Latest news with #Dalmatians
Yahoo
21 hours ago
- Climate
- Yahoo
Storm Team 8 Explainer: Why has Connecticut seen 15 consecutive weekends of rain?
CONNECTICUT (WTNH) — Have you felt like it's rained every weekend lately? Turns out. it has! 15 might've been the magical number in 101 Dalmatians — it's anything BUT a magical number for Connecticut, which has had 15 soggy weekends in a row. Connecticut Weather Radar The rain has put a damper on so many outdoor plans, from proms, to parades, to graduations, dog walks, weddings and more. Starting from March 1 and 2 to this past weekend, we have had anywhere from a trace to over an inch of rain each weekend. This isn't exactly a unique occurrence. In 2024, 31 out of the first 36 weekends of the year had rain or snow. We also had quite the streak from April to September, when 21 out of 22 weekends featured rain showers. The only dry weekend in that time was June 15 and 16. So why are we doing this all over again? Why are we getting wet every weekend? The one thing in common between this year and last year — the ENSO (El Nino Southern Oscillation) cycle was in a neutral phase. There are three main phases to the ENSO cycle: El Nino, La Nina and neutral. When the pattern is in a neutral phase, that means the jet stream comes down from Canada, cuts through the Midwest, and across the Delmarva Peninsula. Storm systems are driven by the jet stream, so when we see this set up, we may dodge some direct hits, but we can still tap into some wet weather. To answer WHY it is happening on weekends — it's pure coincidence. Or bad luck. Or karma. But why stop at 15? It's possible we could go for weekend number 16. The dog days of summer will be here soon enough. Some DRY dog days would be nice. In the meantime, my apologies if you've had to move your plans indoors. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
03-06-2025
- General
- Yahoo
New puppy boosts morale, lowers stress among Birmingport first responders
BIRMINGPORT, Ala. (WIAT) — The Birmingport Fire Department said cardiac arrest is the number one killer of firefighters. Firefighters said stress on the mind and body is a big contributor to deadly cardiac events. To help lower this stress among first responders, the Birmingport Fire Department has brought a new member on board. 'It's hard to imagine him not being around, and it's only been a few months that I've had him,' Birmingport Fire Chief Wade Holley said. Epi, short for Epinephrin, is a 6-month-old Boston Terrier who has already brought lots of smiles to Birmingport's firefighters. Holley adopted Epi, and he's quickly become the emotional support dog of the fire station. 'He's really become a tool for stress relief in the department,' Holley said. 'You have a bad call, you're having a bad day, all you have to do is come to the station and sit down on the recliner, and Epi's going to curl up next to you and lick you to death, and that just makes your day go better.' Birmingport firefighters said their days have gotten better with Epi around. 'Morale has changed dramatically over the last couple of months,' said Birmingport firefighter Ryan Ross. 'This is a small area, small community, but our department seems to be growing and progressing in a positive direction.' 'We've actually had an increase of volunteers coming and hanging out at the station not because of me,' Holley said. 'It's because of Epi. They want to come hang out with Epi and when we get a call, we have more people here at the station to respond immediately.' Brighton City Councilman Jerome McMullin charged with releasing video of double homicide during active investigation Epi might not be the stereotypical fire house dog. But despite being small, he helps in a big way. 'More than 100 years ago, Dalmatians were used in the fire service to keep away animals in the bay when they used horses to pull some of the carriages and things like that,' Ross said. 'This is our Dalmatian. This is our firehouse dog.' Epi's helping more than just the firefighters. Over the weekend, some kayakers capsized in Valley Creek in west Jefferson County. While the families waited at the department's fire station for their loved ones, Epi was there to comfort the children. 'When they came into the station, that family seemed pretty down, especially with the kids,' Ross said. 'They were kind of confused about what's going on and scared. It's a new environment. It's something new, and of course the dog was here. Bring Epi in, and it's just like that. You can definitely tell how the children seemed to react. They seemed to chill out little bit. They weren't so anxious.' Because Epi was present for most of the basic emergency medical technician classes this spring, the Birmingport Fire Department considers him an honorary EMT. 'They know when you're sick. They know when you're scared. They know when you're anxious,' Ross said. 'They want to sit in your lap. They're a huge comfort. They can definitely lower your blood pressure and stress. For me, coming by and seeing Epi cheer others up that may be down or have something going on, that makes me feel good.' Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
