Hello to all,

Every Friday in the summer, we make breads for the local Farmer’s Market. Tammy makes quick bread, I make Italian bread, and our daughter makes several yeast breads. Tammy ran into a glitch this past Friday, pushing her time in the kitchen into mine. Through the process of being late and trying to get back on schedule, Ginger’s dinner was served at 4:15. This is well past the deadline of four o’clock, and we all know that if we are not fifteen minutes early, we are a half hour late. Here is her terrifying testimony of Ginger’s courageous bout with death-defying starvation in her own words:

This is my story of perseverance in the most extreme conditions. At three-thirty, Mom announced she was taking a bath, while Dad fussed me out of the kitchen. I wanted to know who would be feeding me since the dinner hour was approaching. He was too busy measuring and tinkering at the dough table to notice the hunger in my eyes.

I peeked at Dad around three-forty-five to see him kneading dough, oblivious to the starving dog in the house. Mom remained out of sight, and sister was behind the closed door of her room. The hunger pangs barked from my tummy, but I stayed strong in the darkness of their uncaring hearts.

I saw the big hand reached straight up, and yet, there was no food in my dish. My knees became weak as the last of the nutrition burned up in sorrow. The big hand moved to the five mark, and my toes started to feel numb. I can barely walk due to the weakness that afflicts my body. I peered at Dad, and he was molding loaves for baking as flour covered everything.

The big hand moved to the ten, and all I could do was lie motionless, trying to conserve what little energy remained in my body. It took all my strength to let out a soft whimper, hoping my humans would hear my desperate plea for food, but it fell on deaf ears as the heartless subjects of my kingdom failed me again.

My eyes grew dim as death slowly approached, and my malnourished body began to give out as the big hand reached fifteen. I realized death, but was just a moment away. Clinging to my last hope of survival, I squeaked out another whimper with the hope someone would hear my last word before death from hunger famished me.

“Oh, crap!” broke my death march. “Did anyone feed Ginger?” Mom called out from her room. Hope burned eternally as I saw my sister running down the stairs to the closet where my food was stored. I used what little strength remaining to crawl to the food bowl. The clanging of morsels hitting the stainless steel gave my starving heart hope of avoiding a terrifying death by starvation.


Grace to all,
Danny Mac