Boxer Refuses to Lay Down to Rest Until Mom Puts Eye Mask on Her Like a Queen
Many of us have a whole routine that we go through before we can get in bed and fall asleep. We have to make sure our phones are charging and have a glass of water on the nightstand. Some of us read or listen to ambient music to fall asleep. And some of us need to make sure we have certain things on (or off!) to get comfy enough to hit the hay.
Poppy is an adorable, spoiled Boxer who gets to sleep with her mom. Mom's bed looks nice and cozy, but in this video Mom shared at the beginning of March, although it's bedtime, Poppy's missing the one thing she needs to go to sleep. Make sure your sound is on and watch on to see Poppy patiently wait for her mom to put her silk pink eye mask on her. A queen needs to make sure it's completely dark in order to properly fall asleep!
Poppy knows what she wants and is one spoiled pooch! People loved this video and left close to 15 thousand comments about it, and some of them were pretty funny! @jillcomesclean laughed, "When you said 'this is really too much' and she looked right at you like 'your comments are too much' LOL! This just made my whole week!!!"
Viewer @johnfsessa shared, "This is literally everything! The smacking of the lips and pure comfort at the end put me over the edge!" @coachleggs added, "She's over there rubbing them feet together under them covers ha ha! This video is so stinking adorable!"
@iamlaurentyler wasn't wrong when she pointed out, "Yo this some next level spoiled doggy treatment right here!!!! Too cute lol!" @ronejae agreed, "Gets that GOOD sleep with the mask so I feel it!"Boxers are known for their playful, upbeat attitudes and friendly demeanors. They have boundless energy, which makes them perfect playmates for children of all ages and for families looking for an active companion. They love being around their humans and like to be part of their daily activities. They are also patient and protective and form strong - and protective - bonds with their human pack.
Another Pet Helpful article describes their protective traits, "Boxers are renowned for their protective instincts, making them highly effective at guardianship roles. Their loyalty to their owners knows no bounds, as they take their role as protectors very seriously. With a Boxer by your side, you can rest assured that they will vigilantly watch over their home and loved ones. They have an intuitive sense of danger and are quick to alert their family to any perceived threats with their deep, intimidating bark."
Boxers do have some traits that might turn some people off. Because they are so protective, some Boxers develop aggression issues, which is why socialization and training is so important. They love being with their humans and need a lot of social time with them or they can experience separation anxiety or act out with destructive behaviors. And they need a lot of mental and physical activity. If you're looking for a couch potato, a Boxer is the wrong dog for you!
As with all pets, make sure to learn the good, the bad, and the ugly about the breed before bringing one home. Otherwise, you could end up with an unhappy dog with behavior issues, or a very unhappy family.
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20 hours ago
- Yahoo
Mental Illness Took My Dad. After His Death, I Discovered His Secret Past Inside An Old Filing Cabinet.
In my memory, there are two dads: the Richard before mental illness — and the one after. The Richard beforenever seemed very rock 'n' was just another workaholic father, keeping his brick of an early mobile phone close, even on vacations, and coming home late from the family business, the Great American Tent Company. The one after ... well, I try not to dwell on him as there was a third Richard I knew nothing about until after he was gone. One day when I was 26, just months after my dad's death from congestive heart failure, I visited to check on my mom. I found her at the kitchen tablewith a pile of well-worn manila folders fanned out in front of her, an ashtray nearby with a half-smoked joint still smoldering. Mom was an old eBay queen from the '90s — she bought and sold Beanie Babies for profit back when that was possible — and I could tell she'd hunted up something good. I looked closer. Each file had a famous name written on it in my father's neat print: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Lionel Richie, Allman Brothers, Santana. 'What is this?' I took a seat across from Mom. 'Your father's rock files,' she said, toking on the joint. 'He kept everything from his days running Peace Concerts.' 'Peace Concerts?' 'Take a look!' I could tell she was high on more than just pot. She opened a folder and produced a yellowed letter that read, 'The Birmingham Hyatt House will not be able to accept any further rock group reservations. This directive is a result of many bad situations with these groups staying in the hotel and especially the malicious destruction caused by Lynyrd Skynyrd staying here over July 4th, 1975.' The letter said the damages amounted to $500.I looked up at Mom, eyes wide, and we laughed. My soft-spoken dad had dealt with these musical madmen? 'Richard said they were the nicest boys,' Mom said, 'when they weren't drunk.' 'You knew about this?' 'Not this,' she said, taking back the letter and handing me the joint. 'Why would Dad save this?' 