23-05-2025
- Yahoo
In search of ‘fjaka'—the Croatian art of doing nothing
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). This story begins — as many good yarns do — in a bar. Specifically, Beach Bar Dodo beside Dubrovnik's seafront, where I'm sipping beer with a friend. David Farley had sub-let his perfectly nice flat in New York to decamp to Croatia. What's he doing with his days, I ask. Not much, he replies: 'Perfecting my fjaka.' Fjaka, pronounced 'fee-aka', could only have come from a land of sunbaked islands. It is, David explains, no place to go, no place to be. Allowing days to drift and blur. Back in the capital, Zagreb, they make rude jokes about Dalmatians as donkeys, but that misses the point entirely. With fjaka, the region has elevated easy living into an artform. With no better plans, I decide to embark on a quixotic search for something the Croatians can't exactly define themselves — but which I'll apparently know when I find it. Lastovo seems the place to look. Croatia's second-most remote island after Vis, Lastovo was once a naval base and off limits from the mid 1940s until 1988 — like a Bond villain's lair, tunnels that once concealed submarines burrow deep into its cliffs. But if Vis is bohemian chic, Lastovo represents something Homeric, almost epic. In 2003 the World Wildlife Fund for Nature called Lastovo a last paradise of the Mediterranean. In 2006 Lastovo was designated a nature park. Croatians speak about it with a kind of reverential awe. As I approach by ferry, it seems little altered since the Ancient Greeks dropped anchor: just one house among wild, pine-scrubbed hills. We dock in a glassy bay and I board the island's only bus — a tatty people-carrier — to reach the sole hotel, Hotel Solitudo: a modestly tarted up Yugoslav relic in the island's only resort, Pasadur. There's not much to that either: two restaurants, a kiosk renting kayaks and bikes, and some concrete platforms that islanders call 'beaches' with a straight face. Beaches are Lastovo's weak spot, but what a place to attempt fjaka. For a few days, I potter. I swim in water so turquoise it would make a peacock blush. I read. At night, I sit with my feet in the sea, breathing in the smell of pines as you might a fine wine, goggling at a sky boiling with stars. With zero light pollution, Lastovo hopes to become Europe's first Dark Sky Sanctuary. Is this fjaka though? Not really, says Diana Magdić of the Lastovo Tourist Board. Swimming and reading are too active, apparently. 'Fjaka is a state of mind,' she says. 'It's not thinking. It's just letting time pass, the sound of cicadas, the heat.' Diana perfected her fjaka after she moved to the island as a 'refugee' from Zagreb. 'I don't think Lastovo people realise how pure this island is. You can hear the quiet here. You can feel it.' I know what she means. Beyond the tourism office, Lastovo Town turns out to be a semi-ruin of pale stone and forgotten secrets, where cats doze in sunny corners, weeds sprout between marble steps and doorways reveal courtyards with plants in old tomato tins. If it wasn't for the occasional radio blaring behind lace curtains, I might have thought it entirely abandoned. I rent a scooter — not exactly fjaka either, but irresistible. At Lučica cove I swim beneath former fisherman's houses, their shutters painted shades of emerald and cobalt. In Zaklopatica bay I enjoy a lazy lunch in Triton restaurant — fresh grilled fish, served on a terrace that dangles above the water. I glimpse yachts, nodding at their moorings, and am reminded of a board I spotted earlier, advertising trips with a fisherman from Pasadur. 'This is my boat,' says Ivica Lešić, gesturing vaguely. In front of us is a smart gulet, its wood shiny, its sails neatly stowed — not what I had expected at all. He steps on board, then clambers over a railing into a plastic tub moored beneath, where his wife Helena waves from beneath an awning. During summer, the couple run trips in partnership with the World Wildlife Fund. Ivica is probably right when he says they are more play than work, but they also protect fish against overfishing — the fund compensates him for earnings lost by not fishing commercially. It's also a lovely trip. Ivica talks about island life as he hauls up nets in a series of dark-teal bays: a bonito like a silver bullet, scorpionfish, silvery yellow-striped barbona. Then we drop anchor in an empty bay, fire up a griddle and eat: our catch of the day soused in homemade olive oil, with homemade fennel bread, the couple's own wine and rakija brandy. The sea chuckles against the hull. Time unspools. In the haze afterwards, Ivica says a fjaka mood can settle like Valium post-lunch: 'Fresh fish. Wine. Heat. You can do nothing, just sit.' More holidaymakers arrive in Lastovo each year, says Ivica. There's even talk of another hotel. The question is not simply do islanders want more development – do we? Laughably ill-equipped for a conventional holiday, Lastovo poses a singular question about what we seek from a trip away. To relax, many of us might say — but do we even know how? It strikes me that if we embrace fjaka — the delicate art of Dalmatian holidaymaking — we can help preserve Lastovo's purity, even its dark skies. 'Lastovo island is nothing special,' Ivica says with a shrug. 'It's simplicity. It's liberation. To love Lastovo you just need to be.' The boat rocks gently. The cicadas throb. And for long, delicious minutes we lapse into silence. To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
