All,

 

Scroll down for a fantastic dog story - great photos and 1 minute read. It's really beautiful ... and amazing - suffering can break open even a dogs heart. Why not? They possess awareness and self-reflection, as well (not all, but not all people do. I sometimes watch people closely and think it is rarer than we suppose - I'm still working on it myself!). I suspect that the same Awareness that permeates us does so with them and all things but with different brains and nervous systems they process information differently. I don't know, but animal compassion is a real phenomenon.

I read the Snopes link and the story was verified and regrettably Jasmine passed away in Oct of last year.

 

Gordon

 

PS: If you like dog/animal stories and theories I would urge you to check out this man: http://jeffreymasson.com/

He is the former keeper of the Freudian Archives and stirred up controversy when he found some of Freud's unpublished papers that pointed to real assault by relatives in some of his patients and this in turn was allegedly masked by some of his theories because they couldn't be spoken of honestly and openly in his times (see The Assault on Truth, Against Therapy, and Final Analysis). Dog's Never Lie About Love and When Elephants Weep are his most popular books on animals and their emotional life.


True Story.

In 2003, police in Warwickshire , England , opened a garden shed and found a whimpering, cowering dog. The dog had been locked in the shed and abandoned. It was dirty and malnourished, and had quite clearly been abused.


In an act of kindness, the police took the dog, which was a female greyhound, to the Nuneaton Warwickshire Wildlife Sanctuary, which is run by a man named Geoff Grewcock, and known as a haven for animals abandoned, orphaned, or otherwise in need.


Geoff and the other sanctuary staff went to work with two aims: to restore the dog to full health, and to win her trust. It took several weeks, but eventually both goals were achieved. They named her Jasmine, and they started to think about finding her an adoptive home.









Jasmine, however, had other ideas. No one quite remembers how it came about, but Jasmine started welcoming all animal arrivals at the sanctuary. It would not matter if it were a puppy, a fox cub, a rabbit or, any other lost or hurting animal. Jasmine would just peer into the box or cage and, when and where possible, deliver a welcoming lick.

Geoff relates one of the early incidents "We had two puppies that had been abandoned by a nearby railway line. One was a Lakeland Terrier cross and another was a Jack Russell Doberman cross. They were tiny when they arrived at the centre, and Jasmine approached them and grabbed one by the scruff of the neck in her mouth and put him on the settee. Then she fetched the other one and sat down with them, cuddling them."


"But she is like that with all of our animals, even the rabbits. She takes all the stress out of them, and it helps them to not only feel close to her, but to settle into their new surroundings.. She has done the same with the fox and badger cubs, she licks the rabbits and guinea pigs, and even lets the birds perch on the bridge of her nose."






Jasmine, the timid, abused, deserted waif, became the animal sanctuary's resident surrogate mother, a role for which she might have been born. The list of orphaned and abandoned youngsters she has cared for comprises five fox cubs, four badger cubs, fifteen chicks, eight guinea pigs, two stray puppies and fifteen rabbits - and one roe deer fawn. Tiny Bramble, eleven weeks old, was found semi-conscious in a field. Upon arrival at the sanctuary, Jasmine cuddled up to her to keep her warm, and then went into the full foster-mum role. Jasmine the greyhound showers Bramble the roe deer with affection, and makes sure nothing is matted.

"They are inseparable," says Geoff. "Bramble walks between her legs, and they keep kissing each other. They walk together round the sanctuary. It's a real treat to see them."

Jasmine will continue to care for Bramble until she is old enough to be returned to woodland life. When that happens, Jasmine will not be lonely. She will be too busy showering love and affection on the next orphan or victim of abuse.






Pictured from the left are: "Toby", a stray Lakeland dog; "Bramble", orphaned roe deer; "Buster", a stray Jack Russell; a dumped rabbit; "Sky", an injured barn owl; and "Jasmine", with a mother's heart doing best what a caring mother would do...and such is the order of God's Creation.
                              

Get your hotdogs! Old marketing paper.

Every week we had to dash off a paper that summarized the chapter we would be discussing - pretty standard stuff. I found this in an old file and thought I would post. It is from October 25, 2011.

                                                                                                                                                                                                 
Reflection Statement #10

     Promoting a product is the last of the 4P’s and to be effective the marketer must begin with the goal in mind. These goals can vary and must be in accord with the company’s short and long-term goals. However, narrowing the goal can help simplify the ad, which increases the likeliness of its effectiveness. Also, knowing the goal and how to measure success can help the marketer determine if the ad has been successful.