'Eh, he was a hoarder. But also probably for tax purposes.' I dragged on the joint and ruminated with the smoke. That was Dad, always business-minded. However, I suspected there was more to the story. He'd always loved music, filled his days with it from the radio or cassette player, or his voice, smooth as Southern syrup, or his acoustic guitars, which he left me. He loved music until depression struck him down. In addition to his heart issues, my father spent the last dozen years of his life numbed by mental illness and antidepressants. Years ago, when he began to slip mentally, he paced our house at night, thought my mother was poisoning him, and believed my siblings and I were starving (even though we were all chunky). I've never been a big fan of Valentine's Day. Maybe that's because on that day in 2001, I came home from school, sensed something was off, and asked, 'Where's Dad?' My mom told me that she and my older cousin had taken him to the hospital, that he'd tried to jump out of the car on the way, that he was now admitted to a psychiatric ward. I was on the cusp of turning 14, my mother 44. Over the next dozen years, as I meandered through adolescence and early adulthood, I grew to resent this man, his apathy toward his family and even his own life, as he deteriorated mentally and physically. His nails grew long and yellow, his hair dreadlocked into a mat of gray wire. And after years of an all-fast food diet and not taking care of himself, his heart finally gave. But here was my father, an energetic young promoter, in folder after folder of rare rock memorabilia: a contract signed by the legendary guitarist Duane Allman, another by Glenn Fry of the Eagles, a promotional flyer featuring a 20-something Lionel Richie in some of the first concerts the Commodores ever did — all shows my dad booked. He was a pioneer in carving out a new Deep South concert scene, billing these rock shows as 'dances' because, as Mom explained, going to concerts back then wasn't yet accepted in the buttoned-down Bible Belt. Not once did Dad talk about this to me. I wondered if he was secretly ashamed that his dreams had deflated into owning a company that supplied concerts with tents, tables and chairs instead of attention-grabbing talent — a company that started from the leftovers of those rosy rock days, with an old red-and-yellow tent top Richard put up over the stage for his acts. 'Where did you find this?' I asked Mom. She waved me down the grungy, carpeted stairs to the basement, where a battered tank of a file cabinet stood tucked away in a nook. As a kid, I'd overlooked it a million times, more captivated by the toys and board games surrounding the 1940s-era metal tower. Opening a squeaking drawer, I saw it fully packed with documents, an extremely thorough paper archive focusing on Dad's time as a concert promoter from 1968 to 1976. He'd saved it all: contracts, guest passes, flyers and posters, ledgers, photos, receipts (sometimes scrawled on a bar napkin). Bathed in the sickly, fluorescent basement lights, I was overwhelmed by the gravity of these to do with all this? Back upstairs, Mom and I discussed selling some ofthe hoard. Dad had saved many copies. But I was hesitant. 'Some items should be off-limits,' I said. Out of respect for Dad, for his story, for this side of him I didn't know. Mom agreed. So we went through each document of Dad's old music promotion business, Peace Concerts. I read the print too tiny for Mom's eyes and wrote descriptions while she priced and categorized. For an eye-catcher, we chose a silvery, vintage poster of a bare-chested Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham when they were still a dad had booked the last concerts they did before joining Fleetwood Mac and made a bundle on those few shows. The pair were treated so well that Nicks later said in an interview: 'We could join Fleetwood Mac or we could move to Birmingham, Alabama.' Mom and I decided we would not part with the poster. However, we did make glossy reproductions and sell them for $20 a pop. On a too-brightspring day about a year after Richard's passing, I packed my mom's car with the rock files anddrove us to our first record show at a modern, red-bricked convention center. Set up in a large room by plate glass windows, we sold 'retro musical mementos' mostly to old rock 'n' rollers and longhaired hippie-looking characters, all grizzled or gray now, some with a limp or cane. Yet when they browsed the faded posters and dog-eared flyers, a smile would break across their faces as they remembered that packed after-party my dad threw for Stevie and Lindseyfor their sold-out show at the Alabama Theater, the last concert they played before merging with Fleetwood Mac —or how everyone's ears were ringing after that raucous Lynyrd Skynyrd concert at Rickwood Field in '74, the first time that group performed 'Sweet Home Alabama' in the state. For this generation, music was a spiritual experience, and my dad was at the center of it. Well, center backstage. I fidgeted in my chair as I nodded along, jealous that it seemed like these strangers knew my father better than I did. Occasionally, one would squint at meand say, 'You look just like him.' It's true. I have my dad's red-brown curls and intense blue eyes. Although I always thought his shade of eggshell blue was far prettier. Music was another thing we had in common. Dad possessed a sweeter voice, but I was the better guitarist. I didn't start learning until I was 16, so he never played music with me nor expressed an interest after the depression sank deep inside