National Geographic
23-05-2025
- National Geographic
In search of ‘fjaka'—the Croatian art of doing nothing
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). This story begins — as many good yarns do — in a bar. Specifically, Beach Bar Dodo beside Dubrovnik's seafront, where I'm sipping beer with a friend. David Farley had sub-let his perfectly nice flat in New York to decamp to Croatia. What's he doing with his days, I ask. Not much, he replies: 'Perfecting my fjaka.' Fjaka, pronounced 'fee-aka', could only have come from a land of sunbaked islands. It is, David explains, no place to go, no place to be. Allowing days to drift and blur. Back in the capital, Zagreb, they make rude jokes about Dalmatians as donkeys, but that misses the point entirely. With fjaka, the region has elevated easy living into an artform. With no better plans, I decide to embark on a quixotic search for something the Croatians can't exactly define themselves — but which I'll apparently know when I find it. Lastovo seems the place to look. Croatia's second-most remote island after Vis, Lastovo was once a naval base and off limits from the mid 1940s until 1988 — like a Bond villain's lair, tunnels that once concealed submarines burrow deep into its cliffs. But if Vis is bohemian chic, Lastovo represents something Homeric, almost epic. In 2003 the World Wildlife Fund for Nature called Lastovo a last paradise of the Mediterranean. In 2006 Lastovo was designated a nature park. Croatians speak about it with a kind of reverential awe. As I approach by ferry, it seems little altered since the Ancient Greeks dropped anchor: just one house among wild, pine-scrubbed hills. We dock in a glassy bay and I board the island's only bus — a tatty people-carrier — to reach the sole hotel, Hotel Solitudo: a modestly tarted up Yugoslav relic in the island's only resort, Pasadur. There's not much to that either: two restaurants, a kiosk renting kayaks and bikes, and some concrete platforms that islanders call 'beaches' with a straight face. 'Fjaka is a state of mind,' says Diana Magdić of the Lastovo Tourist Board. 'It's not thinking. It's just letting time pass, the sound of cicadas, the heat.' Photograph by Getty Images, Henglein & Steets Beaches are Lastovo's weak spot, but what a place to attempt fjaka. For a few days, I potter. I swim in water so turquoise it would make a peacock blush. I read. At night, I sit with my feet in the sea, breathing in the smell of pines as you might a fine wine, goggling at a sky boiling with stars. With zero light pollution, Lastovo hopes to become Europe's first Dark Sky Sanctuary. Is this fjaka though? Not really, says Diana Magdić of the Lastovo Tourist Board. Swimming and reading are too active, apparently. 'Fjaka is a state of mind,' she says. 'It's not thinking. It's just letting time pass, the sound of cicadas, the heat.' Diana perfected her fjaka after she moved to the island as a 'refugee' from Zagreb. 'I don't think Lastovo people realise how pure this island is. You can hear the quiet here. You can feel it.' I know what she means. Beyond the tourism office, Lastovo Town turns out to be a semi-ruin of pale stone and forgotten secrets, where cats doze in sunny corners, weeds sprout between marble steps and doorways reveal courtyards with plants in old tomato tins. If it wasn't for the occasional radio blaring behind lace curtains, I might have thought it entirely abandoned. I rent a scooter — not exactly fjaka either, but irresistible. At Lučica cove I swim beneath former fisherman's houses, their shutters painted shades of emerald and cobalt. In Zaklopatica bay I enjoy a lazy lunch in Triton restaurant — fresh grilled fish, served on a terrace that dangles above the water. I glimpse yachts, nodding at their moorings, and am reminded of a board I spotted earlier, advertising trips with a fisherman from Pasadur. 