     Beginning with the end in mind the marketer must return to basics and define advertising and its importance. Advertising is the means by which a company interacts with the marketplace by raising awareness of its products, brands and position. In order to effectively do this a marketer must hold a potential clients attention, grab their interest, stir their desire and motivate them to action.  

     There are several models that describe the flow from attention to action but they all basically fall into one of three broad categories. The first attempts to appeal to a potential customer’s cognitive faculties by increasing brand awareness and knowledge. The second, called affect, tries to increase positive attitudes and associations toward the brand. And finally, the final model seeks to drive behavior and encourage a purchase of a particular brand. Each of the categories corresponds to where a product resides in the product life-cycle. Cognition appears early in the brand’s life and as awareness grows the marketer seeks to use affect to cement customer attitudes. Finally, as the brand matures a marketer seeks to remind customers to purchase the product. However, integrating all the elements is the most effective strategy of all.

     Filling in the models above we can point out that cognitive ads, which appeal to the intellect, make two kinds of arguments. The first is the one-sided arguments which focuses on a product’s benefits while the two-sided argument, though mentioning the benefits, also acknowledges limitations. If the product is deficient or if a competitor simply makes a higher quality product, both limitations are addressed and the unique qualities of one’s own product are emphasized.

     Emotional ads have the goal of generating buzz. Most are humorous, though these are not as effective due to the fact that while people remember the joke, they often forget the brand. Fear is also used but viewers may choose to forget the ad if the message or graphics are too unpleasant. Closely related are ads that induce guilt. As a general rule it is best to avoid them. However, an emotional appeal can be used to convey the image a company wants to convey to customers. But, these must be well placed and the message is as important as the medium. Both cognitive and emotional ads, of course, ultimately seek to drive behavior.

     However, one of the most difficult challenges facing marketers is deciding how to measure the effectiveness of an ad. There are several ways in which this can be done. DAR or day-after -recall tests can be conducted the day after an ad is played to see how impressionable the ad was and these hard numbers can convince others in management that the expense was worth it.

     But, a competent marketer should know something of the final result beforehand. An ad should ideally be created using a two-step process where the concept for the ad is first tested on a series of focus groups and then the flow of the ad is studied. A marketer, by being aware of his company’s goals, needs to have a basic threshold to score against to gainsay an advertisement.

     This threshold or measure of evaluation should measure a customer’s attitude toward the both the ad and the brand. It is important that the targeted segments do not overlap and that each ad that is designed for a targeted segment not overlap with another.

     Two tools can be used to measure the effectiveness of an ad and its associations. The first is the cognitive network which graphically depicts all of the associations with a certain product. The second is a marketing diagnostics table that uses percentages gained from customer surveys to measure all the way from awareness of a brand through purchase. This table can show the marketer probabilities of customer action, check for weaknesses, and help him decide what course of action should be undertaken to improve recognition and sales.

     We can extend on these ideas by spending some time on the concept of subliminal advertising. We have mentioned above that retailors will create ambience in stores and usually do this with music. This is also done explicitly with image branding. But, to appeal directly to the subconscious mind (it is at least debatable if such a thing really exists) is supposedly against the law and a violation of marketing ethics. However, not many people know this (if true) and a large urban myth has built up around this idea which persists in popular culture. This myth appeals to those who feel that marketing is little more than a method of manipulation and psychological knowledge, which is at best designed to help people, is being used to control them.

     In the movie “Fight Club” the character played by Brad Pitt works in a movie theatre and decides to turn the tables on corporations by inserting photos of the male anatomy into the movie where before they had been subliminally been inducing customers to buy popcorn and soft drinks. Indeed, the movie ends with the credit bureaus and major banks being blown-up in order to set things at par and start the world over on even ground. We can hear some of these echoes today in the Wall Street protests. It is clearly in the interest of corporations to emphasize basics.

     One way marketers could do this is with an ad campaign similar to the ones put out by the Beef, Egg and, Dairy Associations. These ads are simply designed to raise awareness of the product and the industry. Occasionally, the oil companies will remind people that they are really in the business of selling energy and it is implied that oil is simply the energy they sell. The Marketing Association of America has two articles (one is really a comment) that mention this type of advertising and the latest one from 2009 affirms the myth of the “sex” in ice ad from the 1970’s and goes on to say that this type of advertising works, though interestingly, sex itself does not sell.* A comment left by a reader assert that we are in a situation now where people are turning away from conspicuous consumption which is reminiscent of the end hopes depicted in  “Fight Club”.  At any rate, the American Marketing Association would be wise to codify their ethics, punish violators, and run ads such as other associations now do. This is needed more than ever.

