I put my phone on silent at 8:12 p.m.—the official hour of “my heart is too heavy for company.”

A minute later, I saw it:

A notification from my memories' app.

A video.

Of my dog.

Timestamped 8:12.

I hit play.

That familiar little bark floated out, the one that always sounded like he was asking a question.

His tail thumped against the floor—slow, steady, like a heartbeat made of hope.

Replay.

Replay again.

His breath.

The tiny pause before he tilted his head.

The jingling of his tags—our old house soundtrack.

Back then, 8:12 p.m. was his magic hour.

That was when he’d wait by the door, ready for our evening walk, staring at me like I was the entire universe wrapped in a hoodie.

Sometimes I’d come home late and find him sitting by the window, tail sweeping the floor like a tiny broom of forgiveness.

Tonight, my apartment felt too quiet.

Even the rain outside sounded lonely, tapping the window like a soft reminder I didn’t ask for.

I promised myself:

Tomorrow.

At 8:12.

I’ll light his candle again.

The next night at exactly 8:12, I was still drowning in emails, my brain fried like someone left it on a skillet.

I ducked into the hallway and opened my phone.

I played another old clip.

Just a few seconds.

Him running.

Him smiling.

Him existing.

It stitched something in me back together.

The next night, I did it again.

And again.

Nothing dramatic.

Just love exchanged in spoonfuls.

I’d look at his old collar.

The worn spots where my fingers used to rest.

The tiny scratch on the tag from the time he tried to “fight” a bush.

I’d whisper a memory to him:

How he stole socks like they were treasure.

How he barked at balloons.

How he’d tuck his nose under my hand like he was plugging himself into a charger.

Sunday, I drove out to the park where we used to go.

It looked the same—just slightly older, like me.

I sat on our bench and placed a little paw-shaped candle on it.

Not bright, not fancy—just a soft glow with a couple of very committed moths dancing around it.

A woman walking her dog smiled at me.

For a second, I almost expected my boy to run up beside her, tongue hanging out, telling me I was taking too long.

“I still light a candle for him at 8:12,” I said quietly, as if he could hear.

He always understood quiet things.

The winter came early this year.

The kind that makes everything sound like a memory.

One night, at 8:12, I came home tired and frozen.

I forgot.

When I finally lit the candle at 8:27, the flame flickered in this soft, forgiving way —

like it was saying:

“It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

We’re people, not clocks.

And pets?

They were never clocks either.

They never cared about minutes — only moments.

Now I keep a small lamp by the window.

Next to his picture.

Next to his collar.

Every night at 8:12 — or 8:18 or 9:03 — I turn it on.

A tiny lighthouse for a soul made of fur.

A reminder:

Love doesn’t leave.

It just changes where it waits.

If you’re lucky enough to have a pet beside you right now — go give them a moment that matters.

And if your furry angel watches from heaven…

light a little glow for them tonight.

Because sometimes the softest light says the biggest thing:

“Here. Still here.”

 

 

The decay of Lhotse mountaineer Milan Sedlacek

 

Milan Sedláček, one of the Czech Republic’s most respected high-altitude mountaineers, lost his life on Lhotse on 20 May 2012. He was fifty, experienced, and driven by a deep love for climbing, the kind of passion that pulls people toward places most of the world will only ever see in photographs.

Sedláček had spent years pursuing some of the planet’s hardest peaks, including Shishapangma and two attempts on K2. Lhotse was a mountain he had returned to before, always drawn back by the challenge. In 2012, he and his teammates made a push for the summit. He reached the top, an achievement that represents the pinnacle of a climber’s devotion but never made it back down.

The exact cause of his death remains uncertain, though exhaustion at extreme altitude is believed to have played a role. His body remained high in the “death zone” for more than a decade before recovery teams were finally able to bring him home, giving his family long-awaited closure.

 

 

 

In Norse mythology, the goddess Freyja (Freya) — ruler of love, beauty, and magic — rode across the skies in a chariot drawn by two giant cats. These celestial felines, gifts from the god Thor himself, symbolized not just grace and mystery, but power wrapped in gentleness.

Freya’s cats were said to embody feminine strength and divine independence — fierce enough to pull a goddess, yet tender enough to purr beside her. In ancient tales, farmers left out offerings of milk to earn Freya’s favor and to protect their homes and harvests from misfortune.

Even now, Norse storytellers say that when a cat stretches in a sunbeam, it’s paying homage to Freya — basking in her eternal light.

These myths remind us that cats were never meant to be ordinary. They’ve always walked beside magic, balancing softness and strength with the elegance of gods.

References:

Norse Mythology Online – “Freya and Her Cat-Drawn Chariot”

Smithsonian Magazine – “The Role of Animals in Norse Myth”

BBC History – “Freyja: Goddess of Love and War”

 

 SIR DAVID ATTENBOROUGH FANS

 

He had just delivered the final verdict in a horrific animal cruelty case. But he couldn't go back to his chambers until he visited the one victim who wasn't in the courtroom.

Judge Martin Wallace was a 30-year veteran of the bench. He was known for being stern, fair, and almost impossible to rattle.

But the case of "Finn" had kept him awake at night.

It wasn't just neglect; it was a deliberate, malicious act. The dog had been found chained in an empty apartment after neighbors reported a smell. He had been left with no food or water for weeks. The evidence photos of the emaciated animal were something Judge Wallace couldn't shake.

Today, he had delivered the verdict, sentencing the dog's abuser to the maximum penalty allowed, his voice booming with cold anger in the courtroom.

But as he slammed his gavel, he felt no victory. He just felt the crushing weight of the dog's suffering.

He didn't go to his chambers. He didn't even take off his robes. He walked past his stunned staff and drove his own car to the county animal shelter.

A vet tech met him at the door. "He's very weak, Your Honor," she warned. "And he's terrified of everyone. We haven't been able to get him to respond to much."

She led him to the medical ward. Judge Wallace looked into the kennel and saw a frail, skeletal pit bull, who just stared blankly at the wall.

The judge unhooked the kennel door and slowly knelt on the concrete floor.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly. "I'm Martin. I'm the one who... I'm the one who heard your story."

The dog, who hadn't moved for anyone, slowly turned his head. He shakily got to his feet, all ribs and bones, and took a wobbly step forward.

Then, to the vet's astonishment, the dog crept into the judge's lap, let out a long sigh, and began to gently lick the tears from his face.

"Oh my... he can't get enough of you," the vet tech whispered.

Judge Wallace, the toughest man in the courthouse, wrapped his arms around the frail dog, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't get enough of him, either. Look at this face."

He buried his face in the dog's neck, not caring about the robe.

"You're safe now, pal," he choked out. "You're all right. It's all over."

Judge Wallace visited Finn every week during his recovery.

Two months later, Finn was finally cleared for adoption. The shelter was flooded with offers, but they all knew there was only one person he was going home with.

Judge Wallace signed the final papers, and the dog who had been left for dead walked out the front door, right into his new life.

"You won’t believe what happens next! Click here to discover the heartwarming story!"

https://ifeg.info/.../a-journey-of-compassion-the.../

 

the-wolf-and-moon

Star Streams of Comet Atlas