'This is my boat,' says Ivica Lešić, gesturing vaguely. In front of us is a smart gulet, its wood shiny, its sails neatly stowed — not what I had expected at all. He steps on board, then clambers over a railing into a plastic tub moored beneath, where his wife Helena waves from beneath an awning. Beyond the tourism office, Lastovo Town turns out to be a semi-ruin of pale stone and forgotten secrets, where cats doze in sunny corners, weeds sprout between marble steps and doorways reveal courtyards with plants in old tomato tins. Photograph by Getty, AGinger During summer, the couple run trips in partnership with the World Wildlife Fund. Ivica is probably right when he says they are more play than work, but they also protect fish against overfishing — the fund compensates him for earnings lost by not fishing commercially. It's also a lovely trip. Ivica talks about island life as he hauls up nets in a series of dark-teal bays: a bonito like a silver bullet, scorpionfish, silvery yellow-striped barbona. Then we drop anchor in an empty bay, fire up a griddle and eat: our catch of the day soused in homemade olive oil, with homemade fennel bread, the couple's own wine and rakija brandy. The sea chuckles against the hull. Time unspools. In the haze afterwards, Ivica says a fjaka mood can settle like Valium post-lunch: 'Fresh fish. Wine. Heat. You can do nothing, just sit.' More holidaymakers arrive in Lastovo each year, says Ivica. There's even talk of another hotel. The question is not simply do islanders want more development – do we? Laughably ill-equipped for a conventional holiday, Lastovo poses a singular question about what we seek from a trip away. To relax, many of us might say — but do we even know how? It strikes me that if we embrace fjaka — the delicate art of Dalmatian holidaymaking — we can help preserve Lastovo's purity, even its dark skies. 'Lastovo island is nothing special,' Ivica says with a shrug. 'It's simplicity. It's liberation. To love Lastovo you just need to be.' The boat rocks gently. The cicadas throb. And for long, delicious minutes we lapse into silence. National ferry operator Jadrolinija sails to Lastovo via Hvar and Korčula from Split. TP Line sails via Korčula from Dubrovnik. A double room at Hotel Solitudo starts from £78. Ivica and Helena operate tours and charter as Izleti Lastovo Survival, tours and pricing are bespoke. +353 915 615 905 To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
Newsweek
09-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Newsweek
Border Collie Owner's Disbelief As They Finally Manage to 'Tire Out' Dog
Based on facts, either observed and verified firsthand by the reporter, or reported and verified from knowledgeable sources. Newsweek AI is in beta. Translations may contain inaccuracies—please refer to the original content. In a viral TikTok video, a dog owner from the United Kingdom captured a moment she never thought possible—her border collie absolutely exhausted. The clip shared on Sunday under the username @allycarterfit shows the once-relentless pup, Storm, barely able to keep his eyes open as he rests his head on his mom's lap after a 14km hike through the Snowdon mountains. "POV [point of view]: you finally tire out your border collie," she wrote in the caption. Storm did more than just walk around countryside tracks. He ran, zoomed, and even took a dip in the lake to celebrate the occasion. "He flew past everyone like the mountains closed in 10 minutes," the poster said in an update, explaining why the pup looked completely drained. Border collies are known for their energy, and are often listed among the most active dog breeds. A Dogster article medically reviewed by Dr. Karyn Kanowski places them on top of the list of the most energetic dogs in the world. Other pups that share similar energy levels include Belgian malinois, known for being versatile and hard-working; Dalmatians, who were first bred to be coach dogs; Brittany spaniels, known for their agility and hunting skills; and Australian shepherds, known for their exuberant personalities. Australian cattle dogs, Siberian huskies, German shorthaired pointers, Jack Russell terriers, Weimaraners, Vizslas, Rhodesian Ridgeback, and Springer Spaniels are also very active and energetic breeds. A stock image shows a border collie napping outdoors. A stock image shows a border collie napping outdoors. getty images The video quickly went viral on social media and it has so far received over 13.5 million views and 3.2 million likes on the platform. From the comments, it seems many fellow border collie owners cannot believe what they're seeing. One user, Ernie, commented: "A tired border collie I didn't know this was possible." Nananana wrote: "This is very dangerous. Now that he knows you are able to fulfill his energy needs he will be begging you to do it every week and he might have to live with happy memories all his life." Castrateallthemen added: "[First] time it's happened in the history of [border] collies, like why isn't mainstream media reporting on this!?" Newsweek reached out to @allycarterfit for comment via email. We could not verify the details of the case. Do you have funny and adorable videos or pictures of your pet you want to share? Send them to life@ with some details about your best friend and they could appear in our Pet of the Week lineup.