     In my own life I have encountered this “myth” several times. Evidently, this concept is more widespread than many would like to acknowledge. Friends, who know that I have an interest, indeed a passion, for marketing have regaled me from time to time with examples they have heard of that may or may not be true. Not only is the “sex” in ice myth (if it is a myth) popular, but supposedly liquor companies have shaped their labels like tombs in order to appeal to alcoholics and even cigarette labels are thought to have the same appeal. Honestly, I do not know what other shapes bottle or cigarette labels could take, but the interest lies in the widespread idea that clinical psychological knowledge is abused for the benefit of corporations seeking profits.

     Everyone hopes to catch the magician performing the illusion, but it takes two to make a magic show. My friends told me these anecdotes because they were concerned I would do the same to them. But, every salesman will tell you that what closes a deal and keeps a customer is honesty and genuine concern. Marketing is as honest as the one who perceives it.

 

 *Retrieved from http://www.marketingpower.com/_layouts/SearchResults.aspx?fb=q

They Are Billy

In April 2011 I was writing a term paper and wanted to use an article from a magazine called Guideposts that I had never forgotten. It is a magazine I used to read when I visited my grandmother and the article left an impression on me that was so strong I remembered not only the full content of the story but even the title almost 16 years after it was published. I wrote to Guideposts and they kindly sent me a reprint free of charge.
I hope it is as unforgettable to you as it is to me.

Dear Mr. Jackson,

Please find the article you requested below. Thank you for your interest.

Whom do we see when we see the homeless? In our August 1989 issue Donna Tesh found a heartbreaking answer to that question

They Are Billy
November 1995

Subject: Homeless: Helping others: Sibling relationships: Death and dying
Abstract: sister learns about helping others after she realizes her own brother lived as a homeless man
by Donna Tesh, Garner, North Carolina