him. Years into his isolation, I visited to perform for him. I must've been 20 and studying classical guitar, eager to show off my new finger-style skills. But after I finished my first piece, a difficult and delicate arpeggiated prelude by a Paraguayan composer named Barrios, he snapped at me, 'That's good, andI won't even count those two mistakes you made.' My throat clenched —my voice evaporated. His ear was still so sensitive. It wasn't a spotless performance, as he'd demanded of his local bands back in the Peace Concert days — he'd told my mother how he kept detailed, sometimes harsh, performance notes from his spot in the back row. I wanted to snap all my guitar strings. Instead, I never played for him again. For years, a feeling of shame flooded over me when I flashed back to that memory — and I carried my resentment around inside like a balled-up mass of old strings. So it went at the record shows: After selling for several hours, Mom and I would gingerly repackage everything back into her car, and I'd drive us back home. We'd split the cash, and I'd roll us a joint. 'For Richard,' we'd toast as thick blue smoke unfurledaround our heads. 'Did he hang out with the acts other than just working with them?' I asked. Mom bit her lip and thought about it. Long ago, Richard told my mom some of Peace Concerts' history — how he saved money from his job at the telephone company to book his first acts, and how promoting was like gambling and he lost it all on a bad run of concerts where the ticket sales didn't materialize. 'Not really,' Mom said. 'He wasn't in it for that. He liked making money — and he did it for the thrill.' The thrill of the risk, or of creating an event that would reverberate in people's minds for decades? She said she didn't know. My mom, Shari, met my dad when she was 22. A theater major and techie, she'd just blown out of college from Michigan State, headed 700 miles south before landing in Birmingham and met him just three days later, introduced through a mutual friend. By then, he'd lost everything to concert promotion. Their first 'date' was him grilling steaks on his patio, The Marshall Tucker Band's 'Can't You See' playing loud on the turntable. I asked Mom when she learned about Dad's rock days. She had to think on it — her hair gray and down to her back now, unlike the dark bob she'd sported most of my life. 'After just a few days together,' she said. 'He said, 'I'll tell you my story, but only one time.'' 'Whoa, it was like that?' She said he hated old concertgoers wanting to wax nostalgic with him about the glory days.I figured Dad, like me,always had big dreams hounding him down. Time spins like a vinyl, and after doing a few of these record shows and hearing every tale Mom knew, I began reaching out to Dad'sold friends and work associates from his promoting prime. Yet I heard the same thing I already knew: Dad was a 'workaholic.' 'And how exactly did he fall out of promoting?' About this I'd heard different stories. Mom had always said he'd lost it all on a bad concert run with Joe Cocker, and that he was distracted chasing a woman nicknamed 'Little Red' who never reciprocated my father's interest. But I'd heard more than one old associate say that Dad had also been outgunned by a hotshot New York promoter namedTony Ruffino who today gets the credit for putting Birmingham on the map for big rock bands. One old rock buddy who used to hang up flyers and do other promotional work even said that Richard tried to go rogue and represent Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks on his own, and for this the record biz blacklisted him. 'But what was he like as a person?' I'd ask these strangers who knew 'the old Richard.' That was always harder for them to answer. 'He was a private guy,' was the best answer I got from a man named Wendell, a partner in an early booking agency my dad founded and later sold. 'He didn't talk much about what was going on in his head.' I became desperate, looking to our family albums and VHS tapes for answers. But here, too, Dad was the invisible promoter, so frequently on the other side of the camera capturing/directing holidays and trips instead of being in them. A backstage man, even in his personal life. Wendell suggested I visit the iconic 2121 high-rise in downtown Birmingham to see my father's old office, where he built his Peace Concerts empire nearly six decades ago in what was then called 'the penthouse,' room 1727. When I told Mom about the idea, she smiled and said Richard used to point out the 2121 building in their earlier days, telling her he worked at the top in an office with a view. So I drove a half-hour into town to see for myself, uncertain what Wendell thought I would findso clarifying there. Riding the elevator up, my reflection rippled in the scratched, stainless steel doors in front of me, looking like a leaner, taller ghost of my father. On the top floor, I saw only three suite numbers: 1700, 1710, and 1720. I rang the bell at 1700, where a woman with graying blonde hair and sleepy eyes answered. I explained I was writing something about my relationship with my father and trying to hunt down his old office. Albeit bemused, she was nice enough to let me in and give me a quick tour. She explained that this suite connected to 1720 but there was no room #1727, not even 27 separate offices on that floor. The place had clearly been redesigned since my dad last stepped foot there. It was hard to believe that any rock concerts were ever planned in this now drowsy, overly air-conditioned space. But what I did see, everywhere I looked, were plate glass windows waist-high to ceiling. It was the kind ofspace where an overachiever could dream big while watching the world spin down below — exactly like something I would prefer, for I need a window nearby to write. 