Hair of the Dog Grooming

11/05/2025

Almost blown away today but still beautiful!

11/01/2025

Hello wonderful people. I have started booking Christmas grooms. I have weekends & some evening appointments open so please get in touch to book your pups in.

10/31/2025

They call it “lunch shaming.” I call it cruelty. For 38 years, I watched it happen from my history classroom. Then, one Tuesday, I decided to become a quiet criminal.

My name is Arthur Harrison. For nearly four decades, my world has been cinder block walls, the smell of old books, and the drone of the 2:15 PM bell. I teach American History. I’ve lectured on the Great Depression, on bread lines and poverty, trying to make the black-and-white photos feel real to kids who live in a world of vibrant color and constant noise.

But the most brutal history lesson wasn’t in my textbook. It was in the cafeteria.

It was a Tuesday when I saw it happen to Marcus, a quiet sophomore who sat in the back of my third-period class. He was a good kid, drew incredible sketches of Civil War soldiers in his notebook margins. I saw him at the front of the lunch line. The cashier, a woman I’d known for twenty years, said something to him. I saw his shoulders slump. He was handed not a tray of hot food, but a cold cheese sandwich and a small milk carton—the “alternative meal.” The IOU. The badge of shame.

He walked past his friends, eyes glued to the floor, and sat at an empty table at the far end of the cafeteria. He didn’t eat. He just stared at the wall. In that moment, he wasn’t a student. He was a statistic. His family’s bank account balance was on public display, served between two slices of cheap bread.

Something inside me, a part of my soul worn thin by years of budget cuts and standardized tests, finally snapped.

The next day, I walked into the main office before school. Linda, the cafeteria manager, was there sorting receipts.

“Art,” she said, not looking up. “Don’t tell me the coffee machine is broken again.”

“It’s fine, Linda,” I said, sliding a folded fifty-dollar bill across the counter. “I want to start a fund. Anonymously. For the kids who come up short. When it happens, just… take it from this. No cheese sandwiches.”

She finally looked up, her eyes lingering on the money, then on my face. She didn’t say a word. She just gave a slow, deliberate nod and tucked the bill into her apron.

I started doing it every week. A fifty, sometimes a hundred if my pension check had a little extra. I called it the “Invisible Lunch Fund.” Linda never mentioned it, but sometimes I’d see her give a real hot meal to a kid I knew was struggling, and she’d catch my eye from across the room with that same quiet nod. It was our secret conspiracy of decency.

This went on for a year. It was my quiet rebellion.

Then, one afternoon, Sarah, the sharpest student in my AP History class, stayed after the bell.

“Mr. Harrison?” she started, twisting the strap of her backpack. “I have a question. It’s not about the homework.”

“Go ahead, Sarah.”

“I know about the lunch money,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “My mom works in the school office. She sees Linda’s accounting. There’s a line item she just writes in as ‘Donation.’ I know it’s you.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was caught. I imagined disciplinary meetings, being told I’d broken some obscure district policy.

But Sarah wasn’t angry. Her eyes were shining. “We want to help,” she said.

The next Monday, a group of students from my AP class set up a bake sale in the main hall. The sign, hand-painted on poster board, read: “BAKE SALE FOR BENEDICT ARNOLDS. (Because betraying your friends by letting them go hungry is treason.)”

By lunchtime, they had a shoebox overflowing with crumpled bills and coins. They placed it on my desk without a word. Over four hundred dollars. The administration, to their credit, looked the other way.

I’m retiring this year. The Invisible Lunch Fund is now just “The Fund,” and it’s run entirely by the students. They’ve made it their own.

For 38 years, I tried to teach kids that history is shaped by big speeches and epic battles. I was wrong. History isn’t just about the noise. It’s about the quiet moments, the unspoken acts of grace. It’s written not in textbooks, but on a lunch receipt when one person decides that another human being will not be shamed for being hungry. That’s the America I want to believe in. That’s the lesson I finally learned.

Thank you Carol Sacks Goldstein for sharing..🫡❤️
Read more about the beautiful story- https://vfastories.com/this-elderly-couple-celebrated-91-years-of-heartwarming-marriage/

10/31/2025

Halloween pups!