“Billy’s dead.”
The soft, shaky voice on the other end of the line belonged to my mother—our mother, mine and Billy’s. There had been three of us children: Billy; my sister, Twila; and me. We had grown up in Florida, but now, in the summer of 1987, my minister husband and I lived in Wilson, N.C., and my mother lived in an apartment only 10 minutes away. Twila had moved to Georgia, and Billy—well, the last address we had for him was in Phoenix, Ariz.
It had been 10 years since Billy went west. There had been a broken marriage, a period of drinking, and when his little boy died soon after his first birthday, Billy just picked up and left. After Mom dropped him at the bus station that day in 1977, we were never sure of his whereabouts or how he was getting along. We sent letters and cards, and one Christmas we even mailed a box with gifts and a small artificial tree complete with tinsel and lights. It was always the same story, though—no reply.
Holidays were difficult. Mother’s Day was especially so. That day was always hard for Mom, and Billy’s thoughtlessness would get me riled. Then I would turn around and worry about him, wondering if he was all right or if he was still alive. But our letters were never returned; we found a glimmer of hope in that. Sometimes I would wonder if he knew that he had another nephew. Sammy, my second son, was now 10 and had only heard about his uncle Billy. Sammy included Billy in his prayers at night. We all prayed for Billy.
Mom was drinking tea in the kitchen when I got to her apartment. I wrapped my arms around her. “Mom, are they sure?” I clung to some dim hope that this was all a case of mistaken identity.
“Yes, they’re sure,” she whispered. The police had been able to identify him from a large scar down the center of his chest, from when he had open heart surgery as a child to correct a congenital defect. They also had his fingerprints on file. Apparently Billy had a police record.
Mom looked frailer than I had ever seen her. She was recovering from cataract surgery and had just begun feeling stronger, but the bad news seemed to sap whatever strength she had regained. I called Twila in Georgia and we arranged to meet in Atlanta and fly together to Phoenix. Mom would remain at home.
During the long flight, my sister and I reminisced about our brother. I recalled how Billy and I would go rowing on the canal behind our house when we were kids. Billy never talked much, but I was always impressed with how easily and steadily he rowed. Twila remembered how bright and handsome he was, with an easy smile and a twinkle in his eye.
But as we made the descent into Phoenix, we grew silent, bracing ourselves for what lay ahead. We would have to dispose of his belongings—furniture, clothes, books. Billy loved to read, so I knew there would be lots of books. We had brought along a box of heavy-duty plastic garbage sacks. It would be best, we decided, to give most of his things to the Salvation Army. Any personal mementos we would bring back home for Mom. We were organized, Twila and I.
I watched the other passengers filing through the arrival gate to be greeted by friends and hugs. Everywhere, hugs. My heart ached trying to conjure up an image of a pleasant-faced man waiting to show his sisters the town.
Armed with a rental car and a city map, we set out for police headquarters downtown. The detective who ushered us into his small office was matter-of-fact, but not unfeeling. He seemed to sense how difficult this was for us and wanted to make it as businesslike as possible. He got us some coffee, then sat down to tell us what had happened.
Billy, working as an itinerant laborer, had been hired by a landscaper to do a day’s work. He no sooner put on the new work gloves they had given him than he dropped dead from a massive coronary.
“What about the police record?” I inquired with some trepidation. Nothing major, we were assured. Maybe just the sort of thing a man does when he’s desperate for his next meal. We decided not to pry any further.
The detective then reached for a small glassine bag that contained Billy’s personal effects. He spread the contents neatly on the desk: a dull comb; the stiff new work gloves Billy never had a chance to dirty; a beat-up old wallet; an old grimy, tattered, doubled-over Christmas card with some writing in Mom’s neat hand.
“That’s how we knew where to get in touch with you,” remarked the detective, pointing to the card. “Looks like he carried it with him everywhere.”
A lump grew in my throat.
“Nothing much else here,” he continued, almost clinically. “These are receipts from a plasma center where he had been selling his blood. A punch card from a soup kitchen. Oh, yeah . . . some pictures.”
There, spilling out from the ragged billfold, was my Sammy’s first-grade picture. And one of my oldest son, David, along with some other family shots.
I grasped Twila’s hand. “He knew,” I said.
But that was it. When we asked about seeing Billy’s apartment, the detective stared at us for a moment, a pained look in his eyes. There was no apartment. No furniture, no books, no possessions. Nothing to give away. Even the work shirt and jeans Billy wore that day were borrowed. “Home” was some cot in a shelter, or the street.
“Your brother was one of our homeless,” explained the detective blankly, looking away.
Billy . . . homeless? All the evidence was there, but it was simply so hard to grasp. What did that mean, homeless? That Billy was one of those people you see with such numbing regularity on the nightly news, people without names, people you never dreamed you might know? Something had happened to our brother.
In the following couple of days, as we arranged a burial for Billy, Twila and I retraced the life he had led. We saw the soup kitchen where he had taken his meals. We saw the labor pool where he went to find menial work. We saw his last apartment, which was mean and dirty. He hadn’t even been able to hang on to that.
We saw the YMCA where he sometimes went for a shower. A woman there said that several months before, Billy had been coming regularly and using the gym equipment. He had appeared to be shaping himself up, getting ready for another go at life. But then he stopped. Something, something we just couldn’t understand, made him slip back, drinking again perhaps, living on the streets. “It’s a shame, really,” she said quietly.
We wanted to see Billy one last time. The funeral director the detective had recommended led us into a small chapel. We walked past rows of empty chairs to the far end, where the body had been placed on a stretcher and covered with a white sheet pulled up to the chest.
He looked much older than his 43 years, thinner than we remembered him, practically gaunt. There were some unfamiliar scars on his chest and arms. His hairline had receded. But there was no mistaking that face, that soft, gentle look he wore even in death. No one else was around, and we were grateful for the solitude. Twila and I stood there for some time, crying softly. And then we prayed.
We prayed for Billy. But we also found ourselves praying for the others we had seen, for the people standing in line for food, for the men at the labor pool, the children playing between the cots at the shelter. Somewhere they must have loved ones like us, wondering and worrying about them, asking God to keep them safe.
I bent over and kissed Billy’s brow. Mom always referred to it as his sweet spot. All her children had them, she asserted, and that’s where she kissed us when she tucked us in. “That’s from Mom,” I whispered.
Neither Twila nor I will ever forget our experience in Phoenix. It’s made an impression on our lives. We look at the poor and the homeless, and no longer are they nameless people. They are Billy.
These days, since Twila sold her beauty shop, she helps out by giving haircuts in the local shelters. Near one of the shelters they’re creating a chapel for the homeless to worship in. Twila and her husband are going to buy a pew in Billy’s name.
As a minister’s wife I’ve always been asked to do my share for the poor. Now it’s taken on a personal meaning. Why Billy didn’t come to us for help we’ll never know, but he needed it, and there are so many more like him out there. They may be afraid or ashamed or just too confused to know where to turn. They need us. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren,” Jesus teaches us, “ye have done it unto me.”
Yes, I do it for someone else’s Billy—and for you, Lord.