughters. Back when we were younger, if you didn’t know us and happened upon us in the mall with our children gathered around us, you couldn’t be blamed for assuming that Alicia’s two girls belonged to me and that my daughter belonged to Alicia. Alicia has dark hair and eyes with a complexion that leans toward warmer in tone. My daughter, being half Hispanic, has the same dark coloring. However, the genes traveled odd paths and Alicia ended up with a redheaded daughter and a blonde daughter. Both of her girls also have personality traits that resemble mine. This would not have been a good thing if they had actually been my daughters. God knew what he was doing. He gave me Alicia’s true daughter knowing that, if I had a child just like myself, I would have ended up in a loony bin crazy with frustration.
We were scheduled to go to lunch one cold, stormy day. Patricia was dressed in a denim outfit and was wearing delightful little matching denim boots. While the outfit was okay, the boots would have been soaked in minutes, so she was told to go change her footwear. Her eyes locked with her mother’s and she said, “No.” That started the round of yes you will, no I won’t, please, no, please, no, I said now before I count to three…….we’ve all been there. Patricia turned and headed for her room. Aunt Cheryl, with all her ‘I know how to get around this redhead wisdom’ followed the tike to the bedroom. I tried to reason with her. I gave great explanations to her. I offered to help find shoes that would protect her feet from the cold. She was matching and not budging. She stoically crossed her arms, turned her three-year-old back to me and clearly enunciating each word said, “Leave My Room.” I said, “Fine. I will leave your room, and I will leave you here while we go to lunch.” I walked out. (Actually, I was more graphic than that and told her I would leave her donkey’s rear end at home, but I didn’t tell her mother that part.)
I told my sister to get in the car. I made it appear that we were really going to leave without Patricia. Older sister, Rebecca, was fretting in the back seat, but tears would not sway me. I was bent on proving which one of the two of us could be more obstinate. Not only was I not going to yield to another redhead, I wasn’t going to let a three year old get the better of me.
The car was started and put in motion. We didn’t go four feet before that little red head was in the garage with brown leather boots on her feet. I will give her credit. She didn’t say a word. She gave the appearance that the change in footgear was not due to anyone else’s desires or wishes. She did not acknowledge any remarks from anyone regarding the shoes, nor did she make eye contact with any of us who had offended her fashion sensibility.
That tenacity served her well a decade and a half later when she made the decision to join the National Guard, giving up weekends most seniors in high school spend sleeping or hanging out with friends. Instead of shopping or primping for dates, she was running miles in the heat. Patricia graduated high school early and went straight to boot camp for the U. S. Army. The beret she donned at the end of those grueling eight weeks of boot camp was earned via hard work, determination and perseverance. I have no doubt she will succeed in her quest to work with the Apache helicopter, or anything else she sets her mind to.
Just prior to her departure for boot camp, Patricia penned the poem posted below. With wisdom beyond her years, she crafted a work that brushed the hearts and souls of everyone in her life. While her words were meant to reach out and reassure others, they revealed a poise, dignity, inner beauty and innate sense of loyalty that we had only had a glimpse of before.
If you board a helicopter someday in the future, don’t be surprised if you see a copper-headed pilot at the helm. You can rest assured she will get you where you need to go. Just don’t bother trying to change her mind. That's a dead end trip.
If you board a helicopter someday in the future, don’t be surprised if you see a copper-headed pilot at the helm. You can rest assured she will get you where you need to go. Just don’t bother trying to change her mind. That's a dead end trip.
If I ever go to war…
If I ever go to war Mom, please don’t be afraid.
There are some things I must do,
to keep the promise that I made.
I’m sure there will be some heartache,
and I know it might bring a tear,
But your daughter is a Soldier now, Mom,
There is nothing you should fear.
If I ever go to war Dad, I know that you’ll be strong.
And you don’t have to worry,
cause you taught me right from wrong.
You kept me firmly on the ground,
yet still taught me how to fly.
Your daughter is a Soldier now, Dad,
I love you, that is not a lie.
If I ever go to war Sis, don’t you worry about me,
You’ve always looked out for me,
but this is what I want to be.
I’ll keep you with me always,
it will never be good-bye
Your sister is a Soldier now, Sis,
so keep your spirits high.
If I ever go to war my Friends, We’ll never be apart,
Though we may not meet again,
I’ll hold you to my heart.
Remember all the times we had,
don’t let your memories cease,
Your friend is a Soldier now, my Friends,
I’d fight to bring you peace.
And when I go to heaven to see that pearly gate,
I’ll gladly decline entrance,
then stand my post and wait.
I’m sorry Sir I can’t come in,
I’m sort of in a bind,
You see I’m still a Soldier, Sir,
I won’t leave them behind.
~ Patricia Juneau
There are some things I must do,
to keep the promise that I made.
I’m sure there will be some heartache,
and I know it might bring a tear,
But your daughter is a Soldier now, Mom,
There is nothing you should fear.
If I ever go to war Dad, I know that you’ll be strong.
And you don’t have to worry,
cause you taught me right from wrong.
You kept me firmly on the ground,
yet still taught me how to fly.
Your daughter is a Soldier now, Dad,
I love you, that is not a lie.
If I ever go to war Sis, don’t you worry about me,
You’ve always looked out for me,
but this is what I want to be.
I’ll keep you with me always,
it will never be good-bye
Your sister is a Soldier now, Sis,
so keep your spirits high.
If I ever go to war my Friends, We’ll never be apart,
Though we may not meet again,
I’ll hold you to my heart.
Remember all the times we had,
don’t let your memories cease,
Your friend is a Soldier now, my Friends,
I’d fight to bring you peace.
And when I go to heaven to see that pearly gate,
I’ll gladly decline entrance,
then stand my post and wait.
I’m sorry Sir I can’t come in,
I’m sort of in a bind,
You see I’m still a Soldier, Sir,
I won’t leave them behind.
~ Patricia Juneau
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