'I'm sorry I don't know any more,' the office worker said before walking away. I snorted a laugh and had to accept that I would never know my father like I wanted — that a history of objects can reveal but never resurrect — and also that, to some degree, he'd been there right in front of me. That private but friendly guy always working, always dreaming — that was my dad. A dozen years after my father's passing, the days of selling rock files are done. My mother eventually sold what was left in the file cabinet to a local collector who's creating an archive of the Birmingham music scene with the hopes of turning it into a museum. The archivist hauled away that clanky metal thing that, although lighter from fewer files, still had to be hand-trucked out by two strong one day, Dad's papers and accomplishments could be on public display. Mom kept a few favorites, including that black-and-white poster of Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham, forever frozen in their 20s, forever beautiful, boldly staring back at the viewer like wild-haired rock gods. Mom displayed it in her living room, a reminder of when she and Richard were young. Over the years of sellingrock documents, the parent I got to know was my mom. Even though she frequently griped about Dadnot being more involved in child care and housekeeping, I could tell part of her still loved him — the version of Richard before the disease of depression stole himfrom us. That's why she kept selling these rare items, not for the money, which she didn't need, but to keep his memory living and moving,just like the music they both craved. Remembering is also reacquainting. Although I thought I never played for my father again, that's not entirely true. I never played for him in person. While writing this essay, a memory returned to me: I used to keep in touch with Richard over the phone in the early days of his decline, when there was still some little spark of the old dad inside him. I must've been practicing guitar during a call one evening (a habit I still have) because he grew silent, listening to me play. I stopped plucking the strings, anxious. 'You sound good, son,' he finally said. 'Sound really good.' Do you have a compelling personal story you'd like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we're looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@
Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
At 6 feet tall, Kristen Johnston is 'not going to play the leading lady against Tom Cruise.' She's stopped trying to make herself smaller.
Humor has been a through line — and, at times, a lifeline — for Kristen Johnston. The 57-year-old comedic actress has been making audiences laugh for decades, most memorably in TV's 3rd Rock From the Sun and Mom, and she's doing it again this summer in Netflix's new comedy series Leanne, in which she plays the title character's sister. But she's also relied on humor during life's difficult moments. "Humor is the single reason I'm still alive," Johnston tells Yahoo Life for our Unapologetically series. "Well, that and my dogs. But humor gets you through everything. It got me through being bullied in grade school. It got me through a lot of heartbreak and horror in my 20s and 30s, and it definitely continues to save my ass." Humor helped Johnston get sober 18 years ago and, more recently, confront a lupus diagnosis along with the rapid weight gain she experienced as a result of her treatment. These days, it gives the 6-foot star perspective as she (gasp!) ages in Hollywood. During our chat, she even makes me laugh over and over, especially when I confess how fixated I get on my neck every time I start a video call. "It's always a shock," she says, nodding knowingly. "Like, 'What the hell happened?'" Our whole conversation is like this — equal parts humor and candor as we talk about facelifts, weight gain, addiction and how women "cannot win" when it comes to aging. Well, I know for a fact ... I'd be dead if I [continued], first of all, for sure. But sobriety got me a job on Mom, the Chuck Lorre show I did, which is a lot about recovery, and it really changed my life. It wasn't a huge [role], but it really reignited my love of doing sitcoms. I just love being [part of] an ensemble, and I loved those actresses. ... Then [it] led to this job. Chuck called me about doing this show with Leanne [Morgan]. So honestly, if I didn't have recovery, and I was somehow still alive, I definitely wouldn't still be acting, that's for sure. It was an intense process just to get a diagnosis [including 17 doctor visits and weeks at the Mayo Clinic]. It was really almost impossible. [Then, the] meds, chemo and IVIG [intravenous immunoglobulin] caused a huge weight gain in like, five or six months. It was a really difficult time healthwise. When I went into remission, I got Mom. So, it was interesting to present myself on TV with this massive weight gain. [But] it was a great experience for me because ... it really helped me get over myself physically and just appreciate the job. [I thought,] I'm so lucky I'm still alive. I'm so lucky I get to do what I love. It doesn't matter what I look like. It's been