Vil ønske alle god jul og godt nyttår!!
tirsdag 23. desember 2008
søndag 14. desember 2008
mandag 8. desember 2008
Tuca er død :-(
I går(på søndag), fikk vi melding av Svein Tore om å gå inn på bloggen til Sindre.
Der stod det at Tuca var død, vi fikk sjokk!
Tuca var på et hundepensjonat der hun møtte en valp på 12 uker.
De ble gode venner.
På lørdag ringte brannvesenet til Sindre og sa at det hadde skjedd en ulykke:
Det hadde blitt brann i bolighuset på hundepensjonatet.
Brannvesenet fant Tuca og den lille hvalpen i sovestilling i sofaen uten brannskader.
Brannen hadde ikke nådd dem.
De hadde sovna inn av kullosforgiftning.
Hvorfor akkurat Tuca?!
Hun var bare 3 og et halvt år!
R.I.P. Tuca
søndag 7. desember 2008
søndag 30. november 2008
lørdag 29. november 2008
fredag 28. november 2008
tirsdag 21. oktober 2008
mandag 13. oktober 2008
mandag 29. september 2008
Å være eller ikke være - hund?
William Shakespeare - Hamlet.
To be, or not to be: that is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Og det var dagens dikt.
To be, or not to be: that is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Og det var dagens dikt.
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