10/30/2025

10/26/2025

Imagine walking down a street where koi fish swim beside your feet. Not in ponds. Not in aquariums. But in the drainage canals of a living city. This isn’t fantasy—it’s Shimabara, a small town on Japan’s Kyushu island.

Centuries ago, disaster struck here. A massive eruption from Mount Unzen triggered earthquakes and landslides that reshaped the land. But from that tragedy came something extraordinary—pure underground springs began to flow beneath the city. Over time, the water ran so clean that residents didn’t just drink it—they shared it with koi.

Today, the canals that once drained stormwater have become crystal streams lined with bright orange carp, gliding past storefronts and old wooden homes. It’s a quiet reminder that even a place born from destruction can evolve into something peaceful and alive.

Shimabara isn’t just a city—it’s proof that when people care for what nature gives back, even a drain can hold beauty.

Sometimes, healing doesn’t erase scars—it flows right through them.

10/26/2025

If you make one all the colors of the ocean I'll buy it from you. Also, never let others set your self worth, you be you and those who deserve your time and attention will earn it.

My daughter is 12 years old. She doesn't have many friends, and last year, the bullying at school got so bad that I'd often find her hiding in the bathroom during lunch. So, she spends most of her time with me, watching me fill orders for my craft shop.

She's been quietly taking my yarn for weeks, working on something secret in her room. Last night, she came out wearing this beautiful scarf she made completely by herself.

"Mom," she said, "I want my own shop someday. For kids like me who create things instead of having friends."

I had to leave the room so she wouldn't see me cry. This child, who eats lunch alone and hasn't been invited to a birthday party in two years, found her salvation in loops of yarn and dreams of her own business.

This morning, I found her practicing new stitches at 6 AM. "For my future customers," she explained. My beautiful, resilient girl is turning her loneliness into art.

That scarf isn't just well-made for a 12 year old. it's stunning, period. The tension is perfect, the color changes are seamless, and that fringe is professional level. More than that, it's proof that while other kids were busy excluding her, she was busy becoming extraordinary.

Please, if you see this, leave her some encouragement. She studies every comment on my posts, watching what customers like. Your words might be the first kindness she's heard from peers in months. Show her that the craft community celebrates the quiet, talented kids who create beauty while the world tries to dim their light.

Sometimes the best revenge against bullies isn't fighting back. it’s becoming so talented they’ll one day brag they knew you when.

- Respective Owner 🫡

10/26/2025

I just watched a little boy, maybe six or seven years old, spill a bright red and blue slushee all over the floor at Target. It was everywhere — the floor, the table, and probably his shoes too.

The boy looked up at who I assume was his dad and quickly apologized. What happened next honestly stopped me in my tracks. Instead of getting upset, his father calmly said, “Hey, it happens. Let’s go get napkins and I can show you how to clean it up.”

Together, they walked over to get napkins. Then the dad knelt beside him and helped clean every bit of the mess without a single harsh word. When they finished, he gently told his son, “You’re going to be a human being for a long time, and you have such a smart brain that it’s important you learn to be more aware of what you’re doing. Next time, just pay a little more attention so accidents like this can be avoided. And even if they do happen, that’s okay. What matters is taking responsibility. The clean up is always easier than it looks. And remember, it’s okay to ask for help when you need it.”

It wasn’t just a small accident. It was a quiet lesson in patience, kindness, and raising a good human.

10/26/2025

Seven boys — all in 6th grade — walked in while I was working. They wanted to order wings and asked if they had enough money for 40 wings and sodas. I looked around, expecting to see parents somewhere nearby, but there weren’t any.

When I asked if they were alone, they nodded proudly and said they’d been planning this night for weeks. You could tell how excited they were — polite, smiling, full of “please” and “thank you.” One even told his friend to put his phone down while I was talking to them.

They were so well-mannered that a customer nearby noticed and quietly covered their bill, leaving only one message: “Tell them to pay it forward someday.”

And the best part? When they finished, they cleaned the table spotless — every napkin, cup, and crumb gone. Honestly, most adults (myself included!) don’t always do that.

Big credit to the parents of these boys — you’re raising some good ones.

Credits: Nicole Marie ✍️

10/26/2025

Dog nail trims tomorrow! 🐾

Hair of the Dog Grooming

Proceeds donated to Nova Scotia SPCA - Cape Breton Shelter 🐶