in remission for about five years. I'm very grateful. It's a very difficult thing to go through. In a weird way, it's helped because the parts I want are not the ingenue parts. I'm not going to play the leading lady against Tom Cruise, even when I was 26. I'm a giant. So I think it's narrowed the roles I would want anyway. I love playing the character roles, so it's probably kept people from trying to cast me in parts I wouldn't have wanted anyway. I used to kind of do that. I used to try to be a little smaller, mostly for men, not necessarily for Hollywood, but I haven't done that in a long time. I used to try to be a little more feminine or a little more delicate, but it just always fit like a bad shoe. Here's the thing: Women are allowed to be 25 and gorgeous — and then basically [they] cannot win. If you get surgery, you lose. If you don't get surgery, you lose. If you gain weight, you lose. If you lose weight, you lose. There's no winning. Just embrace the fact that you've lost and just roll on with your life. You can't win, so screw it. Whatever makes you feel good about yourself, that's what you do — as long as it's legal. Yes. They're embracing women of a certain age in a lot of different ways — in comedic stuff, in drama. I think it's fabulous. I realized this doing Mom and then doing Leanne. There is a huge, rabid industry of women of a certain age who want to see entertainment, and they're fervent. When Mom was canceled, women were so mad. ... I think Hollywood has underestimated the buying power and the devotion of women over 40, and I think they're starting to clue into it. I hope, anyway. For a long time, I worked on my brain and my emotional well-being, and then about eight years ago, I was like, It might be time to try to take care of yourself physically. So I do my little things, physical stuff, to help keep my brain sane. I love my Peloton, not gonna lie. I got into that during COVID, so I kept that up. Oh, it's everything. Dogs to me are everything. I don't have kids, so I have my nieces and I have my dogs and I just love them. Man, they are the funniest, sweetest creatures on earth. If I had my way, I would do a couple of years on this show, and then I would open an animal rescue ranch on the East Coast somewhere. I feel the exact same as I did in my 40s. I just feel like age is really a number. In my head, I feel very young and I think if you do what you love and you surround yourself with people who are not toxic, that's kind of as good as you can do in life. I feel very centered and happy with myself after a lot of years of not feeling that way. I think that a lot of women — I can only speak for my girlfriends — they all feel that way. Their kids are leaving home or a job is done, and there's this whole other rediscovery of self in their 50s, and it's a great time. It really is you finally living for yourself, not just for everyone else. The great Emma Thompson said on a talk show ... and I'm gonna misquote her: "I don't wanna die having spent my entire life worried about something as stupid and silly and ridiculous as what I look like and the package I come in." That really resonated with me. I think about that once a day when I start [thinking], Oh, I should look this [way] or I should get my face lifted or whatever. And then I just go, You know what? This is so stupid. Just focus on everything around you and get out of your own head. That works for me. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Yahoo
German Shorthaired Pointer Who's 'Sick of Being Outside' Pulls Off Most Epic Break-In
Dogs generally like to be outside and they'll bark and carry on until you let them out. Then as soon as you're all comfy on the couch, they start all over again so you have to get up and let them back in! My Goldendoodle frequently leaves his toys out in the yard and then stares at them through the backdoor window, whining, until I let him back out to pick them up! Well, let me introduce you to Ranger, a , who was recently exiled to the backyard by his mom. The video doesn't explain why he was in exile. However, based on experience with four-legged friends, my guess would be that he'd been playing the in-and-out game with his humans, and they grew tired of his antics! At some point, Ranger decided that this banishment to the backyard would be short-lived. In a quick show of his athleticism, this spirited pup took matters into his own paws and used the open window over the kitchen sink to gain reentry! Luckily, his mom caught the whole dramatic event on video and, honestly, it's quite impressive! He jumps up quickly and gets a good grip on the window frame with his paws. Then, just when you think he's going to barrel through the window and knock down everything in his path, he doesn't!He teeters on the edge of the windowsill for a moment, trying to figure out his next move before he gently puts one paw down on the counter. After barely knocking anything out of place, he proceeds with his other three paws. He then carefully steps past the items on the countertop and winds up standing on the glass stovetop! Unfortunately, that's when Mom puts a stop to his fun and says, 'RANGER, get down!' He gives her a very nonchalant glance, decides to listen, and hops down off his perch. Then, with his tail wagging he trots past his mom as if to say, 'Ha-Ha Mom, your plan didn't work!' German Shorthaired Pointer Who's 'Sick of Being Outside' Pulls Off Most Epic Break-In first appeared on PetHelpful on May 23, 2025
